straight, no shooter

olga had potato vodka breath and potato farmer's hands. she was sturdy and oh-so thorough. she rubbed a gal down like we was paying for it (we were actually) some massage therapists tread lightly around the t&a, but not olga. she dug right in. with gusto. and i thanked her for it.

olga was a part of our batchelorette slumber party. for all you boys out there, yes, there were tickle fights and we did spend all night clad in frilly bottomed panties and white tank tops. back to olga. she was to give each of us a proper rub down. saving the bride-to-be for last. we took our turns. massage drunk, rejoining the group for more wine and trampoline jumping and braiding each other's hair.

then it was the bride, stacie's, turn. she went in. we waited and played. she came out. shell shocked. pale faced.

"what happened?" we asked.

"she offered to rub my shooter."

"what's a shooter?" we asked

"I don't know. at the end, she said 'now, somethink special i rub ze shooter for you. da? it feel good. the shooter'"

"you mean, your...?"

stacie nodded. she didn't even like massages. had a fierce personal space issue. "then she said 'or i could just put nice varm cloth on it. feel good.'"

was the shooter rub really a happy ending, as we all thought? a kind offer of sweet release from a sturdy russian?

i'll never know. the offer was validate for brides only.

damn stacie.