Hippie massage

So, I decided to treat myself to a massage. I got a good deal on one, so I went someplace I'd never been. As soon as I walk up, to this old house in downtown Springfield, I was wary. I opened to door to find a long haired, pierced man greeting me "Welcome, you must be Rhiannon!" (I felt like he was going to say "Welcome to my lair! No one knows you're here!" and laugh maniacally). I immediately regretted my decision, but there was no going back at this point. He took me upstairs, to what he called "The Pleasure Room". At this point, I almost texted Pete to tell him where I was just in case. I went through the routine and laid on the table. He began, and it wasn't too bad, except for the fact that as he was greasing me up with his homemade oils, I couldn't stop staring at his dirty old tennis shoes. On his stereo, he was playing the usual relaxing music, peppered with an odd children's lullaby every now and then, which was interesting. He pushed so hard on my back I was clenching my teeth and wondering how much longer I had. After the LONG hour was over, he said "This is the end of your massage" (and I expected him to ask if I wanted a "happy ending") then he said "take your time getting up, I'll be downstairs". As soon as he was out of sight, I jumped off the table like it was on fire and put my clothes on as fast as possible and got out of there. I've never had a massage from a man before, and this experience has completely ruled it out for any reputable man at a reputable spa in the future. I was so glad to be done. I'm sure he was a nice man, but I will not be visiting him again! I immediately followed that up with a pedicure at a much more mainstream chinese nail salon, where no one speaks English and they don't play creepy children's lullabies while greasing me up.