"You're not gonna make me listen to that while I'm on the table are you?" Hugo bellowed as he walked in the door.
I jumped out of my pants. "Jesus, Hugo, don't you knock?!"
"Your door was open. Maybe if you listened to your music at a decent level you might be able to hear people coming in. Any boob could've walked in here and robbed you, or beaten you, or raped you or something."
"Yeah, I should be so lucky. Strip!" I said and closed the door and took Maria Callas off the player.
"Whaddaya want to listen to?" I always let clients set their own mood; it gives me an idea of how to work them that day.
"Anybody with one name -- you know, Yanni, or Enya or that guy with the big drums." So I put on a new CD and the ethereal sounds of Kitaro filtered through the air.
I dimmed the lights and adjusted the volume. Hugo was lying on his stomach, top sheet covering his lower half. I always do a visual check before I start manipulating.
"Dude," I asked, a little concerned. "Are you losing a little weight?"
"You must be hallucinating," he said, already relaxing. I ran my hands down his back, checking his spine and feeling out some of the muscle knots that I would work out. "Yeah, I s'pose."
Massaging Hugo is kinda like kneading bread dough. He's not huge, but he's a hefty guy. And he's got a real soft surface layer of muscle that's very pliable. It's a deception -- for someone who doesn't know better, they'd say Hugo doesn't hold any stress in his muscles. He does, you just have to dig for those hidden knots and spasms.
"Okay, so let's get down to it," Hugo muffled out from the face pillow. "What do you know? What are you thinking about this whole move in deal? And why do I feel there's a definite coolness when you and the good doctor are in the same room??"
