"Just breathe," he whispered.
My eyes parted but only for a moment. The candles in my bedroom illuminated his face as I looked up at him; he was smiling sweetly.
"Turn over," he commanded, his fingers running through my hair, sending chills up my spine. I stiffened. Suddenly, I felt the thrill of his strong hands touching me and my discomfort slowly started to melt away as moans of pleasure escaped from my throat.
"That's it, that's my girl," he cooed gently.
I responded by arching my back. I could smell the oil before I felt the sensation of it being poured on my body. It didn't take him long to find the spot that I needed him to touch the most. He wasn't shy in the least as he worked his magic fingers expertly into the tender place.
"Oh, yes. Yes," I said breathily. "Oh, yes, right ... there ... don't stop ... Uh, huh, yes ... deeper, please ... a little harder ... there, yes, please, just a little more ... OOOOOOOOOH ..." I thought I might pass out as I exhaled slowly, allowing my body to feel the release it so needed.
"Good golly Miss Molly!" he exclaimed. "What in heaven's sake are you so stressed about, Daisy Cakes?" asked Pauly, my massage therapist.
"I don't ... know," I said, trying to catch my breath, his hands diligently searching out the next troubled spot. "Because I can't find a man who makes me feel as good as you do?" I teased.
"Oh girl!" he exclaimed. "Are you having another bad 'man'-strual cycle?"
I smiled in spite of myself. "I guess you could say that," I said. "I'm just exhausted. I mean, I've been single for almost eight years, eight years! I have tried every avenue I can think of to try to find someone I'm compatible with that I can stand for longer than 30 days and I keep coming up empty-handed. It's like I've finally found myself and now I can't seem to find anyone who wants to be with myself or whose self I can see myself being with for the rest of my life."
"Well, Sugar Puss," he said, "all the smart, highly educated, emotionally centered, sexy, stylish, successful men already have boyfriends." He was only half-joking.
Pauly has been my friend and masseur for the past six years. He had put me back together after every heartbreak, regardless of whether I was the breakee or the breaker. He is also one of the very few happily coupled people I know.
Pauly and Jorge have been together for almost 16 years and they seem to have found a recipe that works. When I asked them their secret, Jorge just smiled and said, "We call each other on our BS. We don't let little things build up, we trust one another enough to share when we are unhappy and we communicate as well as compromise. Most of all, when life turns into a tunnel of chaos, we stick it out."
They are a good, solid team. They complement each other and are wonderful to be around. They have a mutual respect and admiration for one another, and quite frankly, they give me hope.
"Can I be candid?" asked Pauly as he worked the kinks out of my lower back.
"To a fault," I said.
"Seriously, Mama Belle, I think the reason that you've stayed single for as long as you have is because you've wanted to. You've held onto some false hope that what's-his-face would come back. Well, Ms. Thang, it's high time you woke up and smelled the azaleas. Repeat after me: 'He married someone else, he's not coming back'. Sweet Potato Pie, he's moved on; don't you deserve to be happy too?"
"Ouch!" He'd hit a sore spot, in more ways than one.
I didn't say a word. He dug his thumbs into my sciatic nerves, causing me to gasp. "Breathe, Snookems. Look, you haven't exactly been a wall flower for the past eight years; you've been an equal-opportunity dater. I sometimes wondered if you were getting combat pay. If you are serious about finding Mr. Right, you have to stop spinning your wheels with all the Jokey Jokesters you've been wasting your time and energy on."
"Come on," I said, trying to regain my composure. "They haven't all been that bad."
"Oh, really? How long did you date that tattooed, alcoholic busboy with the slight speech impediment that was clearly in the middle of a very deep homosexual panic?"
"He had a great sense of humor," I said, defending the kindhearted busboy.
"OK, then can you explain the chubby German who didn't speak a lick of English and didn't even have a car? How about the beauty school dropout?"
"They were just ..." I was starting to see his point.
"A waste of your time, Sonja. They were safe, you knew in your heart that they were wrong and it was safe, no pain, no pain, right? You want to get rid of these knots in your neck once and for all and find someone who is worthy? Then it's high time you 'man-ifest' what you truly want. That is if you're serious. See him in your mind's eye, create him in your heart and then girl, hold out for him. Stop wasting so much precious time on losers and your prince will find you. How on Earth is he going to find you if you're all tied up with guys like Man-pri—you know who I'm talking about, Mr. Fashion-Oh-No-He-Dint! Mark my words, Poopsie, if you build him, he will come."
Maybe Pauly was right, maybe I'd kept myself busy with all the wrong men because I wasn't ready for the right one. And, maybe it is impossible to find the right one if you haven't created a wish list of what it is that you are hoping to find.
"Do you really think that if I manifest what I'm looking for and send that into the universe that he'll finally find me and we'll live happily ever after?" I asked hopefully.
"Happy? Tootsie Roll, look at Jorge and I ... we're positively gay!"
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?