Why do we do it to them? Poor things. Why do we take men to spas? Why do we do couples spa weekends? Men might be down with the massage, but I can promise by the looks on their faces they are not okay with being in the spa. The only other time I’ve seen such a look of horror on any face – gentlemen forgive the analogy – is when I bathed my cat.
You see, cats are not meant to be bathed. Their tongues are made with all kinds of wiry tongue stuff, which is essentially a loofah in their mouths – handy because a good loofah is hard to find but that’s a separate conversation – so cats never need bathing by humans. Cats have bathing handled. Men, they get that same look. It’s a look that says, “Why did you bring me here to get all preened and relaxed? I’ve usually got this handled with a shower in the morning and a heavy dose of television watching in the evening, as long as its not Fashion Police or Grey’s Anatomy”.
So, why do we take men to spas? Why do we throw beige terry cloth robes over them and make them sit outnumbered by women? They are not like a shitty sofa you throw a new cover on and pretend it’s not shitty. (Forgive the analogy again gentlemen – many of you are very fine looking sofas – I am working your corner here). Do we want them to smell less like sweaty balls and more like citrus jasmine when we go down on them? Or are we so afraid to be on our own that we’d rather submerge someone into an aroma therapeutic bath of misery than brave the weekend in solitude? Or do we mistrust them so much that we’d rather have them rubbed up by someone on a massage table next to us, than think about them doing that alone?
Whatever the reason, I’m going to go ahead and say I don’t like them at the spa. Because they look so miserable. They look like they just want to go home before anyone sees them there. They stare into the middle distance; I’m sure thinking what they will tell their colleagues on Monday about the weekend, because they can’t possibly tell the truth. Like children who don’t want to see their parents having sex they look away from the women liberally letting their bodies fall out of the robes. Nope, I don’t like having them there. I like men to be men. They don’t have to be chopping wood, but they do need to be doing what they like doing. And have enough of a manly voice to say, “I’d rather chop my wood than go to spa”.
I should say, for those guys who do like it, you can stay. Because you look comfortable in your exfoliated skin. Have a nice chakra alignment rose bath, Sir. The rest of you squirming and sighing next to your girl, go home and remember you have a pair under that terry cloth robe. And to the ladies who have dragged them there: bring a friend. Or a book about the joys of solitude. Or get a cat. And leave your sourpuss dude on that covered sofa, where he belongs.
