Kendallkasey's Blog

{August 10, 2010}   First Massage Client Ever

I’ll never forget the very first client I massaged, but I wish I could. If I didn’t have so much time and money invested in my massage education I would have walked out before I even touched the crazy woman who walked into the office that day. I was all by myself on a Saturday without a receptionist, the other massage therapist I worked with, or the chiropractor I worked for. I arrived twenty minutes before her scheduled appointment because I was ready to finally start my career!

I waited behind our front desk, and waited, and waited. Fifteen minutes into her scheduled time I heard a rumble and looked out the picture window just in time to see my client fly into our parking lot driving a van too big for her tiny body; she could barely see over the steering wheel. She climbed out of the driver’s seat like she was on a ladder. The door was blocking most of her body, leaving only her right foot in sight as it searched for the ground below; it made contact and then the left one followed. I was able to get a better look at her while she walked across the front of the van to the passenger side. I’d never seen anyone look so sloppy, her clothes hanging off of her thin body and stringy hair hanging from her head. I had no idea they made bags as big as the one she had on her shoulder; the bottom of it met the middle of her shin.  She marched into the office with a purpose.

“I’m gonna piss down my leg this very second if I don’t get to a toilet!” she yelled in what sounded like an English accent.

On her way to the bathroom she dropped her bag, belongings now scattered everywhere. She also left the smell of patchouli lingering in the air. Ten minutes later she zoomed out of the bathroom as fast as she came into the office.

“Man, oh, man! I sit to pee, and those beans just snuck up on me! Are you a vegan? You look like one – you’re too smart to eat meat, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Have you had a massage before?” I asked her, skipping over her question.

“Of course! In fact, I used to see that other therapist you work with, but I don’t ever want to see her again – rubbed me the wrong way! Let’s see if you make the cut, and if you do, I’ll be yours for life!” she boasted.

“Fantastic,” I said, trying hard to hold back tears. I couldn’t imagine this woman being the type of client anyone would look forward to.

 She followed me to the massage room, and as I tried to tell her how to prepare for the massage she kicked me out, claiming she knew the drill. As I walked away I told myself I would stay positive about my first experience on the job, but my personal pep talk didn’t last long. The door of her room opened, and unfortunately, I turned around. There she was, standing in front of me baring every inch of her naked, sagging body.

“What are you doing?!” I asked her, each word louder than the last.

“Those beans are back!” she screamed, then she turned around – fast – and made her way to the bathroom. Each step she took was accompanied by a musical toot, and as I stood and watched her move to her gassy symphony, I made a mental note never to run anywhere while completely naked. There were things shaking on her that no one should have to witness.

Twenty minutes later I finally had her on the table with only a few minutes left of the scheduled appointment time, and after informing her of this she begged me to go over into the next hour, promising to pay extra. I agreed because she was my only client that day and I was a newbie – I needed all the hours I could get. 

We were now into the second hour, and I began massaging her arm as she was lying on her stomach. I moved her arm away from her body and at the same time that I saw the harriest arm pit in the world, I smelled a combination of dirty human, and even more patchouli than when she first walked in. I looked up and started to take deep breaths in and out. I had a feeling she hadn’t taken a shower since 1973. I finished her arm and started on the other side of her back, and as soon as I did she spoke.

“Now, my bum has really been a hurtin’ on that side. Get in that cheek with your elbow, will ya? Ha! Get it? I’m gonna let you get cheeky!” she was quite amused at her little joke.

“Yeah, thanks for letting me, uh, get in there,” I said, wondering if she noted the lack of excitement in my voice.

Damn it. I knew all about the beans she had at lunch, and I did not want to go anywhere near her “bum”. She asked me again with more persistence after I pretended not to hear her the first time. She probably thought I was deaf as much as I ignored her comments. I had no choice – I was goin’ in. I moved toward her hip slowly, taking my time to get there, and as I inched closer she started rocking her body from left to right, bringing one side of her body off of the table, and then the other. I had no idea what she was doing so I stood up, crossed my arms and leaned against the wall to try to figure it out.

“What are you doing? I can’t keep my balance if you can’t keep still,” I said.

“What do you mean? I’m not doing a thing.” she replied.

“Just stop moving because I can’t work like that!” I was trying hard not to yell, but I was annoyed.

She said nothing, but stopped the rocking immediately after my mini outburst. I made my way down to her hip area, and as soon as I applied the first bit of pressure she passed gas right in my face. There was such an offensive smell that filled the room, but my client was anything but offended.

“See that?” she asked.

“No, but I heard it and I smell it,” I answered.

“You’re workin’ my digestive system. I love comin’ here after a meal because all of the-”

“Beans?,” I cut her off.

“Yes! How did you know?” she sounded ecstatic.

“Lucky guess.”

 Still lying on her stomach, it was time to massage her legs. When I lifted the sheet I did a double take because they were as hairy as my husband’s. I made sure to triple the amount of oil I usually used for smooth extremities, and after I thought I had enough I made the first stroke up toward her buttocks. I was expecting it to be a smooth, gliding stroke, but I was stopped short just before I got to the back of the knee. I created so much friction I thought for sure there would be a trail of smoke behind my now red, raw palms. I got more oil and tried again. Much better.

I was using proper body mechanics so my upper body was close to her legs as I worked, being careful not to bend at my waist. As I was working on her upper leg I must have hit a sensitive spot because all at once she yelped as her knee bent and her lower leg came toward me. She kicked me in my temple with the heel of her foot.

“What the hell lady?” I asked her, standing up and backing away.

“Oh! You hit a spot and my goodness! My reflexes sure are in check though!,” she answered me.

My head hurt, I was exhausted, and the last thing I wanted to do was touch her again. I told her the massage was over, and I explained I would meet her up front as I walked out of the room. She began to protest, but I didn’t wait around to hear anything else she had to say because I knew I might say something I’d regret. I went to the bathroom to wash the oily hair off and when I looked in the mirror I saw blood coming from the side of my head. Her feet must have been so callused they cut me! I cleaned up, grabbed my purse, and marched up to the check out desk to find my client waiting for me with her huge bag hanging from one shoulder. I had a feeling she was going to let me have it after walking out of the room so suddenly.

“You!” she shouted.

“I know, I know, I-“, I was cut off.

“That was the best massage I’ve ever had! I’d like to come back next week!” she exclaimed.

I decided right then that I would have rather been yelled at. I was so tired! This woman was like watching a two-year old, in fact, my daughter was two and she was better behaved! As I said before, I was new and I needed all the clients I could get so I really had no choice.

“When would you like to come back in?” I asked.


Five years later this client is still on my schedule. She acts the same way exact way today as she did when she came in for the first time. I always remember to take a Valium before I massage her or she ends up doing or saying something to upset me. I will admit, she has given me a lot to write about!


{August 3, 2010}   It’s Not All Bad

If you have followed me from the start you probably noticed I haven’t said one positive thing about being a massage therapist, but there has to be a bright side to the profession, right? I don’t know anyone who would put up with these people if there wasn’t something worthwhile about it.

As many strange, rude and disgusting people I have on my schedule that make my job miserable, it’s the kind and thoughtful people I see that make me want to come back. I met a woman named Candy almost three years ago, and when I think about her first massage I smile because I had no idea she would change my life forever. Her massage started just like everyone else’s, pleasantries exchanged, she told me some of her health history and where she was hurting, but then as I massaged her we began talking and I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation. She rescheduled for the following week, and I was so thankful I had another “good one” to look forward to.

I would not be writing my book if it weren’t for Candy. She has inspired me in so many ways, and one of the most important lessons she has taught me is to go after what you want until you get it. She is a writer as well, and she understands me on a level a lot of people don’t. I can go to her and talk to her about the frustrations of being a writer, but I can also share my triumphs with her because she is just as happy as I am when I experience the joys of writing. A friend who is truly happy for you and feels no jealousy towards you during the good times is hard to come by.  

Candy is such a wonderful mother of three amazing kids, one girl and two boys. I hope my kids stay on the path they are on now, but it’s so hard to tell exactly what lies in your children’s future. I know when I am worried or stressed about my kids, or if I am proud of something they accomplished, I can go right to Candy and tell her. She is always there to give me advice, celebrate with me when they have done a good job at school, or calm me down when I start to worry about them.

Without Candy, my family and I would not be as involved in our community. There has never been a Christmas that we didn’t donate toys, or a Thanksgiving we forgot to bring cans by a food bank, but Candy makes me want to do more than the minimum. I see how she has touched people’s lives through the non-profit she started, and I realized there is so much more I can be doing. Candy makes me want to be a better person, she makes me want to give more to those in need and love those who just need a shoulder to cry on or a helping hand to get through a hard time.

Without massage, I don’t know if Candy and I would have ever met. I believe every single person who has come into my life, has for a reason. Maybe the sole purpose that some of my clients have wound up on my table was to make my blog more enjoyable to write and even funnier to read, but for people who started out as clients and have become friends, you serve a greater purpose. You have made my life more enjoyable, you have made me a better person, and massage therapy a lot easier to handle.

{July 15, 2010}   I am Not a Hooker

Title says it folks, I’m not a hooker, but I think the majority of the people on my table think I am. Although most of you think I’m talking about men, women are just as guilty. Here’s an example:

This was screamed down the hall at me once as a woman left the room after the massage, getting dressed as she ran out the door “I left your money on the bed. You were great!”

That’s awesome lady, could you tell my pimp too while you’re at it? Maybe I’ll be able to keep 70% this time.

Example number 2 (for everyone who has only been reading my blog to see when the hell I was going to write about happy endings)

A man asked me just the other day if I could give him a “really good release.” I was hoping he didn’t mean what I thought he did, but being in this profession for almost five years, I knew exactly what he meant.

“No, I don’t do that,” I said.

“Oh, come on! I won’t tell anyone – I promise.”

Hmmmm, mister when you put it that way, it sounds like something I want to do now – yeah right! Now, here’s the speech I give all of them:

“No! I am not willing to risk my family, my license, or my job just so you can “feel better”. That’s what hookers are for!” They follow this up by saying “Come on, baby, no one will know. I won’t tell.” To which I reply “I will know, and the thought disgusts me – you disgust me. The massage is over and I will meet you up front to collect your payment.” As I walk out of the room I can hear them call me “bitch” or other mean names, but I don’t stop and turn around to defend myself. They are worthless, and it’s pointless to waste my breath.

Did you know that there are actually massage bootie calls? Yes, there are! All of my clients have my cell phone number. This faux pas happened when I was an eager beaver, wanted everyone’s business at any hour of the day. Be careful what you wish for. Now, I have a steady practice which consists of semi-average people (okay, who am I kidding? You’ve read what goes on in this place. They are weird!), and I have a schedule that is very consistent. It never fails though. My cell, which is positioned right by my head when I sleep, will ring or alert me that I have a text at 3am and it’s a client (most of the time half drunk) asking me for a massage. See, massage bootie calls. I just tell them they are drunk and stupid, and we will forget that it ever happened.

What’s even worse is massage therapists act like their clients, who could have been with them for years or just weeks, are the equivalent to street corners. Do not, I repeat do not, look at another therapists client! It’s exactly like standing on Kiki’s turf without permission. Your fellow therapist will do anything to keep that client, right down to spreading nasty rumors about you.

It’s funny to me that massage therapists ar portrayed as these flighty, pot smokin’ hippies who pick flowers all day, but I beg to differ. I always have to be on the look out for a man’s wondering eyes and hands, rude comments, and unthinkable requests. I have to remind people I work on them while they are lying on a table, not a bed, and I have to tell them not to talk about the fact I “see them naked on a weekly basis and make them feel so good” if they see me in public. I’ve gotten plenty of strange looks from people who overhear our conversation.

Oh, and as far as the other “hooker”, I mean therapist I worked with – I had to let her go. I was tired of fighting over corners.

I walked into what was a normal massage with a normal guy. As far as personality goes, he was alright, nothing to write home about, or in this case, write in my blog about. I started on the right side of his back absent mindedly, finished up, then went to the right side. Before I began, he spoke.

“I have the biggest pain in my shoulder-blade on this side. It would be great if you could work it out.”

“I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

I started massaging the right side, and I came across a knot that felt so weird I got close to his back so I could see better in my dark room. I got a good look at the knot alright, a better look than I could have ever wanted! It was a zit the size of a soccer ball, and it was ready to go. This zit looked like a bunch of small zits that formed one large super zit. You could say it was the perfect storm of zits. The white head on that thing needed to be popped, and I was not the person to do it. I became a massage therapist, not an aesthetician for a reason, and the reason being I don’t do zits. I know a lot of women who love to get into people’s skin and pick out the blackheads, pop the white heads, and clean those pores – I’m NOT one of them.

I decided to work around the obstacle blocking my work space, but of course, it wasn’t that easy. He spoke again.

“You know, it’s like you’re working around the spot that really hurts. Could you focus more toward the middle?”

Why do these things happen to me? “Sure, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Well, I don’t know what you have to really see about. Can’t you just go toward the middle? I don’t think it’s that hard.”

I was going to have to tell him. How did he not know he had a gigantic growth on his body? I know it was on his back, but he had to have at least a clue it was there.

“I don’t know if you know this or not, but you have a blemish right where you need me to massage you,” I explained. I thought using the word blemish would make it easier to tell him, and it actually did.

“Oh, uh, blemish? What do mean?” he asked.

“A zit, I’m talking about a zit.” Now I was losing my patience, and I could hear it in my tone.

“Oh, well, if it’s about to go, can you just pop it for me? I really want to stop hurting.”

“Popping zits isn’t in my scope of practice,” I explained.

“Scope a what?” he asked.

“It’s not what I do. I didn’t sign up to pop zits. I don’t even like to pop my own zits, much less someone elses.”

“Ok, well, can you massage it?”

“No, I can’t massage the huge white head on your back that could go at any moment. I will massage the rest of your back, but the zit is NOT happening!”

“Fine, whatever” he said, sounding disappointed.

I continued the massage, he huffed and puffed until it got old and went back to regular breaths. Then, the unthinkable happened. A little pus started to leak out, and immediately I could feel myself holding back vomit. I really don’t do pus or any other bodily fluids for that matter, and with that being said, I cut the massage.

“Alright, you’re all set! The girls will check you out up front, okay? Great!,” I said as I walked out of the room, not waiting around for a protest or a good-bye. I knew for a fact a “thank you” was out of the question.

So, for those of you who have asked me if I have to massage people who have zits, there’s your answer.

{June 21, 2010}   Tinkle Tinkle Little Star

I think I’m pretty laid back when it comes to people and their behavior (I have to be in this line of work), but there are times when even I have to take a deep breath, curse so low my client can’t hear me, and just walk away before I haul off and hit them. There are so many types of people I deal with, it builds up my immunity to the weird, mean, gross and disgusting, but there are some times that all this immunity I have against the evil people makes no difference at all. They manage to get under my skin and annoy me so I never want to return to the office again, but sometimes they make me laugh so freakin’ hard I want to go back and see what happens the next day.

There’s this lady who really just rubs me the wrong way – ha, ha, ha. The way she moves, the way she talks, and what she says are just a few things that get under my skin. While lying on the table face down, she kicks her legs vigorously, her feet kicking so hard making the  most annoying sound over and over and over. There are times I almost scream “STOP KICKING YOUR LEGS, YOU JERK!!!” I haven’t done that yet, but God, I want to! She doesn’t stop talking from the time she walks in the office, never staying on one subject longer than a minute and a half. She tells me she has restless leg syndrome, but I want to ask her if she’s sure doesn’t have ADHD as well. All signs I see point to yes. Then, what she talks about I cannot write, but I will say this – it’s totally inappropriate for any age to read. She has the ability to offend any age, race, or gender, and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. She was not taught that words have such an impact on people’s feelings.

So, you now know that I am writing about a woman who kicks her legs non stop, talks just as much as she kicks, and she talks about subjects totally off limits. Oh yeah, she talks really loud. Like, really, really loud. I’m massaging this woman one sunny afternoon, she was talking and would just not shut up, and I was not listening to her like I had grown accustomed to doing. Blah, blah, blah. Rub, rub, rub. I shorted her five minutes because she started running her mouth, and kicking her legs like she was swimming an olympic size swimming pool. I told her I was done and that I would meet her up at the front. I exited the room quickly, and then met the chiropractor I work with out in the hall.

He and I were talking about what she wanted to talk about, what I allowed her to talk about, and what I blocked out. As he and I were laughing, all of a sudden the door to the room she was in flew open and there she was holding the garbage bag that used to be in my trash can. She walked up to me and handed the bag without saying a word.

“You don’t have to take the garbage out,” I told her.

“Oh yes I do, trust me,” she said.

“Why? What did you do?” I asked.

“I peed in it,” she admitted.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I have wondered that for quite a while, and now after you peed in my trash can, I think I have enough of a reason to ask,” I said.

“I just couldn’t make it to the bathroom, that’s all,” she said.

“No, that’s not all. You have a problem. You can’t control your legs, your language, and apparently, you can’t control your piss. You will take that out to the dumpster. I’ll show you where it is,” I told her.

What the f%*k is wrong with some people? I could not believe I was looking at a garbage bag full of pee pee. A) The bag was one of those thin kind, so at any moment it could give way with what was once in her bladder. B) Most women have bad aim, and if you’re a woman you know by the condition of public toilet seats. Most likely she dripped yellow liquid all over the bag, inside and out, and I was not touching it.

She walked the bag out to the dumpster and did not walk back into the office – that day. She came back and wanted more massage. I’m not good at saying no so there she was, kicking and screaming. The piss never came up in conversation again, and she never took a piss in my bag again either.

{May 26, 2010}   Breasticles

I don’t know what it is about my job, but it seems like every other woman I massage wants me to look at their breasts, feel their breasts or talk about their breasts. You would think it would only be the ones with fake boobs, but it’s not. Real, fake, big or small, it just doesn’t matter. I don’t know whether it’s a confidence issue, or if they are just so damn proud of their girls they want everyone to know how awesome they are.

Ive always heard guys say that more than and handful (or a mouthful if they are being dirty) is too much, and that makes sense to me. A boob is a boob is a boob, and I think guys like them no matter what. There was a time when I wanted bigger ones. From the age of 12 I prayed for boobs before I went to sleep every night in hopes I would wake up with a bigger chest, but as I met more and more women on my table that were obsessed with their mammary glands, the less I wanted to be well endowed in the northern regions.

I believe there is more to me than a set tits. Don’t get me wrong, if one day my prayers were answered, and I magically needed to go buy new, larger bras I wouldn’t be upset, but I’m not going to run out to my nearest plastic surgeon and hop on their table either. I don’t want to be like these surface women who become their breasts, whose lives revolve around them. I love being respected for being a great person, a wonderful mom, a caring wife, and a kind friend. By the way, the Gel Bra by Victoria’s Secret makes the previous statement a lot easier to write.

It’s 7am, I’m barely awake and annoyed to be back in my massage room so soon after leaving at midnight the night before. My client is already asleep, and I was nodding off as the music and low lighting was sending me into dreamland. Just then I heard a noise that reminded me of air being let out of a bicycle tire, but it quickly stopped, and I was right back to nodding off. Not sure of how much time had passed, I woke up to what sounded like a BB gun firing a few quick rounds, but unlike the air being let out of the tire, this gunshot sound was accompanied by a smell like no other. I just knew if I took in too much of this horrid odor I could die, and I had too much to do for that nonsense.

I decided to ask what it was I thought was going to kill me, but before I asked, I practiced inquiring in the most courteous manner possible. What came out was far from courteous, in fact, I was so rude.

“Did you fart?” I fired the question at her like the BB gun I thought I just heard.

She snorted herself awake, then I thought she snorted some more, but that was just how she breathed. “What did you say? Did you ask me if I farted? I don’t know why I would be doing that, I mean, the only thing I ate last night was chili,” she answered before I heard another snore/fart combo.

I have massaged people who have had intestinal problems such as the one I dealt with at this appointment, but they all excused themselves or even cancelled hours before they were supposed to see me. This wonderful woman basically told me my nostrils meant nothing to her, and continued to pass her disgusting gas for the duration of the massage. I am not one of those therapists that tries to cut people short of their time, but I had to. I could not breathe, and I seriously thought I was going to pass out on top of her.

Once out of the room and in clean air again I swear I could think more clearly about my next move, but before I could do this she dressed in record time and was farting her way down the hall to our nearest bathroom. I didn’t see her again that day which was fine because I have no idea if I would have the ability to make eye contact with someone who had capabilities to clear a room that quickly.

It’s fine when it’s just one and they’re done, but almost an hour of that in my face was just too much. She never excused herself, apologized – nothing, and the next appointment she acted as if nothing happened. The “incident” was never mentioned again.

My name is Kendall, and I’m a massage therapist. I’ve decided to write a memoir on my first three crazy years as a massage therapist, but before the book comes out my goal is to entertain and entice you with a blog about my typical day to day experiences.

This entry is to all of you who have ever asked me or any other massage therapist, “Do people fart in their massages?”
Obviously, the answer is yes, yes they do!

et cetera