While viewing a Ted McCagg cartoon, Jeffrey Pillow remembers an incident when he was 17 involving a bottle of massage oil, a 58-year-old masseuse, and his penis.

“We have a surprise I really think you’ll like,” my mom and sister said.

It was the eve of my high school graduation and I was about to party like it was 1999.

Because it was 1999.

“There’s only one catch. You have to be there at a certain time this coming Saturday.”

Finally, my mom had caved. She was going to sign for me to get that tattoo I had been talking about for so long. I had even drawn out the design: a skull with an old man’s hat with a safety pin sticking out the brim and a pair of dice rolled off to the side. The skull would be smoking a cigarette.


Only that wasn’t it.  I would learn as much twenty-four hours after receiving my diploma.

“A professional massage,” my mom said. “I figured with all the stress leading up to final exams, you could use one.”

Fuck, I thought. I’m never getting that tattoo.


I got there early, arriving at 9:45 AM. My appointment was at 10:00.

“I hope this bitch is hot,” I said to myself, walking up the brick steps. I popped a stick of Teaberry gum in my mouth so that my breath would be fresh.

“Just go in the room right there and slip off your shorts,” the lady said. I assumed she was the receptionist.

She was approximately 58-years-old with a soft face and gray/white hair, cut short like women cut it once they hit 46 and give up on looking like women. She wore light green polyester slacks. She had a fupa. I would later learn this terminology from my well-mannered wife.

“Fupa?” I asked.

“Yeah, Fat Upper Pussy Area,” my wife said.

It was the first time I had heard my wife say the p-word.

“Say it again,” I said.


“No, the p-word.”


From Urban Dictionary [dot] com:

Fat Upper Pussy Area (aka. Gunt) -You’ve all seen them, most commonly associated with obese burnt out High School Teachers (Good God man, I’ve seen FUPAS swallow an entire desk whole!) and the Wolf Pack (You know who you are).

Causes: Fupatitis P.

Only known cure: Fupandectomy

Used in a sentence:

Biiiaatch, get your god damn FUPA off my desk!!

Mrs. Addis, I mean Da’aaaam! (nuff said)

Look at dem fupers over der eh. (Canadian Fupa sighting)

Bertha’s pouch above her vagina is bigger than the rest of her body. She’s bigger than the Fupapottomaus, she is a FupaSaurus Rex.

I entered the room to change and first took off my shirt and socks. I swished around the Teaberry juice in my mouth to get the flavors all across my palette. I didn’t want to have bad breath. You know, just in case. I’d read many a Penthouse Forum letter about massage clinics. I knew what sometimes went on in these establishments –- and I was 17. A man can dream when he’s 17, even if he can’t dream at any other time in his life. The possibility existed that this adventure might end in ecstasy, and if that possibility existed, by George I would be ready.

As I was taking off my shorts, the 58-year-old woman with a fupa opened the door.

“What’s taking you so long?” she asked peeking over at me. She had two small white towels in her hand.

Jesus, give me a second, I thought. I’ve only been in here two seconds.

“Well, let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting in the lobby when you’re done.”

She’d be waiting? Shouldn’t she be at the front desk answering the phone?


I was lying face down on my stomach when she entered, my face peering through a hole cut out in the bed. I saw her clean white shoes as she entered and those green polyester pants. A towel was over my bottom. The 58-year-old woman was not the receptionist. She was my masseuse for the morning. She squirted some massage oil in her hands and began by rubbing my shoulders and neck then worked her way down my spine. Such soft, delicate hands, I thought, yet so strong.

Oh God, this feels so good. Why have I never had a professional massage before? Knead the bread, I thought as she took the muscles of my back into her hands. Just knead the bread.

Who cares if she’s not a stunning 18-year-old brunette?

“Any areas of special interest you’d like me to work on?” she asked.

“All over,” I said. “But if you could do my calf muscles and legs for a little bit that would be great. I play basketball religiously.”

She squirted some more massage oil in her hands and worked on my calves first then my feet. Then she made her way up my hammies. They were so tender. Man, I really underestimated how good this could feel.

Holy shit, she’s getting close to my thighs.

Oh my God, I’m getting a semi.

Breathe deep.

Fat women. Fat women.

Fat women in purple leotards. Fat women in purple leotards.

Fat women in purple leotards riding unicycles.

Oh my God, she just graced my perineum.

I’m sure it was an accident. Definitely an accident.

She went down my hamstrings again and to my calves.

Then she came back up.

Oh my God, it wasn’t an accident.

She just touched my perineum again. And my balls.

Oh my God, she touched my balls. Oh my God, my penis is getting swollen. Oh my God, she’s going to hit my penis with her hand. It’s facing my knees. It’s facing my knees.

Red alert.

I should have worn boxer briefs. Boxers was a bad idea.

“What is wrong with you Jeff?” my internal narrator Jason said to me. “She’s 58 for crying out loud!”

I’m very well aware of this, asshole.

“Say something.”

Like what? Excuse me, you just touched my balls and now I have an erection?

“She knows what she’s doing,” Jason said. “What are you going to do when she tells you to flip over?”

Oh no, I hadn’t thought of that.

I had to figure out a way to position my penis so it was lying flat on my belly.

There was no way to be subtle though I tried. I lifted my crotch from the table and positioned my penis flat against my belly.

This is humiliating.

“Just go with it,” my penis said.

Hey, fuck you buddy. She’s gotta at least be 58. She’s wearing green polyester pants.

“Grass on the field, play ball.”

“Penis,” Jason said. “SHUT . . . THE FUCK . . . UP! This woman’s vagina is up to her belly button.”

“Mmm,” penis said. “Vagina.”

“Alright,” the masseuse said. “Flip over so we can get your front.”

Then she began working on the front of my shoulders and arms.

She’s gotta know, I thought.

Then she began massaging my chest and ribs.

Oh my God, the towel just moved.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” penis said.

Flaccid. Become flaccid. Oh please become flaccid.

She must have seen that. There’s no way she didn’t see that.

This is the worst day of my life. Someone’s grandma is getting me hard.


Fifteen minutes later, the massage was over. She left the room and I stood up, erect as a newly placed statue in the town square. I put my t-shirt on and pulled my shorts up, positioning my swollen, aching penis under my waistband. I walked to the front desk with my gift card.

“Thank you,” I said to the 58-year-old woman with a fupa.

“Thank you. Come again,” she said with a smile.

That bitch is mocking me, I thought as I walked out the door and down the brick steps.


“How was it?” my mom asked as I entered my home.

“It felt really good,” I responded. Then I went upstairs to my bedroom and locked the door.

[Insert happy ending here]


In Part I of This Post:

I’d been asked by the school nurse to give my fifth grade boys the puberty talk. A couple problems, though: First, I’d never given anyone the puberty talk. Next, the nurse had asked that I refrain from discussing too much about sex while giving the talk.

Yeah right, I thought. That would be like trying to discuss the Theory of Relativity without ever mentioning E = MC 2.

Still, I felt I owed it to my students to do whatever I could to help usher them into manhood.

So I agreed.

To give the puberty talk.

Part II – The Puberty Video:

Finally the day had arrived.

It was time to give my students the talk.

The puberty talk.

Once the girls had left for the library to have their talk with the school nurse I gathered the boys around the VCR.

“Alright you guys,” I said. “You’re gonna watch a video that’ll discuss the changes you and your body will go through over the next few years. When it’s done I’ll be more than happy to answer any questions you might have. Alright?”

No response.

All the boys had that deer-in-the-headlights look in their eyes.


This seemed a bit ironic.

When it came to discussing their favorite gross-out moments on South Park, or movie violence, or gang violence that frequently occurred in their inner-city community you couldn’t keep them quiet.

But when it came to learning about how they’d soon develop into young men, they had no idea how to respond.


This fear of theirs.

It was the same fear I’d experienced at their age, when confronted by my parents and teachers continually bombarding me with pamphlets, instructional films, and lecture upon lecture concerning puberty.

This puberty thing.

Back when I was a kid, it seemed even bigger and scarier than The Big Bang.

And it was all happening right inside my body.

“Don’t worry,” I told my students. “Really. Maybe you’ve heard some of this before. Maybe not. But puberty is just a part of growing up. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

A student raised his hand.

“Jose,” I said. “What’s up, my man?”

With those bewildered brown eyes fixed right on me, he asked: “Have you gone through puberty, Mr. F?”


“Absolutely,” I said. “And look at me now. I don’t have three heads or six eyes or anything. Everything’ll be fine. Trust me. You guys just need to learn a few things to help you along the way.”

Jose and a few other boys breathed sighs of relief and flashed gentle nods.

Still others couldn’t shake that stunned look from their eyes.

“Don’t worry,” I repeated. “It’ll be all right. Trust me.” I started the video.

It went through the basics:

•    How the boys would sweat more, grow taller.
•    Their skin would become oilier, maybe causing pimples.
•    Hair would grow under their arms, on their legs, faces, and in the pubic area.
•    Their voices would crack.
•    Their penis and testicles would become bigger and sperm would begin to be produced.

The video featured these two clean-cut white kids, and an African American boy.

That was fine.

One problem though: all my students were streetwise Hispanics.

And while I wasn’t sure how well they could relate to the boys in the video, I sure could.

In particular, this one little white boy kept complaining about how, whenever in the gym locker room, he felt inadequate when comparing the size of his penis to the other boys.

“Whenever I look at those boys,” he whined, “I always wonder why they’re so much bigger than me. Will Ialways stay this size? Will my penis ever grow?”


“Damn,” I thought. That insecure, ill-equipped little brat was me when I was his age.

With that shameful realization, my hands grew clammy. My face flush.

A few beads of sweat gathered on my brow.

It was like I was re-experiencing that earth-shattering Big Bang puberty all over again.

Right in front of my students.


I glanced around the room, wondering whether or not any of my students had spotted my discomfort, thereby picking up on my deep, dark secret.

Coast clear.

They hadn’t noticed me at all. They were completely entranced by the video’s discussion of erections and wet dreams.


Once the film was over, I surveyed the boys for their reactions.

A few sported wisecracking grins, but most still maintained that stunned look.

“Well,” I said, hoping for the best. “Anyone have any questions?”

Coming Soon: Part III – The Final Installment – The Q & A Session.