I admit it. I'm not really a massage person. This could be a Midwestern thing, but generally, if I'm naked and you're touching me and we've never met before, well, you've got some explaining to do.

Still, about a year ago, I was given a gift certificate to one of the Chinese foot massage parlors that have been spreading across the city like a smoggy haze. I'd never been before, but I had the certificate and it was about to expire. I like waste even less than I like being touched by strange people in smocks. And it's only feet, right? So I go in and politely ask for the one hour reflexology.

Behind me a middle aged man appears and motions for me to follow him. He's the only man in an entire salon full of women. Women customers, women receptionists, women manicurists. He takes me all the way to the back of the salon, past the nail stations and foot soak baths, past the bathrooms and break room, to a small room with a chair that lies all the way back. If there are lights, he doesn't turn them on.

He goes away and comes back. Goes away and comes back. He speaks to me here and there, but my Chinese is limited to restaurant menus. I find myself thinking one of those Star Trek universal translators would come in handy.

Eventually, he comes back with what I'm pretty sure is a garment of some kind, hands it to me and then stands behind a black curtain. Several things seem to be wrong. First, I'd come in for a foot massage. To a foot massage parlor. I'd worn shorts for the occasion, which seemed to be more than enough nudity. Then there was the garment itself. Hand to God, I did not know what combination of body parts it was supposed to cover. If you took seven or eight yards of satin and sewed it into a tube, you'd have this thing. Could've been a skirt. Could've been a sleeveless dress. For an elephant. At just over a hundred pounds soaking wet, there was no part of me big enough to hold that up no matter where I put it.

As I'd shown up for the foot massage, had clearly and distinctly used the words "foot massage," I decide it's a skirt. Skirts go on legs and legs are close to feet, right? Out from behind the curtain, my masseur is unsatisfied. He gestures to my shirt. Again my Chinese is about as good as my Klingon, but I'm pretty sure he wants me to take it off.

Okay, shirt nowhere near feet. Plus, I'm holding up the tubey thing with one hand. If I let go, to say, take off my shirt, I would be wearing almost nothing at all, which seems a bit much for a foot massage. He's insistent, and a very small part of my brain begins to wonder if perhaps we've had the misunderstanding to end all misunderstandings.

The masseur and I compromise. I take off my button-down blouse, but I'm keeping the underlying camisole on. He goes out again, and this time comes back with a kneeling massage chair, grabs my arm and steers me onto it. I am beyond confused. We are still nowhere near my feet. He grabs a bottle of oil and squirts it down my back. Things have clearly gone awry.

He begins digging into my shoulders with his knuckles, putting all his weight and strength into it. I try to convince myself it's relaxing, that it feels good, that it's helpful. I fail miserably. It's like getting the business end of a meat tenderizer. Sure, I'm in pain, but I've got that easy-to-chew quality.

He moves down my arms, which is slightly better.

"Okay," I tell myself. "That's not so bad. That's fine. I can work with - Jesus Holy Mother of God."

He grabs each one of my fingers by the tip and yanks back, popping all my knuckles at once. Kathy Bates's character in Misery could've learned something from this guy.

He starts working his way back up my arms to my neck. By this time, I'm strung out, nervous and twitchy. Paralyzation begins to feel like a serious possibility, and I'm not even wearing pants.

Shit.

I consider fleeing but the Satin Tube of Death is a serious handicap. It's going to affect my speed. I might not make it before he tackles me and goes at my ankles with a ball-peen hammer.

He pulls me up out of the massage chair and pushes me into the reclining one. He grabs one of my feet, and I should feel relieved. Feet! We have gotten to the feet! But seriously? Who the hell cares at that point? I'm like a lab rat that's gotten the bad end of the electrode a few too many times. The most we can reasonably hope for is that I can control the whimpering.

When he finishes, I squeeze my oily, pink feet back into my flip flops, grab my pants and squish-squish-squish out the door. I'm having trouble turning my neck. "I knew it," I think to myself. "I knew it. Fear the people in the smocks! Fear them!"