Never let it be said that the Platypus does not keep her promises.
Unless it involves promising not to drink everything in the liquor cabinet, because seriously? You should know me better than that. I see booze, I drink it. That's how it works.
Anyway, so onward to the interesting part (unless you're absolutely dying to know what my favorite drink is at the moment).
(The answer is yes.)
Way back not so far in the not so misty reaches of time, I had this client who was a Weird Guy. Yes, I know, I get a lot of Weird Guys (and Gals, because honestly, people are just weird). This guy was...how shall I put this? Special. Yeah.
He comes in for his massage, and I'm pleased to see that he's very polite...shows up on time, answers my questions with a minimum of fuss, so on and so forth. I'm thinkin', "whee, this'll be easy". You'd think I'd know better than to assume such things, but that is not the point. Anyway, so things progress pretty much as expected when I'm working on his arms, neck, and shoulders. He's pretty quiet and laid-back; I'm assuming that he's napping as I do my thing and proceed onward to his ankles.
Well, may the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch explode in my face if I lie, but the minute I touched his ankles, it was like he'd shoved a damn colony of gerbils into a tube sock and then stuffed it into his Jockey shorts. There was all KINDS of happy-peenor-twitching going on! Of course, this necessitated a raised eyebrow and a mental "what the fucking fucker fuck?" from me, but ol' Pervy Pervyson remained a gentleman...y'know, aside from the Dancing Penis of Weirdness. I continued doing the massage as per standard operating procedure, figuring that if he said or did anything even the least bit inappropriate, I would be outta there in a flash (after seriously considering punching him in the nadgers). Pervy kept his hands by his sides and said nary a word as I completed work on the fronts of his legs (with extra-deep tissue work on his quads and IT bands, since extra pressure in sensitive areas like that tends to take the mickey right out of an...unruly male client, most of the time). When he was face-down, there was no heavy breathing or other shenanigans. I figured it was a fluke and chalked it up to the vagaries of the human nervous system.
So, I finish the massage, run through my usual list of recommendations, and tell Pervy that I'll be out in the hall with a bottle of water for him when he's ready to head out the door. He took about ten minutes to get up off the table, get dressed, and show his face...I thought, "whatever, he's probably fallen asleep, no worries".
Yes, Gentle Reader, I can hear you face-palming from here.
Anyway, Pervy comes bouncing out of the massage room all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (as well he might), hands me a $30 tip (which is about double the norm), and raves about how wonderful the massage was and how he's definitely going to re-book with me. I'm feeling all pleased with myself as I trundle into the linens room to grab a fresh set of sheets for the massage table. I took a few minutes to scribble down some notes on ol' Pervy, as I do with every client, then proceeded into the massage room to do a quick sheet change.
You know that smell, don't you, Gentle Reader? The post-coital smell that, if you've just gotten done with one of those rousing sack sessions where you swear that you had an out of body experience, is not really all that objectionable? (Assuming, that is, that said sack session was the sort involving a male of the species and that equal amounts of fun were had by all concerned.) It's pretty unmistakable.
Yeah. That smell was what slapped me in the face like a ton of dirty, diseased bricks when I opened the door.
So of course I had to run up to the desk and grab
"Oh. My. Gawd. He did not flog the dolphin in there, did he? Ew. Ew. What the hell? I'll go get the bleach. Ewwww. Who the hell whacks off after a massage? Ew ew ew ew EW."
Yeah, we had about the same reaction. Pervy had, shall we say, opted for some manual release of tension of his own. He at least had the decency to clean up after himself and chuck the used towels in the laundry bin, but still. Who the hell does such a thing? The doors to the massage rooms do not lock! It wouldn't have bothered me if he'd done that in the bathroom, but in the massage room, where I could have walked in on him at any time? Yuck.
Of course, I did make a note of this in his file on the computer at work. Because, y'know, it's important for the other therapists to be aware of his...predilections.
Sigh. All of our clients are special people. Some of them are more special than others. At least he tipped well!