Doesn't everyone love a happy ending?

    I woke up at 4am because I was having a nightmare. Well, not a nightmare. I wasn't scared but I was upset. It was a vivid, realistic dream and once it woke me up, I couldn't stop thinking about it. After trying all of my go-back-to-sleep tricks, I knew that my constant stream of thoughts wasn't going to let me. And what better thing to do with a constant stream of thoughts than to be productive and finish the blog post that I started a month ago.

    I'm going to go ahead and assume that anyone who's reading this knows what a "happy ending" in a massage implies and not take the liberty of defining it. Another thing that I always think I should be able to assume, but apparently isn't well-known is that licensed massage therapists do not offer happy endings. Let me repeat that: Licensed Massage Therapists Do. Not. Offer. Happy. Endings.

    Now, I've been lucky enough to have never been in a situation as a therapist where anyone asked or suggested this during a massage. But when I tell people that I'm a massage therapist, that is the main joke that I get in return. Oh, do you offer happy endings? *chuckles* No, Brad, do you offer happy endings at your accounting firm?

    I'm just going to go on a quick rant to let you know that I'm a licensed professional. I went to school for over a year, not only to learn massage techniques, but also anatomy, pathology, kinesiology, etc. That doesn't include the continuing education hours that I have to take to stay in compliance or the two tests I had to take just to apply to get my license. I'm also a member of a professional massage association.

    Anyways, someone calling me a masseuse instead of a massage therapist doesn't keep me up at night. That documentary about Jeffrey Epstein keeps me up at night. Obviously, the whole history is infuriating and terrifying. The thing that felt especially infuriating and scary to me was that massage was used as a ploy to get these girls entrenched in this life. Girls who thought giving a massage would be no big deal or actually showed interest in learning and becoming a massage therapist. Girls who were too young to realize the motives behind it.

    As someone who absolutely could have been one of those girls, I feel so protective of them. My interest in massage therapy started when I was in 8th grade and instead of being exploited, it was encouraged. A mentor for a class project taught me about muscles and basic massage techniques and how important therapeutic touch is. That stuck with me years later when I was driving up Grand Ave in Portland and saw the sign for East West College of the Healing Arts. I think about what might have happened if that had been used against me. I think about how much different these other girls' lives would have been if their interest had been nurtured the way mine was.

    Going over all of this in my head at 4am brought up a memory that I don't often think about because it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable because I don't want to pretend like anything as bad as Jeffrey Epstein happened to me and because I've moved past it at this point in my life. When I was about 15, my step-mom bought me a massage as a gift. When I called to make the appointment, the woman asked if I was okay with a male therapist. Being the shy, people-pleaser that I was, I told her yes even though my brain was screaming no. I was an awkward, hormonal teenager who had barely even had a boyfriend yet and I absolutely didn't want a strange man touching me but I was too afraid to hurt his fucking feelings by saying I didn't want a male therapist. So, I said okay and I went to the appointment. Near the end of the massage, I was laying on my back on the table, properly draped. I felt the therapist's hands on my shoulders, on my pecs. I felt his hands slide down my ribcage, underneath the sheet. I felt him follow the curve of my ribs, underneath my breasts. I felt him linger. He did that a few times on either side. I was tense and uncomfortable but I thought it was part of the massage. I trusted him as a professional. I never told anyone that story until I was in massage school and had finally realized that this was not a part of the massage.

    It makes me so angry that this man thought it was okay to do this to me. It makes me angry that he knew I would never say anything. It makes me angry that he is one of the people who puts a dark spot on the profession that I love so much and that he's not the only one. It makes me angry that this isn't an isolated incident and that almost every woman in the world has a story like this one or many stories like this one or worse stories than this one.

    I hope this encourages others to find their voice when something doesn't feel right and to pass that on to younger generations. And I want you to know that if you're ever uncomfortable in a massage, say something! The therapist will never be offended. Because, in the words of My Favorite Murder, fuck politeness.