My first Thai Massage

I just got a massage in North Hollywood. A scandalous experience and I shan't return. I just wanted to go someplace within walking distance because I was completely loaded on Vicodin. I like to treat myself sometimes. Don't judge. So, I make my way to a Thai Massage place just blocks away from home. I've glanced at their neon sign on occasion and wondered what a Thai Massage experience might be like.
It was 6pm and very dark. I entered the room loudly so as not to walk in on anything. "Hey, hey, hey. Whats going on in here? Hello?" I thought perhaps they were closed. But this was just the first clue that I was not in for a fun ride. I look to the left, just above gold Buddha's bald head at a sign which reads "NO Sexual!". First of all, who prints signs in broken English anyway? Is there no proof reading at the sign shop? No sexual what? No sexual innuendos? No sexual T-shirt graphics? Finally May Ling sashays to the front lobby, polishing off her two piece chicken meal and wiping her hands on her jeans. Why was she wearing scrubs on top and jeans on the bottom? Was she supposed to be working the front desk? Maybe she didn't think she would have to stand. Then she says, with a confused look on her face, "How can I help you?" Um, is this not a massage boutique? All signs said "run fast, run far", but I could hardly move due to the Cabernet I used to wash down the vicodin.
They have me dress in silk boxers, which must have had an owner once upon a time, and a silk shell cut open in the back, like a hospital gown. of course I put it on open in front because the last time I was in a hospital I was getting a breast exam. I could swear she glanced up at the nearest "NO Sexual" sign to remind me of the house rules and I apologized frantically and turned my shell around. I didn't want any sexual.
For the next hour I was pulled, smashed and bent in ways I never want to experience again. I think they were mad at me for actually wanting a massage because they just started making up moves. Massaging bones, rubbing back and forth over cartilage. "That is not a knot lady! Its my knuckle!" All the signs were there. I should have just left. But now its done. And when I pass that glorious neon sign boasting one hour Thai and Swedish massages, I am no longer tempted to stop.