Hurt so good.

I have a Dominatrix.

I should clarify and state right off the bat, this is not her picture. Nor, out of discretion and fear that she would turn the pain up to Eleven, will I divulge the name of my personal Dominatrix. Let's just call her Lady Safeword.

Every week, I don my mask, get in the car and drive the five minutes to her dungeon in Culver City. This is noteworthy in and of itself, because in Los Angeles nothing, absolutely nothing, is within a 5 minute driving radius. But perhaps it's the wish of the gods to see me get my pain as quickly as possible, Lady Safeword's Cave of Horrors is. Moreover, there's free and ample parking at the back of the building.

OK, that's enough misdirect.

Truth is, I'm in Physical Therapy. Maybe some of you have been to a physical therapist and are familiar with their sadistic ways. I was not. And it still boggles my mind, and sometimes my body, that I voluntarily submit myself to such excruciating pain. And then I pay for it. Actually, I only pay for half of it as the the other is picked up by my healthcare provider, OSCAR. 

I suspect there are hidden camera's scattered amongst the medicine balls, the swing apparatus, the many parallel bar fixtures throughout the facility and that the "sessions" are video piped into OSCAR headquarters where pain-loving healthcare insurance freaks (a redundancy if there ever was one) savor the grunting and groaning of subs (submissive) like myself.

This tortuous journey began several months ago when it appears I pulled a muscle while doing some Romanian Deadlifting in my garage with the Olympics weight set I purchased from Hollywood mogul Steve Levitan. The injury was aggravated by my long stretches of uninterrupted Zoom calls with my new place of perma-lance employment. As well as my new addiction to the Peloton cycle that now occupies my youngest daughter's vacated room.

As a result of the Hip Flexor Strain, I have been gimping around the house and making odd noises every time I "climb" the stairs, which have now taken on Everestian proportions. My two doctors, a GP and a Sports Medicine specialist, have recommended PT. One also gave me a prescription for Tramadol, an opioid-like drug that is often administered to pets.

Suffice to say, I prefer the Tramadol. Mmmmmm, chemically-induced endorphins.

Each week at Lady Safeword's brings about a new "exercise". They have cute pet names, seemingly to mask the torture one is about to experience.

"Today, we're going to two sets of Clamshells followed by another two sets of Crabwalks. Doesn't that sound fun?"

No, no it does not. Truth is, doesn't matter what they call it, every so called "therapy" is designed to stretch my muscles in a way my fireplug-built body was not meant to stretch.

There is some saving grace in all this. Because when the torture is over, I am brought over to a masseuse table. Where Lady Safeword puts her years of PT training and expertise to work and literally kneads the spots where the tendon is attached to the muscle. 

It's painful but it's also oddly pleasurable. Who'd of thought that at 44 years of age, I'd be discovering a new world of physical sensations?

This week Lady Safeword had a previous engagement, so the administer of my torture was Steve. And boy can he bring the pain.

And yet, to my astonishment, I liked Steve.

Maybe I'm Cry-Curious?