No funny stuff.

I drive alone. Most of the time. And as I made my way to the mall I had no intention of getting a massage.

In fact. I don't really know what my intentions were. It took me 20 minutes to park, and not because of my inability to drive between the lines. As society would have it, several persons desired to indulge in the capitalist dogma, and I simply had to deal with it.

An old black gentleman crosses in front of the car, and nods with a sign of respect for allowing him to cross.

I went looking for a Buffalo Exchange, only to find that there wasn't one. My gift card was geographically useless.

I strolled Shamelessly through the mall. Disgusted by the number of young girls wearing harlot shorts, and bewildered as to why parents bring children to malls.

It seems terribly inconvenient.

The decision is now simple. I enter Forever 21.

My best pair of jeans has had a hole in the crotch for a month. I bought them to be tight because I like the way my ass looks in them, but after moving to Houston, and eating like a king, the trunk could not fit my junk.

I must buy new jeans to ease this drafty crevice.

I find a nice pair to try on, and as I bend down to put my shoes on a familiar twinge in my lower back questions my integrity. I grunt. Grimace. I buy the jeans.

Now, strolling through the mall, my stride is not as cool as before. Now lukewarm, I feel displaced. Weird families surround me. Young girls with harlot shorts are no good. Consenting females have wedding bands or weaker males.

The animal kingdom.

I miss the merchant. The conversation during consumerism. I can't swim in this sea of society. Not alone.

I spy a group of Asians, and as in most malls, they're giving massages.

I once had one of these. It was by a man. He beat the crap out of me, and I was sore for 3 days.

It was not a happy ending.

I "aimlessly" stroll near the female masseur.

"You need massage?" says she.

"Awhahwhah. Yeah..." says me.

My hope was that her tiny hands would bring the touch I needed. And seriously. I know that the a lot of people go to shady massage shops for unsavory sexual escapades. I just wanted a relaxing massage.

No funny stuff.

12 $.

I bury my face in the head rest and she goes to town on my brown. Skin.

The mall rages around me as she proceeds to make me feel uncomfortable. She slaps my shoulder blades, and yanks my fingers. Her point elbows stab me in the back like a Judas, and I lament how close we've become.

She rubs her hands on my big ears. They're sensitive. No one touches my ears.

"Ok," says she.

10 minutes? That fast?

On to the next customer. I feel kind of violated. She broke my physical barriers and it all happened so fast.

I walk to the pretzel shop and as I purchase my snack and Icee, the children's fashion show to my right is nothing but a nuisance.

"I just don't get it," thinks I. "It's not cute at all."

I walk to the exit, and my stride is cool again. I reckon that massage had something to do with it.

As I open the door I see the same black man from earlier. I nod with southern respect.