Read Online The Story of You and Me by Pamela DuMond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pamela DuMond
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ones. We were on the way to my appointment in Playa del Vista.
“I’d planned on Madison, but Whitewater was closer to home.”
“Lots of people go even farther away for college. Why did you want to be close to home?”
“Maybe I get homesick easily? Besides, you said you’re from around here, right? And you’re going to USCLA.”
“Point taken. What’s your major?”
“I keep waffling. I was thinking about pre-Law. But then didn’t think I’d be up for law school after.”
“That kind of kills the pre-Law thing.” He pulled into a turning lane and flipped on his signal.
“So I’m shooting for a B.S. and see where that leads me.”
Probably back to another surgical room and a cold, hard operating table.
“You’re thinking about transferring here in the fall, right? USCLA isn’t that easy to get into. But if you have a good GPA and applied right away—it could happen.”
“Nah. I’d miss the fall weather and Green Bay Packers’ football and frost on the windows and all the leaves turning gold, orange and red.”
“We have an awesome football team.”
“They’re not the Packers. I’m only here for the summer.”
* * *
Alex maneuvered his vehicle into a small parking space at a tiny strip mall. In the distance you could hear the planes rumble as they took off and landed at LAX, L.A.’s behemoth airport.
“Thanks.” I stepped down and out of the passenger door and walked toward the curb. “I’ll be about an hour. What are you going to do?”
He looked up at the signs topping the small shops assembled in the mini-mall. There was a Spot-Out Dry-Cleaner, a Fresh Water Station, Airport Chinese Foot Massage, Sergeant Washington’s Kung Fu Zone, Pete’s Chicago Pizzeria and a door with mysterious markings but no name.
“You’re not going to the Kung Fu place?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You Kung Fu-get about it.”
“Dork.” He laughed. “I like that in a pretty girl. I’m going to check it out.” He hopped out of the Jeep, jogged across the parking lot and up the concrete stairs to the martial arts studio located on the second level.
* * *
I laid back on a long, beat up reclining massage chair in a dark room with soft lights and heavy closed curtains. There were busts of Buddhas and Chinese lucky bamboo plants located on little plastic tables adjacent to ten massage chairs. My treatment area was far from private. Across the room from me an older Caucasian woman with helmet hair wearing large earphones lay with her feet in a tall bucket of water. Her eyes were closed but she smiled as a young Asian woman deftly massaged her forehead.
An earnest middle-aged Chinese man massaged my feet. He hit sweet spots, scary spots, sexy spots and incredibly tender spots that I had no idea my feet possessed. I moaned. I groaned. He dug his fingernail directly next to the top of my big toenail. Waves of energy, fear and something like ecstasy pulsated from my feet up into the rest of my body.
While I’d never experienced an orgasm before that was not self-induced, I think I might have just had my first one—all due to a Chinese man who had been introduced to me by the manager as Lao.
Lao stopped massaging. “Is too strong?”
“No it’s great. Thank you.” I gave him a thumbs up.
He nodded. “My English not good.”
“My Chinese is not good either.”
He hit some exceptionally tender areas on my ankles and legs. I assumed the most painful ones were reflex points that might actually make a difference in my immune system. Or, perhaps boost my co-ordination. At least that’s what I read about Chinese foot reflexology. And Lao at Airport Chinese Foot Massage was supposed to be one of the best healers in L.A.
Yes, I knew this was all a crapshoot. But at the very least the relaxation part of today’s therapy would do wonders for me. Soothe out the stresses from the past couple of days. Calm my worried mind.
When thuds and screams,
“I’d planned on Madison, but Whitewater was closer to home.”
“Lots of people go even farther away for college. Why did you want to be close to home?”
“Maybe I get homesick easily? Besides, you said you’re from around here, right? And you’re going to USCLA.”
“Point taken. What’s your major?”
“I keep waffling. I was thinking about pre-Law. But then didn’t think I’d be up for law school after.”
“That kind of kills the pre-Law thing.” He pulled into a turning lane and flipped on his signal.
“So I’m shooting for a B.S. and see where that leads me.”
Probably back to another surgical room and a cold, hard operating table.
“You’re thinking about transferring here in the fall, right? USCLA isn’t that easy to get into. But if you have a good GPA and applied right away—it could happen.”
“Nah. I’d miss the fall weather and Green Bay Packers’ football and frost on the windows and all the leaves turning gold, orange and red.”
“We have an awesome football team.”
“They’re not the Packers. I’m only here for the summer.”
* * *
Alex maneuvered his vehicle into a small parking space at a tiny strip mall. In the distance you could hear the planes rumble as they took off and landed at LAX, L.A.’s behemoth airport.
“Thanks.” I stepped down and out of the passenger door and walked toward the curb. “I’ll be about an hour. What are you going to do?”
He looked up at the signs topping the small shops assembled in the mini-mall. There was a Spot-Out Dry-Cleaner, a Fresh Water Station, Airport Chinese Foot Massage, Sergeant Washington’s Kung Fu Zone, Pete’s Chicago Pizzeria and a door with mysterious markings but no name.
“You’re not going to the Kung Fu place?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You Kung Fu-get about it.”
“Dork.” He laughed. “I like that in a pretty girl. I’m going to check it out.” He hopped out of the Jeep, jogged across the parking lot and up the concrete stairs to the martial arts studio located on the second level.
* * *
I laid back on a long, beat up reclining massage chair in a dark room with soft lights and heavy closed curtains. There were busts of Buddhas and Chinese lucky bamboo plants located on little plastic tables adjacent to ten massage chairs. My treatment area was far from private. Across the room from me an older Caucasian woman with helmet hair wearing large earphones lay with her feet in a tall bucket of water. Her eyes were closed but she smiled as a young Asian woman deftly massaged her forehead.
An earnest middle-aged Chinese man massaged my feet. He hit sweet spots, scary spots, sexy spots and incredibly tender spots that I had no idea my feet possessed. I moaned. I groaned. He dug his fingernail directly next to the top of my big toenail. Waves of energy, fear and something like ecstasy pulsated from my feet up into the rest of my body.
While I’d never experienced an orgasm before that was not self-induced, I think I might have just had my first one—all due to a Chinese man who had been introduced to me by the manager as Lao.
Lao stopped massaging. “Is too strong?”
“No it’s great. Thank you.” I gave him a thumbs up.
He nodded. “My English not good.”
“My Chinese is not good either.”
He hit some exceptionally tender areas on my ankles and legs. I assumed the most painful ones were reflex points that might actually make a difference in my immune system. Or, perhaps boost my co-ordination. At least that’s what I read about Chinese foot reflexology. And Lao at Airport Chinese Foot Massage was supposed to be one of the best healers in L.A.
Yes, I knew this was all a crapshoot. But at the very least the relaxation part of today’s therapy would do wonders for me. Soothe out the stresses from the past couple of days. Calm my worried mind.
When thuds and screams,
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