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Massaging Mommy

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I can’t say exactly why things were so different that last month before she died. I think at the end of her life and knowing I no longer needed to care for Teri, Mom was able to relinquish her role as “strong mother” and just be herself, a dying woman who wanted her daughter’s help. And I was able to respond, in part because Teri’s love had finally quieted that little part of me that always wondered whether I was enough. So I was able to simply love Mom instead of demanding more than she could give. Instead, Teri turned to me. “You’re going to get better, kiddo,” she promised softly, our blue eyes inches apart, as she rubbed my arm. “I’m not going to leave you until you’re better.” I cried, this time out of relief, my tears soaking the sleeve of her white cotton nightgown with bitty blue flowers.

We met for coffee a few days later. He brought his dog to the café. We talked for an hour and he answered my dozen questions. At this point, I was in full-on research mode and my fantasy had receded. I learned that most of his customers were either in sexless marriages, divorced, or widowed. Some were single and career-focused. Some had suffered sexual trauma. But all were looking for affection and intimacy; not orgasms. Teri opened her eyes, her thin hair strewn across the pillow, and smiled sleepily. “Well, hi, honey.”Just one time I thought there could have been “something” was the way her hands wandered on my chest in a non massage way for a brief moment. Mom had steadfastly cared for my dad, my brother, and me since her early twenties. She rarely complained, but I thought I detected the toll this sacrifice took in the way she seemed happiest not with us, but at church or petting the dog or watching PBS. I tried to make things easier by hiding my troubles from her and sometimes even myself, but this time I was too weak to pretend. It's tough growing up," he said aloud. He knew he was acting silly but things seemed much simpler when he was younger. Remember what I told you Kenny," Larry had said, "about the different parts of the canoe?" He knew Kenny liked to be tested on his knowledge.

A year later, Mom’s breast cancer from decades past returned and I was pregnant again; it seemed that my Midwest roots and our moms were calling us home. My husband found work in Kansas City and we bought a house that was a 10-minute drive from Mom and Teri, our three homes forming an imperfect triangle on the map. Mom quietly began chemo treatments, and the grandmas traded off watching Hope and our new son, Gabriel, while I worked part-time as a freelance magazine and web editor.Larry didn't pay money for chores. "Instead I'll be glad to take you hiking or even go on a fishing trip,” he had said. Since then he had met Larry's wife and even had a tour of their big old house which used to be a church manse. Imagine, the place was over 140 years old. She and I exchanged glances and my message to her was that it would be okay for this man to give her a massage. She asked what she should wear and he said "As little as you feel comfortable with, preferably nothing!" Again, after exchanging glances, she started taking her clothes off, while the young man prepared the table and his oils. Then she stretched-out, naked, on the table, face-down.

But it wasn't all. He missed having a dad, and he was glad his face was turned away as moisture gathered on his cheeks. He wasn't crying, not really. He felt like a traitor for even pretending Larry was his dad. I told myself and others that I was so immersed in Teri’s care because no one else could understand Teri’s medical issues and advocate for her. Mom was a nurse, meanwhile, and had my dad, a radiologist, my brother, also a radiologist, and my aunt, a nurse, for support. But the truth was that I wanted to help and be with Teri more, and she wanted me with her, so I was. Whenever I thought about this, I felt equal parts warrior and betrayer. I think as women, we’ve been programmed to believe that if we receive pleasure, we have to return the favor. For me, not doing this completely shifted something inside of me. I had a startling moment of empowerment, somewhere in between orgasms, where I realized I was deserving of good things. I was deserving of love and respect. It was delivered under the guise of sensual pleasure. But still it was the same. I deserved to be seen, to be respected, to be loved. I deserved orgasms. But ultimately, I was simply deserving. I felt empowered and incredibly sad at the same time. I can’t quite recall what made me do it. Maybe it was his sincerity and genuine interest in women deserving pleasure. But I made an appointment for myself.For me (and so many other women), it took paying for a sensual massage to finally believe that we’re all truly deserving of more than the status quo—in and out of bed.

That was my favourite part of my visits and I always paid attention to the way she touched in case she had a slip, gave an opening if she happened to enjoy. It was at that point that I made a great decision. I told my wife that I had just remembered a meeting I needed to go to and would have to leave. I asked what his fee was and gave him the money, plus another twenty, and told him to "do whatever she needs". He noticed Larry's peaked hat, with the perch fish on its front. Red vest, blue shirt, worn jeans and bare feet completed the picture. Larry's paddle was ready for action. And his eyes seemed at peace with himself. They were always full of laughter. A few years ago, I stumbled upon an article about a man in New York City who offered highly intimate massages, resulting in dozens of satisfied women. The quotes he listed from women seemed real. The process appeared to be selective. Up until this moment, I had no idea this service actually existed for women, and I instantly felt envious of the women in New York—it was something I needed to have. For this week’s Mom Talk, writer and mom Anna Diaz gets deeply personal, opening up about how she researched and eventually ended up paying for a sensual massage—yep, pretty much a “happy ending”-type situation. But beyond the fascinating details of the session itself, it’s the self-realization that the intimate experience inspired in her that proved to be truly life changing.Maybe you shouldn’t have had kids,” Mom said on another one of those endless mornings after Hope was born, standing at my sink in her red capri pants and white Talbots short-sleeve button-down. She was mixing oatmeal for me, the spoon clinking accusingly against the ceramic bowl, her short dark hair falling just so. I was depressed once,” she went on. “Before I decided to leave Rich’s dad. I would drive sometimes and think it would be a good idea to drive my car off Huntington Beach Pier.” Mom’s comment stung, but more than anything it told me two things: She was very worried, and she wasn’t going to be able to help me. Rich was concerned, but with him, as everyone, I didn’t know what was wrong or what to ask for. And I knew he needed to work, so I tried not to let on to him how bad I was feeling. I held out a glimmer of hope though that his mother, Teri, might somehow help return me to myself. I think about being in the hospital,” I whispered to the ceiling. “I think how great it would be to break both my legs because then someone else would have to care for Hope and no one would blame me.” I held my breath, waiting for the earth to engulf me for exposing this terrible secret.

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