Comparable

If anyone walked into the poker room before noon, they would ask themselves if they accidentally walked into a bingo hall instead. There are SO many old men there it is isn’t funny… or it is because old men can be funny.

Many of them are war veterans of this or that war. At least once a day I hear them say “I’m too old” or “My bones couldn’t handle a massage” or whatever. I know the excuses and I smile nicely and walk on.

Recently however, I had an influx of men who fought in ‘Nam. And they LOVE to tell me that they had a massage once… over in some asian country where the girls give REALLY GOOD massages.

Old men “I fought in ‘Nam. I was stationed at one point in Thailand. I definitely got massages there. They were only a few bucks too. Great massages”

Me “But I doubt we give the same type of massages”

Old men “No honey, I hope not! Haha. and if my wife ever found out…”

Thank you old men for comparing my massages to those of hookers in thailand.

Stinky people

People who gamble seriously take gambling serious. As mentioned, I see people gambling not just $5 bets.. $500 bets on a regular basis.

In the poker room, players will sit there for hours upon hours playing cards and losing their money (and then winning it back and then losing it again, etc). I started my shift around 10 am and immediately got a massage. There was a particularly ghetto guy playing at Table 14 across from my massage. His friend was playing there as well. His friend mentioned he has to get back home to get his kid and since he was the sober of them, they needed to leave in an hour. Ghetto guy agreed and went back to singing especially loud and off key to the pure enjoyment of the entire table. I’m still a bit tired so I encourage this character by laughing a few times at his incredible (horrible) singing abilities. At some point I suppose he starts to notice because he starts to lower his glasses at me and smile.MMmmmmm, nothing turns a girl on like gold-framed teeth. He loses a few hands, wins a few hands, then tells his friend to F*** off when it’s time to leave. He can find his own damn ride home! He’s a grown-ass man who is capable of getting a taxi! (Mind you he lives 125+ miles away).

After I finish my massage, I go on break. When I come back, a supervisor asked for me to head to table 14. I approach the table hoping it was my previous client again but alas and alack! it is Ghetto guy requesting me! He doesn’t really want a massage though, he says as he leans in close. He wants to get to know me because I am a beautiful girl and he knows I’m working so this is how he decides to wooooooo me. The little darling says he’ll pay for 5 minutes of massage (That would be $10, I see about $4 of that, and hope I get a tip) but he doesn’t want me to massage him… he just wants me to touch him. And, baby, does he smell gooooooood!  Like an expired pack of cigarettes all smoked at once with a slight undertone of sweat mingling with a hint of vodka red bull.
Like any good therapist, I use my Peppermint & Lavender scented Badger Balm (from Cracker Barrel, mind you!) on his neck immediately. About two minutes later he turns around and pushes me away: “You have this amazing power to make me feel really high right now. I’m too high for this to play and drunk. I’ll call you back over to get to know you a bit better later. Here’s the money plus a nice tip.” (Total: $15 for 2 minutes.. Meh, I’ll take it)

Not too long later (about 5 hours) I come back around offering massage and the guy takes off his glasses and stands up. He is obviously about to be dramatic and he’s halting the game.

He says “You. Miss Shannon. You rubbed that massage shit on me.”

I say “It’s actually not shit, it’s balm. It’s a lavender and peppermint scent.”

He says “Well I prefer my Burberry more better”

I say “More better huh? Well that’s grammatically correct!”

He says “You talkin shit?”

I say “No sir, I talk truth.”

While the table laughs at my friendly banter and his outraged responses, he accidentally throws some money into the pot and then realizes he wasn’t supposed to do that. His accidental raise caused him to accidentally start swearing toward me and I walked away shaking my head.

Luckily it was my last day there so I didn’t have to worry about the response. . . He was smell and drunk anyway. For shits and giggles (which I already had at this guys expense) I decided to google how much a cab ride would be for this guy to go home:

~$330

🙂 I guess the taxi driver gets the last laugh.

T&A

I started my shift at 10am. I didn’t get 10 minutes into my shift before I got a massage. This guy is a regular of mine and requested only 10 minutes. So I work on his shoulders and neck as per usual.

I hear snickering to my left so I look. Next to my regular is a wasted guy. I don’t mean drunk.. I mean SHWASTED. (Apparently this guy had been drinking at the casino since 6am, and before that he was out at a strip club since 10pm the night before.) I ask what he finds so funny and he mutters something about the massage. I ignore him and wrap up the massage I’m doing.

[I’ve decided to call his guy “Walter”.. because it sounds like “wasted”]

Walter asks to get a massage before I moved on. So I start out with 10 minutes on his back. He turns around in the wasted fashion that most men do: face down, eyes immediately to my chest. He stares at my chest for a minute and says ‘I’d like a hand massage instead’ ooookaayyy? So I work on his hands and he continues to stare at my chest. Occasionally he looks up to play his hand at blackjack or to remark loudly to the other players. This continues for about an hour and a half: hand massage, other hand massage, neck massage, back to the hand massage.
Walter refuses to let me leave which is fine because I get paid by the minute and as long as I’m working, I’m getting paid. After he’s cut off by the waitress his drunk ass decided to make a sweet confession:
“I’m only getting a hand massage so I can stare at your tits.”
*Sigh* Typical douchebag. But to my rescue comes the ENTIRE table. My regular stands up and says ‘If you talk to her like that, there’s going to be trouble.” The rest of the table agrees and rips him a new one with profanities I don’t feel like going into.

He apologizes, I finish the massage and get paid (luckily) and move on. A couple hours later I see him at another pit and he asks to get more massage. This time he’s being a little more respectful (sober, respectful, same thing) and has me work on his back. Something happens during one of the hands and the guy becomes livid. He yells at the dealer and pit manager and stands up. He goes to walk off and I inform him he hasn’t paid me. He turns around and hands me whatever chips he has left and storms off. To end the story, I’ll let ya know I made bank that day. 🙂

To this day, some of the people from that table will stop me for a hand massage.

FYI: the joke gets old.

What am I?

What am I?

I’ve been informed that I have what others call a “unique” look. Although my hair color changes as often as the weather, my features stay relatively the same. I am often asked “What are you?” The most often asked is Italian. While I may “look” Italian (i really dont think i do) the only thing Italian is my stomach’s soul.

On an average night at the casino, I get asked once what I am. And I make them guess until they realize they never will guess correctly.

On one particularly fun-filled evening, a gentleman (ha!) who I can only describe as “SHWASTED” decided to ask me that question.

 

Man: What are you?
Me: A Massage Therapist
Man: No, but what ARE you?

Me: Awesome?
Man: Are you Italian?
Me: Oh. Nope. Not Italian.
Man: Greek?
Me: Nope.
Man: Ukranian?
Me: What? No!
Man: Jewish?
Me: Jewish is not listed as a country, sir.

 

For future reference, I’m a New York South African from Florida. Unique, indeed.

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