No! Not the screwed up exit again!

OK, like, forever ago, I was dating this guy who I had to dump.  It was sort of mandatory, what 'cause he told me he'd slept with his old girlfriend while he was dating me.  And he tells me this outside my building, when he picks me up for a date.  So, I give him a little time to explain, decide that his explanation is woefully inadequate, and get up.  I walk to the security gate, stick my key in the lock and ... it won't open.  You kinda have to jiggle the key to make the gate unlock, and 45 seconds of key-jiggling totally ruined the dramatic exit.

Now, today, I went and (as what I'd thought would be a treat for myself) got a massage.  I hadn't been to the "touchy feely" massage place in a number of months, and might have forgotten why.  I remembered now.  While a lot of their massage techs are pretty good, you never know which one you're going to get, and one of them is pretty rough.  Last time I got a massage from him, I hurt for days.  So, tonight, who greets me at the door but Abusive Masseur.

And he tells me before we start that he's going to do a nice, relaxing, pleasant massage.  And I think, "yeah, that'd be nice."

And then he proceeds to torture me.  I can actually go pretty far on the "exactly how much pressure do you want me to use?" scale.  But dude was pushing down on the tight spots really hard.  With all his body weight.  I could feel his hands shaking from all the pressure.  And, of course, this hurt. 

At first I thought he'd respond to the Universal Signs That You're Hurting Me:  things like gasping or trying to wriggle away from him.  When this didn't work, I moved on to the less-open-to-misinterpretation, "Ow."

His response was, "Yes, I know."  Said, soothingly, like to a little kid complaining about a shot.

You know?  Well, maybe you should stop then.  Because I'm the one paying you.  (Actually, I'm the one who pre-paid you.  But still.  Me: client; You: dude I hired.  Work with me, here.)

Gets to the point where he turns me over and asks how I'm doing.  I say something like, "Not too well," and ask if he's planning on "beating me up on this side, too."

He says, "Aw.  I know it hurts." 

Again, thanks for sharing that knowledge.  How about acting on it?

He puts a hot rock on my chest, and starts attacking my legs.  I think that maybe I can brain him with the rock and make a quick getaway before he realizes what's hit him.

Pretty much wherever he "massages" me, he's going very deep.  He is, probably, actually getting the knots out, but I can't really tell because of the searing pain shooting down my arms and legs.  This lacks those pleasant, relaxing qualities he'd spoken of earlier.  I really consider just throwing off the damn sheet and getting the hell out of there, although how to do this without flashing him is a bit of a problem.  (The idea that I should have verbally kicked him out doesn't come to me until much later.)

The package I've prepaid comes with a "cold stone facial" at the end, where they lightly rub cold stones on your face.  I quite like the feeling (you can almost sense your little pores closing up).  So, on the theory that there isn't much left of me to beat up, I figure I'll stick it out till the cold stone part.  (Because he can't find a way to screw that up.)

He does, in fact, find a way to screw that up.  By omitting it entirely.  One minute, he's bending my feet in some awkward position (which he finally stopped on my direction, "Don't do that!" -- like I need to set my recurrent ankle injury off again), and next thing I know, he's all, "OK, take your time getting up."

He walks out.  I burst into tears.  Furious at myself for sitting there and actually letting this dickwad cause me pain for an hour, and not even getting the cold stone thing I'd been promised.  I get up.  I decide there's no way on this earth I'm going to tip the SOB.  I put my clothes on, open the door, and head straight for the front door to the shop.  It's down a flight of stairs, and he calls after me, "Are you ok?"

No.  No, I'm not.  I'm only about three steps from the door (the prospect of the perfect exit tantalizingly close) and I turn back to him and say, in what I hope is a clear, calm voice (but I know isn't), "When your client says you're hurting her, the proper response isn't to say, 'I know' and keep doing it."  I turn back down the stairs, reach for the door knob and --

-- it's locked!  The damn thing is locked!  Instant flashback to when I dumped that guy and I couldn't get the gate open.  Notagain!  I can't tell whether it's the deadbolt or just one of those turny-things in the doorknob that's the problem, and I start wildly twisting them both in the hopes I'll strike upon the right combination before the moment is gone.

And then, the moron comes to my rescue -- at least, the rescue of my exit.  He starts talking to me again.  "Just so you know:  I wasn't using a lot of pressure.  You're just very sensitive.  And the reason you're upset is --"  SLAM.

Victory is mine!