As a professional, though, I ignore it, just like I was taught to do.
“I’m going to work on your legs,” I explain to him, moving towards the foot of the table. “And then we’ll end with some neck massage.”
“Sure,” he says, shifting on the table as I adjust the bolster under his legs.
It’s disconcerting the way I can feel his eyes lingering on me. Traveling over the parts of me he can see from his vantage point. It makes me glad for the sports bra and crew neck black t-shirt I’m wearing, since it leaves nothing exposed for him to look at. My yoga pants are probably another matter, but as I uncover the leg he deemed sore, and drape the sheet properly to keep the rest of him hidden, bunching it up near his groin to aid the tenting, I never turn my back on him.
“Are you comfortable?” I ask, pausing before I start any work. “Can I get you a towel for over your face? I know it can be bright in here after turning over.”
“Nah, this is perfect.”
The hope of getting him to stop leering at me disappears when his voice drops, sending a chill skittering down my spine. Pulling in a breath to ease my nerves, I glance at the clock while I start on his shin. Seventeen minutes. I can do this.
Not focusing too long on his shin because of time, I move up to the thigh he said was bothering him, doing some myofascial release on his quad. He’s definitely tight in there, and slowly I start to get into what I’m doing, paying more attention to my technique and his response than I am his lingering stare.
Until I feel a caress against my thigh, and my fingers freeze on his leg, my heart kicking up a notch. No. I’m imagining it. His hand is resting on the table beside his leg, and my leg is right there. I must have leaned into the table too much. It happens. This isn’t the first time a hand has touched my leg when I’ve been working, and it won’t be the last.
When something is in your way, remove it.
One of my instructor’s voices rings clearly in my mind, and I follow it as if I were still in his classroom. It might have been over a year ago since I graduated, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
Taking Eddie’s hand, I lift it away from the table and place it over his stomach.
No big deal.
Obstacle eliminated, I start to work on his thigh again, eyes darting to the clock. Fourteen minutes.
Pulse thundering in my ears, my focus feels shot. It’s not fair to Eddie, even if he is being a bit creepy with his constant fixation of me, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
He groans when I switch techniques, applying parallel pressure in opposite directions. His hand drops away from his stomach to hang out from the table, grazing the side of my thigh in a way that feels too controlled to be a limp limb.
“Fuck, baby, that feels good.”
The words come out of his mouth, and my instinct kicks in. I step sideways and back, away from the table. The movement has a hand grazing the back of my thigh, just below my butt cheek, and I know in that moment if I hadn’t moved, he would have grabbed a handful.
Working to keep my breathing in check and my racing mind to slow down, I hold my hands up in front of me. “That was extremely inappropriate, and this massage is now done. I’m going to step out of the room and let you get changed.”
“Wait, what did I do?” Eddie asks, lifting up on his elbows, the sheet falling away from his chest.
Did I mishear him?
Have I been so uncomfortable with him that I thought I heard something he didn’t say?
Am I making it all up?
But when his eyes trail down to my breasts suggestively, I’m certain I wasn’t.
There’s a whine to his tone when he adds, “You were justgetting to the good part.”
“Please get changed. I’ll meet you outside the door,” I tell him, and then I’m out of there, slipping through the door and into the hallway.
It’s well lit, and the difference from the room to here is stark. Squinting, I stop a few paces from the door, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. It does nothing to stop the shaking in my hands.
I am not hopeless.
I am capable.
I can handle this.
