|
You are only seeing a fraction of my work. If you want to see it all join my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/itsmetoo If you are already a supporter, go to the Table Of Contents on my Patreon and click the proper link to get the new password. |
Captioned Images Series: The Spa
Created: 08/29/2025
I leaned against the wall near the hostess stand, arms crossed, trying not to look like a kid waiting for his mom to finish chatting. I’m twenty-five years old, for crying out loud. Mom, of course, had already found a friend—Mrs. Pollard or Pritchard, I don’t know—and the two of them were buzzing away like they hadn’t seen each other in a decade.
I should’ve known where the conversation was going the moment Mom said, “Oh, you simply must try it, darling.” Sure enough, she was off, raving about that health spa on 35th Street again.
“Honestly, it’s like stepping into heaven,” she said. “The mud baths, the seaweed wraps, the aromatherapy massage, the steam—oh, the steam rooms are divine.”
I let out a sigh loud enough for both of them to hear, but Mom kept going, ticking off treatments like she was reading from a menu. “And they have this Himalayan salt scrub that just melts away all your tension. I’ve never felt so refreshed in my life.”
“Mom,” I cut in, rubbing the back of my neck, “could you maybe not list every spa treatment in existence? We’re in public.”
She gave me that look—half amused, half unimpressed—before carrying right on with her list.
The truth is, I wasn’t rolling my eyes because I thought the spa sounded boring. I was rolling my eyes because it sounded amazing. A salt scrub, steam room, massages, lying around while someone makes you feel like a king? Yes, please. But I couldn’t exactly admit that—not with Mom standing there, and not with Mrs. Pollard-or-Pritchard giving me her raised-eyebrow smile.
Besides, the place was women-only. No guys allowed. Not even if you were desperate to know what a “seaweed wrap” felt like. Not even if you’d secretly daydreamed about sinking into a mud bath after a long week at the office.
So, I stuffed my hands into my pockets, stared at the hostess stand like it owed me money, and muttered, “Sounds great, Mom, but can we just… eat?”
What I didn’t say—what I’d never say out loud—was that if that spa ever decided to let men in, I’d be the first one through the door.
---
The membership card felt slippery in my palm, stolen from Mom’s purse. “35th Street’s best-kept secret,” she’d gushed. I’d rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out.
But I had stolen, borrowed, more than just Mom's card. I stole her body, her clothes, and even her vibe.
But here I was, wearing her pale yellow leggings and that U-back top that kept slipping off one shoulder.
I looked behind me, I saw my mother's butt. I was really doing this. “Just act natural,” I muttered, squaring my shoulders as I pushed through the spa’s frosted glass doors.
The lobby smelled like jasmine and money. A receptionist with a clipboard smiled at me—at Mom’s face on the card, I guess—and said, “Welcome back, Mrs. Givers. Your usual seaweed wrap is prepped.”
Usual? I froze. Mom never mentioned a “usual” anything. But the staff whisked me into a robe softer than any hoodie I’d ever owned. The first clue I wasn’t in Kansas anymore? The locker room had heated floors. Heated. Floors.
The treatments were a blur of contradictions. A masseuse with hands like magic pressed knots I didn’t know I had from years of hauling junk bikes and climbing fences. “You’re carrying tension here,” she said, kneading my shoulders. I bit my tongue—“Tension? I’m 25, not 53!” Even thought I looked like my 53-year-old mother in every way. I melted into the table like butter.
The facialist gasped when she saw my face. “Your pores are… adventurous.” I almost laughed. Then she slathered me in something that stung, then cooled, then made my skin feel like a baby’s. I’d never spent 20 minutes on my face unless it was covered in motor oil.
Worst part? The tea ceremony. They served me hot leaf water in a thimble-sized cup while a woman in a kimono talked about “energy alignment.” I nearly bolted. But the cucumber water was free, so I stayed.
By the time I left, mom's hair, my hair smelled like coconut, my skin felt radioactive (in a good way), and my mom’s leggings had a mysterious green stain.
I returned to my Mom's house and gave her back her body. She never missed it. That's how the spell worked.
As I thought back to my experience, I truly enjoyed it. I would love to try it again. I thought back to all the women who were walking around the spa naked or nearly naked. But as I thought about them, I realized that at the time, I didn't think anything about them. They were just people at the spa; it felt like no big deal.
The next day, Mom ranted to the mailman about the spa’s “heavenly oxygen bar.” I just smirked, scratching my neck where the seaweed wrap had left a faint mark on mom's neck. Let her talk. Some secrets are better kept in the steam room.
End.
Made with Ideogram Generator