2-minute masseuse, you rubbed me the wrong way

Figuratively, of course! Because in reality, the (closer to 6-minute) massage you gave me this evening at the Rib Festival (or whatever the hell it was called) was divine. I especially liked all the attention you devoted to my pelvic area, as no one else has paid much notice to that particular zone lately. But still, I felt kind of creeped out by your light banter about your dissolving marriage as your fingers dug into my spine. I mean, the only reason I attended this so-called RibFest, and your little tent, was because St. Paul is pretty boring after you've done the whole Mall of America and I was looking for a cheap thrill. Thanks to you, I got it!

Now, don't get me wrong. Yes, I enjoyed being told that I'm the prettiest girl there (not much competition unless you've got a thing for forty-something's in unfashionably light shades of denim and scuffed white sneakers), that I smell lovely, that I have a movie star, glamorous quality, and also that I must be breaking hearts around the globe. Not really, but thanks! Your enchantment with me (as I awkwardly straddled the masseuse chair, my inner knees sweating) was duly noted.

I don't imagine I'll be calling you so that you can work your chiropractic magic on me next month while I'm in St. Paul, but I am keeping your card just in case I need someone to hit on me, make me feel slightly dirty, and pump up my ego. Thanks!