But let me assure you-a lot has happened in the gray area between those two extremes. My style isn’t clinical or posh à la Massage Envy or the spa at the Four Seasons nor is it the kind of thing you’d find behind a green door in some alleyway near Stockton and Clay. Things get a little dirty in the final paragraph of this story, if you want to scroll ahead in a frenzied quest for carnal titilation. I’ve been a certified massage therapist for 10 years now, and I have-literally and figuratively-held the pulse of a steaming cross section of San Franciscans. What would my parents think? Could I make a living? Clients covered in oceans of body hair-could I deal with stuff like that? Wallowing in a sordid stew of cubicle life and gin-drenched aimlessness, I decided to leave it all and go to massage school.
