I have a terrifically appointed home office, complete with a “real” writer’s desk that features an ergonomically-correct lap-height keyboard tray. My files are all within convenient reach, along with not one but two phones (one cordless, one speakerphone) and a tasteful cup that holds a colorful assortment of writing implements. Nevertheless, thanks to the marvels of modern technology—namely, wireless internet connection—most days find me snuggled into the far corner of my leather living room club chair, contorted into a miserable half bend in order to reach my laptop on the too-small side table next to it. Which is why yesterday I found myself driving aimlessly about town, searching for a walk-in massage place. I spot the neon “Thai Massage $42/hour!” sign and (to the obvious annoyance of the guy behind me) slam on my breaks just in time to make the turn into the parking lot. I admit to being just the tiniest bit disappointed when I am introduced to my masseuse, Tami (which I am guessing was not the name her parents chose for her). Tami is probably 4’ 10” and might weigh 90 pounds if she were dripping wet and holding a stack of phone books. I’m in pretty serious discomfort here, and right now I want someone who can hurt me. Tami doesn’t look like she could press the wrinkles out of a shirt with a piping-hot iron. Ten minutes later, I’m sprawled naked on an unfamiliar table, marveling for not the first time how mistaken first impressions can be. Tami is on the table on top of me, straddling the backs of my thighs and kneading my ass-cheeks as if they were a pair of day-old balls of pizza dough. I am in heaven. Here’s everything I know about Tami: As far as I can tell, she speaks two words of English (which sound a lot like “harda?” and “softa?”), and she has impossibly small, beautiful feet that apparently have recently been pedicured. It occurs to me how odd this is—stripping down and being caressed by a total stranger within moments of meeting, in exchange for money, no less! I wonder if I’d recognize her if she were in line behind me at Starbucks tomorrow, or if it would be awkward. Then I realize I couldn’t care less. When it’s over, I tip Tami $20 and she looks as if she wants to kiss me. Which clearly would be taking the whole payment-for-pleasure thing a little too far.