Happy Ending?

Mother’s Day is full of expectations, occasional disappointments, and sometimes even delightful surprises. Mothers who work out of the home probably look forward to spending quality time with their families, perhaps a nice brunch out in the morning, followed by some quiet at home with the kids. Stay at home moms, on the other hand, have more than enough time with their families and are looking for a little appreciation and a much needed break. My friend JR and I fall in that category, where we spend so much time with kids that we need a moment apart from them to remember why we wanted families in the first place. Unfortunately for both of us, Mother’s Day did not allow for much of a respite. We did manage to eke out an hour for a pedicure, and JR swung by to pick me up before yet another family need arose and sucked away our opportunity for a little R and R.

We went to A nails, one of those Vietnamese nail joints. I don’t know what the A stood for, but I bet it has more to do with phone book visibility than honoring a family name. And it must work too, because the place was packed. JR had thoughtfully called ahead for our appointments, which I never think to do. Almost every station was occupied by mothers and daughters bonding over some toenail clippings. Two pedicure chairs were still open, which JR and I were led to believe were being saved for us. I soon got the impression that had we arrived five minutes later, they would not have been able to pretend that our appointments existed at all. The nail technicians were outnumbered two to one, unless you count individual fingers and toes, in which case it was an unfair fight.

JR and I rolled up our jeans and stuck our feet into the warm water in the foot baths.

“See, this is how they get us,” JR said. “They get you to stick your feet in the tub, and then they have you. You aren’t going anywhere with wet, unpainted feet.”

“Good point,” I said. “Let’s just enjoy the warm foot bath and gentle massage action of the chair.”

Now, mind you, I am not stranger to the dark underworld of the Vietnamese nail joint. I have seen my share of incense sticks and mangoes around a statue of Buddha, a trifle dish filled with dirty nail brushes, bizarre wall decorations of hands and feet, and even an interesting collection of crocheted doll clothes. I am what you call a regular pedicure patron. I have been in any number of different nail salons, all of which have their own variety of fancy massage chairs. Different colors, different styles of foot baths, some with little shelves for your purse, some with cup holders like a mini-van. One thing they all have in common is their massage feature, which you activate by pressing the start button followed by the auto button.

JR and I pressed our buttons and commenced gossiping and bitching while our necks were squeezed and our spines kneaded. JR is working towards a personal goal of mastering nail salon Vietnamese, so she engaged the male nail technician who was removing my toe nail polish in a stimulating review of help, please, and thank you, when suddenly the chair began squishing my thighs like a juicer.

“Oh,” I said, then leaned over to JR and whispered,” Is your chairs smushing your saddlebags?”

“Kind of,” she said, “and I’m not sure I like it.”

She squinted at her controls, trying to figure out how to turn off the thigh squishing, while I rambled on about my morning Mother’s Day treats, which included breakfast in bed, a spa gift certificate, and the all important assortment of dark chocolate. JR followed by telling me about her morning, when all of a sudden...

“Oooh,” I squeaked.

“What, oooh? What’s oooh?” she asked.

“Did you just get probed anally?” I asked her.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My chair just rammed something…”I flinched again. “What kind of massage chair is this?”

JR laughed at me. The man shaving my heel calluses smiled to himself.

“It’s like something is going up my…oh my God, it just did it again. Is yours doing it too?”

“Doing what too? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My massage chair is anally raping me,” I said, gripping the arm rests. I jumped a little higher. “I swear it just popped my ass cherry.”

“You still have an ass cherry?” JR asked.

“Not anymore,” I said. “Whew, I think it stopped. Jesus. What the fuck? I thought they said 'Pick a color', not 'peck my colon'.”

“Ha,” JR said. “How come mine isn’t doing that? I want it to do me too.”

“You would,” I said.

We both peered at our chair controls. And there it was, below the thigh button: the buttock button.

“Well, no wonder,” JR said. “My buttocks is turned off.”

“Not mine, buddy. I think I’m starting to enjoy mine,” I said.

JR pressed the buttock button, which immediately triggered her own anal probe. “Oh, that’s too hard. I don’t like that,” she said, turning it right back off.

“That’s not what I heard about you on the streets,” I said.

“It’s too forceful. Talk about ripping me a new one.”

“Why not ask the guy if there’s any lube?” I told her.

She didn’t, opting instead for a refresher on counting from one to ten in Vietnamese, and also commenting on everyone who walked through the door to wait their turn for their pedicure/ass fucking. I was unable to maintain my end of the conversation due to all that deep penetrating action. Honestly, I don’t know how Bill Clinton could conduct official presidential business on the phone with his cock in Miss Lewinsky’s mouth. I couldn’t even tell JR what I was going to make for dinner while my chair dry humped my asshole.

Finally, my toes were finished and my chair was spent. JR’s nail technician had yet to put the finishing touches on her French pedicure, so I took her control, pressed the buttocks button, and increased the intensity to the highest setting. “Happy Mother’s Day!” I said joyfully.

“Give me that!” JR snatched the remote out of my hand. “Oooh.”

I smiled sweetly while she turned off the buttock massage action.

When JR dropped me off at home, I said goodbye and rushed into the house, heading straight for the bathroom. All that butt play stimulated my digestive system, which honestly is yet another reason why I don’t want anything going in the out door. I made it in time, after clenching my ass cheeks the whole way home.

What I want to know is why didn’t any of those women sitting in their pedicure massage chairs tip us off to what was in store. Then again, maybe that’s why that nail salon was so packed. And here I thought it was because they had Sunday hours. I might have to make another trip, just to be sure.