Rower's buttock and the bum massage ordeal!

The unfortunate incident of the bum massage. Have you ever had to ask anyone to massage your bum muscles? If you have I suggest that you do not admit it to anyone. Okay let me give you are ‘brief’ history. As many of you know, I take part in the fantastic sport of rowing. This means getting up early at the weekend, carrying heavy boats, bruising yourself and then competing against other teams of ladies in treacherous tsunami-like conditions. Sometimes the boats sink, other times mothers have to save their children from drowning and fellow team members fart when they shout ‘start’ at the beginning of the race (they said start not fart!). I am still disturbed that I actually inhaled someone else’s intestine at the beginning of a race. After training endlessly for hours, experiencing painful blisters and muscle burn - you endure it all for the rare occasion when you actually win… Yes win. The tingling feeling of winning and the elation that you have conquered the conditions to be number one is a motivator for many. I go for the cake. Please don’t tell my team that… There are loads of Victoria sponges and chocolate brownies – all homemade. I have the domestic capability of a squid with leprosy… So the delight of a light sponge is a dream. Sorry I deviated. There have been many times where we have come second but last week we ‘connected’ and gave it our all in conditions that would extract washing from the washing line and deposit it five miles down the road – usually on a cow’s head! So with all this in mind, for two races we gave it full power, so much so, my bow person, Sally, held back from vomiting on my back. We reached our limits, surpassed them and then pushed again… After, albeit elated, my left buttock was up in arms, it does not have any arms but if it did it would have been waving them! That miserable buttock felt like it was on fire… After a night of celebration, where one of my team nodded off on her pizza, the cox lost her voice and there were some random incidents of knicker borrowing and bra lending… I headed home for a night of grumbling buttock. I decided that I was suffering from a complaint called rower’s buttock. Since the muscles were tight, I thought I would be able to solve the buttock revolt by taking part in hot yoga. Surely a buttock would not feel hot if the surrounding temperature was higher than the buttock – that must be some law of physics… Unfortunately the bottom burn was not solved, so I called my local sports masseuse and requested a massage. I simply said I was a rower and needed a ‘rowing’ massage. That Tuesday I was all concerned at work. I mentioned the situation to the boys at work, they all suddenly experts in the art of bum massage. I suggested that they demonstrate on each other and suddenly their skills were not so refined or vocal. Boys! So that evening I ventured into the Sports massage shop and went up to the rather gorgeous and statuesque looking man and whispered. ‘Hi am here for the bum massage.’ He smiled politely. ‘I came for the personal trainining!’ Bugger! Could I pretend I was a personal trainer? The image of a tortoise retracting into its shell spun through my mind…Why does it always happen to me? I had just confessed that I was having a bum massage to a hot, male stranger. Yes it worked as an opening line but I don’t think such lines result in dates… Hmmm. Anyway, my Dutch masseuse emerged from the massage room. She was petite, blonde and looked quite fragile. I have noticed that this sort of person usually has the most vicious thumbs… ‘Are you the masseuse?’ She nodded. ‘You are the rower…’ I nodded. ‘Follow me…’ We went into the stark brown room that was decorated with wall charts of muscles. Pride of place, at the centre of the wall, was a pair of muscular buttocks. ‘That’s what I have…’ I said pointing. ‘Everyone has those,’ she responded with a straight face. I studied her and noticed she was smirking at her own joke. ‘So lie down then…’ I studied the massage table and removed my trousers. ‘I wore the largest knickers I own so that you do not have to see my bottom,’ I blurted. Admittedly they nearly reached my neck and resembled something that superman might wear over tights… I was being considerate. The expression of confusion washed over her face… ‘I am going to massage your Glutes not admire them…’ It was lucky that I hadn’t decorated them then! I was so embarrassed. I will not go into further details but the massage commenced. At this time I would like to cut to the image of a particularly vicious WWF wrestling match. Followed by Rocky being knocked down in one of his films and finally a milk jelly being hit by a large mallet. Anyway when I suffer from pain, I laugh. I don’t know why but the more painful it is the more I laugh. The woman was elbowing my left posterial cheek - I was laughing hysterically and it became contagious. The more I laughed the more she laughed. We had to call a time out to catch our breaths, that was before she attacked the second cheek. Admittedly the right side was not so painful but I would prefer you to imagine slapping a cheesecake with a table tennis bat, rolling a rolling pin of hard boiled eggs with shells on and finally popping giant bubble wrap with your bare feet… Pop! And then the massage was over. I had tears in my eyes, bruises on my bottom and a masseuse who was studying me whilst coughing through laughter…. We went out to reception to pay and I gave her a tip. ‘One pound for each butt cheek ,’ I said. If I had had a fat bottom, with the equivalent of double chins, I would have given her four pounds… She looked at me again and I noticed that the reception was quiet. ‘I was suffering from rower’s buttock and she has straightened my cheek out.’ I said with a gentle pat to my posterior. There was one of those arid silences. There was no room for a tumble-weed, more of a bit of dust attached to a clump of hair that could be found in the carpet…. Of course, those who were sitting in reception were the beautiful elite. One woman was the type to visit the gym wearing the smallest leopard skin outfits. No doubt shefound apt places to bend over to distract the men while they were grunting. The chap sitting by the door was rather fit and obviously an athlete. He was now staring at my straightened buttock…. Hmm how did I get him from there to my face? So with all this in mind… This is for the young ladies at the rowing club who asked me to write more about the random things that happen in my life… You know who you are… Clue - you speak with odd accents…. Moral of the story: Tight buttocks might sound like a good idea but are not terribly practical. Moral of the story two: when confessing to being in need of a bottom massage make sure you don’t tell the wrong person. Moral of the story three: Take six pairs of spare knickers to every rowing race because someone will at some point either lose, soil or end up with wet knickers….

Dangling a bottom on a stick!

Dangling a bottom on a stick.

It is days like this that I love coming to work. I do not mind sitting at the desk because I am provided with a rare insight into the male mind and how it perceives the world. While I construct the most enormously complex spreadsheet full of formulae, the simplistic nature of the male mind and its motivations are revealed.
I glanced over at the office cheeky, “is everything okay? You haven’t said anything rude today.”
“Oh, sorry... Just busy,” he replied.
Admittedly he did look completely harassed and immersed in numerous complex calculations and charts.
“I want the fun one back,” I replied.
“Okay I will just pop to the loo and then tell you about the perfect gym experience that I had last night,” he said. With that he stood up from the desk and stretched.
When he returned he had one of those cheeky glints in his eye.
“So... I was at the gym last night and running on the treadmill and some kind of planetary alignment must have taken place because the perfect motivation took place. You know what it was?”
I studied him, “naked can-can dancers?”
“Nope three Latino bottoms on the cross trainers in front of me,” he replied smugly.
I frowned, I had an image of dis-embodied bottoms residing on the foot placement pads of the cross-trainer. “I take it they had women attached to them...”
“Yes the most perfect women you could imagine. I don’t know why they even have to go to the gym,” he said entering the fantasy dazed state.
“Well surely that is why they are perfect. They go to the gym daily and maintain their bodies - so therefore are ideal. If they didn’t go and ate pies they would probably look very different,” I replied
“Chicken and egg,” he said.
“So regarding these women’s bottoms... I sense that there is some kind of bottom hierarchy / measure to gauge the perfection of a bottom.”
“There are three types,” he replied.
Surely there had to be more than three types of bottom. Still I did not butt into the bottom flow.
“There is the Latino bottom, which is the ultimate in bottom. It is full, voluptuous and firm. There is plenty of meat on it. There is the Afro-Caribbean bottom. A similar kind of bottom, full, solid and beautiful and then there is the ‘other,’” he said with a smile.
There was a silence while I waited for his bottom measure elaboration / justification.
“The other comprises of all manner of bottom. You have the small Asian, the American cheerleader and many others. Three categories are more than enough for men to determine where something sits in terms of bottom,” he said with a definite nod.

I had honestly never considered a bottom hierarchy before. The office cheeky had changed my perception of the common bottom. “Okay what about men then?”
“There are two types: hairy and non hairy.”
How fair was that? There had to be more bottom categories for men.
“So tell me more about your motivation then,” I said allowing the male bottom hierarchy to churn in the back of my mind.
“Well being mesmerised by the bouncing bottoms, I realised I could divide my run into targets. When I achieved the first couple of kilometres I got the first one. The thought of her and her bottom kept me running. Then when I hit the second goal I was rewarded with the second beautiful bottom.”
I studied him; it was the office cheeky.... “You were rewarded with both weren’t you?”
He smiled a cheeky grin, “yep! Then when I got to the third...”
“Okay... I kind of get it...” I said before a full visual elaboration took place.
“The fantasy was fantastic... It worked really well apart from when I was running for the third posterial reward... Unfortunately the three of them finished training. I was so disappointed,” he said sadly.
“And let me guess an overly sweaty man arrived in a thong.”
“No... But it was a sad case. I ran faster to try and catch them,” he replied.
“You ran faster on a stationary treadmill to try and chase the Latino ladies?” I asked.
“Metaphorically yes. In my mind I ran through the treadmill and caught them all! It was amazing!”
“I think it would have been better if Mr sweaty and his white t-shirt had appeared. Or three flabby bottoms wobbled in front of you,” I said imagining it.
“Who is Mr Sweaty?”
“You have never heard of Mr Sweaty?”
He shook his head with a frown.
“He basically floods the area with sweat whenever he exercises. He is amazing. We once did an abs class and he sweated so hard that he created a sweat puddle. When he walked off he turned to us and said you know you have had a good work out when you have sweated. He often wears a white t-shirt which sticks to his hairy back. The hair sometimes makes patterns according to how he has been laying.”
“That is gross!” replied Office cheeky.
“He seems quite proud of it,” I replied.
Mr cheeky seemed absorbed by something.
“Okay what’s going on? Your eyes are wiggling... “I said.
“I am thinking... So how come some women wear lots of make- up to the gym and others don’t?” he asked seriously. Was there some kind of pattern?
“I have no real clue. Although my friend was saying about two women she saw at the gym. They were dressed in the smallest clothing, had done their hair and wore full evening make-up. They had rather pert parts and displayed braless- lycra-clad breastage. After they had posed around the gym she heard the pair of them in the stretching room saying ‘God men just stare all the time. They are such pervs. It really puts you off going to the gym!’”
The office cheeky looked dumbfounded, “but they are dressed like that – what do they expect? Men are visual! It is their instinct to look!”
He was right.
“As I said before men spend the majority of their time imagining women naked,” he said drifting into the glazed eye look.
“Yes I had a question about that... What even fat ones?” I said.
He shook his head and appeared to have a smell under his nose. “No they are invisible. They become an extension to a wall or a pillar. We just don’t see them. In fact we selectively filter to enable maximum naked fantasy of hottyness,” he said.
I shook my head, “that is not nice.”
“It is reality and truth... If a person wants to be imagined naked – make it nice for the fantasiser – I say!” he replied.
For a moment the pair of us sat in contemplation. I wondered how women perceived men at the gym. They grunted, a few posed but the majority appeared to exercise. In the meantime it was like a mental nudist camp for the men. How could the gym dynamic be sooo different for men and women?
The office hotty trotted past so I waved her over. “Do you go to the gym?”
“No,” she said.
“If you went to the gym would you wear make-up?”
“Probably,” she replied honestly.
“Do you know any women who wear make-up to the gym?” asked the office cheeky.
“Oh yes... One girl I know wears make-up and revealing clothing but that was because she fancied the instructor,” she replied
“Did it work?”
“Yes an escapee nipple resulted in her having a date and a cheeky kiss,” she said matter of factly.
Office cheeky and I gave each other a look. So by flashing your nipples at the gym instructor a person could get a date. I must have been bought up in a different era. It seemed the learnings I had had through my life had missed out that key fact. It was the same as the not running when taking part in a game of kiss chase. Hmmm maybe the gym was another equivalent to kiss chase in the exercise dynamic.
“The gym must attract two types – those who pose and those who actually want to exercise. Gym dating...” she said thinking about the make-up conundrum.
“Actually I was always bemused by a girl who used to come to the gym wearing Lycra with a leopard skin thong over the top. She used to saunter around the gym, stretch and bend over in front of the grunting men lifting weights. Suddenly it makes sense,” I said.
“Did they grunt louder went she bent over?” asked the office hotty.
“Yes much louder. Actually one time, at the same gym, one of the lycra-clad bending-over girls distracted a man on a treadmill who shot off the back and landed on my lap on the bike. It was quite funny really,” I said remembering how embarrassed the poor chap was.
“Really?”
The pair shook their heads.
“So how do you measure a man’s bottom? I mean in terms of pertness in the bottom hierarchy?” I asked the office hotty.
“Well there is peachy and not...”
“There must be more... Men have Latino, Afro-Caribbean and other for women,” I said.
“Other?” said with a bemused look.
“All the other categories,” I said.
“Let me just say there are lots of lovely bottoms in the ‘other’ category,” said the office cheeky.
“I think there are buns of steel, flat bottom and peachy,” I said thoughtfully considering the male bottom hierarchy.
The office hotty agreed. “I am not into the flat bottom. Just the peachy,” she said.
“There must be women who are specifically attracted to the flat bottom kind,” I said.
We all looked at each other. Was a woman attracted to a certain kind of bottom? What would determine that? It seemed the office hotty had developed a selective bottom filtration system. I had a tendency towards buns of steel and the walnut cracking kind. It seemed to tally in with the fact that I was fitness obsessed. She was curvaceous and had an attraction to a peachy bottom. I had never considered bottom hierarchy in the survival psyche. Nor had I realised that dangling a bottom on a stick was a key motivator for the male exerciser. I knew that sex was a motivator but I had one final question.”
“So if we created a man only gym with films of female bottoms playing repetition would the men get fit?”
“No. It isn’t real. You need the bouncing action to be real and close. That way we will fantasise about chasing it. It is all about the display and the potential.... It stops the pain in the limbs. You can ache like hell but you will keep chasing,” he said.
Hmmm. I smiled to myself.
“What happens if you get overly excited?” I asked.
“The treadmill will take care of that and eject you!”
I had never considered this before... I had never considered men running whilst excited... Was that possible? So I wrote on a pad “Can a man with an excited sausage run?” and handed it to the office comedian and the office cheeky.
Answer: ‘yes – when I was at school we had a swimming race. One of the kids had that same problem, jumped in the pool and won the race,’ said the office comedian.
I wonder whether he used it as a propeller....
Although, according to the office cheeky, there was more to it...
“I think I should explain...” he said thoughtfully. “There is a self safety process built in my system, it only needs a starting point where everything is calm before getting on the treadmill.... As a person gets more excited, the hope of getting the incentive grows, so you run faster putting all the extra blood to better use. Until that person thinks some more, gets more excited, runs faster, blood circulates ... And there you go a safety loop which is also the exercise driver ... and whole point behind the theory. Fantasy drives the physical!”
It made perfect sense.
“So what if a person is already het up?”
“Well that could prove sticky... If a person is already excited, then they will never start running until they take care of business manually. Or if they are half man and half amazing they will get the incentive to take care of business for them unfortunately the running becomes redundant.”
I was a little confused.
“So....”
“To answer your question regarding the sausage - no in all possible scenarios ... No running with a live hotdog,” he said.
How come the office comedian believed a person could run with an inflated extra leg and office cheeky was stumped by a hot dog in motion?

“But he says that his friend won a swimming competition whilst in a state of sausage excitement,” I replied.
The office cheeky rolled his eyes, “Water is a completely different medium with ,naturally, its own set of rules and theories ...”
I should have known!
In summary:
It seemed that motivation was more than just excitement. It seemed the simple suggestion that caused the lower regions to twitch could heighten a performance. But what did that mean? Did it mean that a person’s drive was stimulated by the potential physical reward? Was it primeval? Or was there something paramount that I was missing? Why were women so different? A woman would not necessarily run faster on a treadmill if three hot men were in front of her. If they were behind her she might run faster... Or she might slow down if she had been aware of the ideal strategy in kiss chase! Obviously these thoughts have distracted me. If you have answers to this conundrum I would love to know!
So to the morals of the story...
1) Place a large bottom on a stick to motivate a man to get fit.
2) Never be offended if your bottom falls into the other category.
3) Never run with an inflated hotdog unless you have the capability to use it as a propeller to win a swimming race.

Since the discussions Mr Cheeky has since informed that using a male appendage is unwise because it potentially could take the swimmer out of the water - kind of like a helicopter. "It should be more of a fin!" he said.

SATURDAY NIGHT BOTTOM MESMERISATION AND DAD DANCING!

Saturday night, hypnotic buttock motion and the role of dad dancing to impress women.
Saturday night, as with all Saturday nights, is the opportunity to venture into the human alcohol imbued jungle. It is the prime time to watch the mating techniques of numerous inebriated human animals. Large gestures, exaggerated hip motions and puffed out chests are just a few of the techniques used to attract attention. One of the major techniques in Bournemouth is ridiculous fancy dress outfits. When I say fancy dress I do not mean a ‘fancy’ dress as in a nice evening dress. Instead large groups of men (the stag night) can be witness dressed as babies, large items of fruit or super heroes. These are directly proportionate to hen parties who are dressed as policewomen, nurses or pirates. There are obviously variations on these themes but the women wear items that are revealing, a bit rude and are suggestive. In the opposite faction the men dress as fruit. I have not determined the ultimate psychology behind this, but essentially the men go for phallic / heroes. And the women go for ‘have some of this big boy!”
With all the above in mind, Saturday night is the prime opportunity to take part in a human safari. It is dangerous, there are conflicts and there are passing outs in the street. Survival of the fittest is demonstrated by the winning Alpha male escorting the most attractive female in the direction of a taxi. Of course there are those who are unsuccessful in the mating escapades. The women are often found collapsed in piles outside bars with opportunist men attempting to prize them off the pavement. Alternatively you find those who resort to stuffing chips and kebabs in their faces with far too much Chilly sauce as a consolidation prize.

So this brings me to the dance floor. The dance floor is the prime place for demonstration of sexual prowess. With low lights, alcohol and loud music this is the prime place to appear attractive without actually being attractive. The constant flashing of lights and intoxication evolves beyond beer goggles into cocktail glasses! No one has to talk; they just need to demonstrate their sexual prowess by dancing.
In terms of dance, or that which is defined as dance, - the pointing at of genitalia, waving at genitalia or simulating certain motions with your best friend or any passer-by who is not offended by the randy-dog leg grabbing technique appears in abundance. On this particular evening a group of stags, wearing baby attire, were in full testicular swing. Dad dancing extraordinaire was being demonstrated in all directions and genitalia thrusting filled the dance floor. As the evening hotted up, the men attempted to out thrust each other until two blondes arrived on the dance floor. That was when things became interesting and best friends stopped being best friends and survival of the fittest/alpha-malism competition was on!
The two blondes, wearing their best animal patterned dresses, rotated their hips and hypnotised. The men did not stand a chance. In that moment I understood that the word hypnotism may have originated from such hip motion because it was actually hypnotic (Hip – notic)
My fellow safari observer, who was male, was transfixed by the motion too.
“Does that mesmerize?” I asked turning to him.
The answer was obvious; his eyes were fixed on the ‘said’ bottom. He could barely speak and his head motioned in exactly way as the hypnotic bottom. Her motion reminded me of a cobra and how it subtly motioned until its prey was completely dazed and then it would attack. Strangely my fellow safari observer could hardly string a sentence together either. In the meantime, I considered how the application of the sound of jungle drums to would work well accompany the blonde bottom undulation.
“It is really interesting… “ he finally said choking on his words. “I never realised a bottom actually hypnotised,” he said. It is really nice to watch…” he said dreamily.
It was then that the competition increased. A group of hens arrived in the arena dressed as police women. They carried truncheons and handcuffs. The invasion changed the dynamic of the room and the men scattered and were confused. Rather than just focus on the blondes they thought they could go for all of them and work by numbers. That never works and men never really seem to learn that.
As soon as the competition arrived, the animal pattern wearing blondes increased their rate of bottom mesmerisation. The men increased their thrusting but the hens were accosting the thrusting men. It was like the Serengeti crossing. All manner of species were diving into the water and some of them were going to be picked off by the alligators. The men were scattered, there was no group dynamic or strategy. It was carnage. The men were confused which did they go for? Did they accept the easy pickings in terms of hen party versus the prize of the hypnotic bottom owners? The competition was rife. Hen’s versus the cobras. The men could not think because the blood had been dispersed between the two brains and all they could do is thrust their parts. It was genitila testicular war!
Of course, the blondes had a strategy. As soon as the men were distracted, they pulled out the ultimate male-attention attracting card. They danced closely with each other and kissed each other on the cheek. It was at that moment a ‘matrix’-like moment took place. All the men froze, the hens features distorted, they had been out-alpha-femaled… The male attention had shifted and the hens were now desperate. And what happened? It was a fraught moment and the hens had to get the attention back. The hens glanced at each other and to their leader. Someone had to do something and do it quickly. They could not repeat what the blondes were doing so there was one thing for it. The leader of the hens lifted her top and showed off a pair of massive bazookas. Bang! The men did not know where to look. Two brains not enough blood. Two eyes not enough vision. Mental overload took place and the men folded. They reverted to what they knew and all adopted their worst dad dancing. No one was impressed and the blondes left the dance floor.
Later that evening my fellow safari observer and I walked past a number of kebab shops. The stag night were in there stuffing consolidation. The blondes were being escorted to taxis by two very masculine opportunist and the hen night were in a pile outside the bar laughing hysterically. Men were attempting to help them up and legs were flaying.
Moral of the story: if you are a man focus on one woman and go for it. Scattering your mind will scatter your options which will result in your evening ending in chips and kebab.
Moral of the story two – hypnotising the room with the bottom can only be achieved successfully if there is not hen-like competition. Too much bottom mesmerisation results in dad dancing. It is the default for the drunken male.
Moral of the story three – do not dad dance even if your instinct drives you to. Do not thrust your pelvis at your friends to gain attention. I suggest you spot potential bottom mesmerisers early on and make your move before the rest of them room are transfixed by an undulating bottom.

NOTE: My fellow safari observer mentioned something very profound which may well provided insight. When a person is drunk and talks to someone sober, the sober person never understands. Yet when two drunken people talk to each other – they always understand! The language of inebriation seems to be exclusive to those who are wasted.