Leah Mueller

Magic Fingers

Iowa City’s massage parlors
catered to forsaken gentlemen
of all vocations—truckers, day laborers,
shift workers, nervous students who
didn’t have time for girlfriends. 

I perched on a couch between two other women
and waited for patrons to make their pick.

Some guys liked blondes, others, brunettes.
Each chose a masseuse as casually
as he might select a six-pack.
A one-girl back rub with extras cost the same, 

no matter who supplied it. I started with 
shoulders, running my fingers 
along stringy muscles, squeezing flesh 
like overripe fruit, eventually working my way

downwards. The men liked to pretend 
I was an innocent conquest, perhaps 
sipping beer at an off-campus haunt
on an awkward first date.

“Are you a student?” 
“What is your major?”
“What do you do when you’re not working?”

They finally emitted milky streams
of pleasure, grunted a couple of times,
and wiped themselves off with a hand towel.

Afterwards, I joined the other women
on the well-worn lobby couch, and we
watched Rockford Files reruns until it grew so late

that Iowa City’s cache of lonely guys
had all gone to sleep: solo in a single bed
or curled beside their unsuspecting wives,
but alone either way.