Making It Werque

  When actors are unemployed, the most popular piece of advice that parents, teachers, and Broadway stars give them is, "Take class." Which is great advice, of course, but such a catch-22. I mean, you take the classes so that you can book the Bway job so that you can make the money on which to live. But if you don't have the Bway job and just have a regular job that makes way less money on which you are "supposed" to live, how do you then afford the classes to book the Bway job? You catch my drift here, fellow Actorias? The answer almost always to that question is, "You just have to make it work."

  OK.

  I took this "making it work" thing to heart, or should I say, to the streets, by signing up for a new kind of class outside of my comfort zone that incorporates dance, cardio, posture improvement, and a literal ass-kicking: The Stiletto Work Out. I've decided to bring out my inner sex goddess by not only participating in this class, but also the studio's handful of other sexy fitness classes for one month.

  Well, let me tell you that the Stiletto Work Out was a WERQUE out, honey! We were doin' all kinds of squats and kicks and bends and pops that are typically only performed by the lovely employees at Lace on 45th street. Only we did these moves with a five-pound dumbbell in each hand, and let me just say that my legs will be looking fierce just in time for unitard season. I decided that one sexy class just wasn't enough to satiate me, so I also took the following class entitled Sexy Yoga. I'll sum it up with a single quote from the instructor:

  "Try to touch your head to your crack."

  When I awoke this morning, I was not surprised to find that I was in fact paralyzed from the forehead down. I decided I would treat myself to a massage at a new spa that I discovered on my walk home last night from my sexy classes. The sign on the front door read, "75 minute massage - $50.00" Done and done. 

  I arrived at the spa to be greeted by no one at the reception desk. Luckily, the Asian man smoking outside while chatting on the phone was the receptionist and rushed in after me to ask me why I was there. (Phew, I was worried for a second) I told him I had a 3:00 appointment for a 75-minute full body massage, but clearly he could not understand one word I said as he just stared at me blankly. He quickly hurried to the back to find an English-speaking employee who then led me back to a tiny, dimly-lit room blocked off only by a small curtain.

  I assumed I should get down to my skivvies and lay face down on the table underneath the towel provided. Before I was completely covered, the male receptionist who doubled as a masseuse barged in and blurted out, "You ready?" Um, OK, I guess so. I'm pretty sure you just saw my thong, but whatevies. 

  Well, throughout the course of our next 75 magical minutes together he saw more than just my thong. The first thing he did was peel back the towel to reveal my back, however the towel went WAY lower than I expected it to and revealed more than just my back. Pretty sure that half my ass was in full view for the entirety of my back massage, as my sensitive cheeks felt a draft.

  But the amazing thing was that I did not care! It was the best massage I had ever received! This guy knew his stuff, and every inch of my back, arms, legs, and booty was in sheer "hurts so good" bliss. He maneuvered my arms and legs in to some very strange positions and treated each one of my toes like it was paying for its own full body massage. Most massages end the with the masseuse patting down your body to increase blood circulation, but this guy was not exactly the patting kind. He was full-on smacking me! I was in total awe of the full abandonment in which this man massaged me and hit me like he was tenderizing meat. It was amazing.

  After basically stealing this massage with a swipe of my credit card, another receptionist handed me a stack of discount cards to give to my friends for them to use on their first visit. She told me the name of my masseuse so that they could ask for him specifically. 

  His name was Mr. Ho.