Who Motivates The Motivator? “Marketing Muscle” (Disgruntled Personal Trainer Stories)

“I got a girl for you—you like her.”

The older Asian lady said to me as I waited to get a massage. I was given a scant towel that was more like an enlarged washcloth and instructed to remove all of my clothes and go into the specified room; and to put my belongings in a makeshift drawer. I did not trust putting my belongings (like wallet, cell phone and keys) there because, one, I am street smart and two; they could be keeping the money separate and monitoring the room—maybe for ‘personal’ services. I hid my belongings in an opening under a separate part of the massage table.
I didn’t really get a good glimpse of the woman doing my massage because of the darkness of the room, but I could see the outline of her body. Nothing stood out—except for the fact that the skin on her hands was smooth and she had a strong grip.

As I lay practically naked face up on the massage table, she fumbled and flipped the towel about my family jewels as if she were a matador coaxing a bull. Only the red cape was the towel and my cock was the bull—she knew what she was doing.
She squirted oil out of a generic bottle that made the sound that watery mustard expelled from French’s brand yellow bottle makes. She spoke to me as she squirted oil and rubbed me in different places on my body.

“You stay in Vegas how long?”
She asked.

“For about three days.”
I replied.

“You like here?”

“It’s cool, but I’m not much of a gambler, but I love to drink–”

The feeling of her hand gliding from my shoulder to just under my pectoral muscle sparked something in me a little.

“Mmm Hmm..”
She noted.

“ ‘Mmm Hmm’ what?”

“You mah-su so tense—wah’ you do?”

“Huh?”

“You job, wah you do?”

“Oh, I do personal training.”

“You personal trainer?”

“Yeah.”

“Den how cahm you mah-su no go pak-pak.. pak-pak?”

She asked putting her hands on different sections of my abdomen. When I put together what she said, I was immediately turned the fuck off. She was dumbfounded that I had a job as a personal trainer but I was not super ripped and my “mah-su” (the way she said “muscle”) did not make a symmetrical 6 to 8 pack formation. This massage parlor bitch didn’t feel I looked the part of a personal trainer.

Instead of try to explain that one doesn’t have to be a bodybuilder to do personal training, the thought crossed my mind to ask her “do you suck cock?” to which she probably would have been offended that I would assume that because she is a fobby (“FOBy” or “Fresh Off the Boat-y”) Asian working a massage parlor in Vegas that she would suck my cock. But even cock suckers don’t like to be called ‘cocksuckers’. So I kept my mouth shut; besides, she was not without reason to express that thought. What I lacked was ‘Marketing Muscle’.

Marketing Muscle, in this case, means that I didn’t “look the part” of my profession. Considering that people from Southern California, one of the most superficial areas in the United States, party in Vegas, she may have come across some super-ripped dudes. Not to mention Vegas is a big fight city, so she could have caressed the cocks of Chris Koscheck and Co.

Because of the glamorization of personal training in the media, they never highlight the type of niche I was in, which was corrective exercise. I was the guy that people came to after years of working out their t-shirt muscles that cause muscle imbalances and poor posture. I was always some sort of garbage man—whether it was picking up the pieces of some former athlete turned weekend warrior, to picking up the pieces of some neurotic bitch that saw me as an outlet for her emotional angst.

I kept quiet after that; her comment sending my brain spinning in many different directions. She kept oiling and rubbing me, up my right leg to my inner thigh. Then she teased my penis moving the towel and “switching sides” so she could go up my left leg. When she finally reached my genitals, she squirted oil all over my cock and grabbed me from the base of my pubis and stretched my cock out lengthwise.

“40 dallah for this.”

She said giving my one-eyed bishop a couple of tugs. She was a good salesperson; she had got me worked up with teasing with the towel and the oil and her soft-soft hands.

“You put your mouth on it?”

I said motioning my hand toward my mouth indicating that I might give in for a blow job.

“No—40 dallah for this.”

She was intent on making $40 for a tug job. I was aroused, but her earlier body shaming comments were still in my mind, and I didn’t quite want to give her $40.

“20 dollars.”

“No—I get in dwahbu (trouble), 40 dallah good price.”

I wasn’t willing to pay $40 for a tug—I would just do it myself after.

“No thank you, just a regular massage.”

I said, hard as bricks, but declining because I still couldn’t get over the fact she insulted my body! That fucking bitch! Then she wanted to turn around and ask me to purchase services—hell no.

Needless to say, she gave me a pretty good massage, and it was the first time I had my back walked on and massaged with feet—and she had some soft little feet. But I still couldn’t keep my mind from thinking about all the times I was lumped into the odd group, when I had to deal with steroidal, muscle milk drinking, pock-marked trainers who had the hottest clients; and me—I got the broken ones. Man, Fuck My Life! Personal Training Sucks!

Your friend,

Reginald Jenkins.

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