where's the rub?

I want a massage. No, I don't want it, I need it. A good whole body rub to put the blues away. And I want it in a reputable parlor, mind you, not in some sinkhole where the service is a front for something else. (Now that I'm in the, uhurm, twilight of my bacherlor-hood, I'm encouraged left and right by well-meaning guy friends - big mischievous grins on their faces and all - to go wild and crazy, wink wink. I tell them, I'll think about it, man. Thanks. Then I go home and think about something else.)

A massage even for an hour will do my body and soul many good, I reckon. I want to try them massage services with aromatherapy and oils and earth music and all that jazz. (I am a virgin when it comes to those things.) I don't care if it's Swedish, Shiatsu, or God knows what else. Just fix my aches and make me feel brand new, for crying out loud.

Maybe after one, I'll not be as cranky as people say I am these days.