Salon Girls

I've been thinking of Charlie Malta recently. I suppose he knew more about pain than anyone I've ever met. He was the Rambo story they didn't show: the great soldier returned home, his honor left behind, his pain of existence only assuaged by breaking someone. By inflicting his hurt. Charlie asked me once, "What do you do when the pain is too much?" And it was not rhetorical, he expected an answer. He expected a good answer.

The woman with man strong hands leans into my legs, pushing my feet towards my head, straining the hamstrings and also my lower back. Shit! Stop already. A little more, she says - think about something else. Fuck! Now my neck hurts, feels like one of the titanium rods has come loose and is pushing into my right shoulder. Christ.

I feel stuck to the mat, and with her weight on top of me I suppose I am. Stuck. I feel stuck. I try thinking of a Greek goddess as Charlie Malta suggested all those years ago. That was his answer to me and I believe he truly believed it at those moments when he could pause. I suck in some air, she pushes it out of me. Again, she says. Again. You're doing good, she says. And again. Again. She mocks, I think. Charlie Malta had crazy fierce eyes. Pain riddled. And each hand the size of two. Hard, battered. She leans in again, driving out air and an involuntary squeak. More like a squeal. Like a little bitch.  

She's thirty two and tells me about her fifty five year old. He's coming over later and she slides under my nose the whip she's going to use on him. Fresh leather smell. Soft, almost gentle. I feel the increased pressure of her hands as she stretches my left leg over her shoulder. I change the subject, segue from her boyfriend to Roger Sterling's penchant for younger women to the rubenesque Joan to my God! all they do is drink and smoke all day. She giggles like a little girl. She thinks Roger is a beautiful man. I want a cigarette now but would settle for a double bourbon, neat.

I can't roll over. My back won't let me bend at the abdomen and my right shoulder is on fire at the slightest movement. Breathe and rest, she says. Take a pause. Want some water now? You must be thirsty. How would I drink it? I can't fucking move my head. I'll pour, you swallow. Okay?

She asks about the salon girls and our Saturday night on the town. I admitted to her that Giggles was in constant contact, leaning in, pulling at me. Foxx too, although not as much. They fit so easily, so quickly. Maybe because of the hours they've already spent with their hands on you? But that's different. Not so much.  Let's get you rolled over.

She sits on my legs, just above the knees, pulls on each arm. Range of motion work. Small pain before the worst that is soon to come. Her raising both legs and driving them into my lower spine. I always think it will snap. She says break up the pair, choose one and ask her out to dinner. I'm not really listening, distracted by the pain and the feeling of constraint caused by her pinning my legs with her weight. Vulnerable. Exposed. Lacking argument or strength or mobility. Charlie Malta preferred his goddess wear white silk, flowing to the toes, with the blackest hair and only spots for eyes. I can never forget the look on his face as he leaned in close to describe what he saw in those darkest times. He chose the words so slowly, breaths short in between. And now I agree, it is a spectacular picture what he saw. She is a revelation, her lips moist and lightly pursed. A blush of pink on the cheeks. Nothing shocking or unbecoming. Otherwise pale, but not deathlike. You shouldn't draw that conclusion. But to be fair, her hands are cool and damp when I finally touch her.