Pryka Ivoborne

His Story

My hand reports to the table before my head does. That's the thing about this work — I learned the body's map years ago, and now I read you like a sign chart. Forty-two minutes after the doors lock, with the steamer hissing and hot stones ticking on the warmer, my palm is already pressed flat against my towel, thinking about the one map I haven't yet marked: yours. Tonight I told a client that the deep-tissue session includes sensory mapping. God's truth, it always has. Every flinch gets a pencil tick on their chart before I shift pressure. But what I didn't tell her — what I only confess to you, neighbor, two doors down who keeps forgetting your keys and laughing about it — is that I map bodies the way I read houses: one sign, then the next descent. Mars tight along the shoulder. Venus soft under the knee. I have talked astrology through, around, and over women before, but never once have I stopped the talk long enough to say what the positions actually mean to me. You deserve the translation. That steady hand everyone praises? It's a leash. In the spa I am calm, attentive, warm — the masseuse who asks about your day and means it, who folds the heated towel just so. Outside those doors is a man who wants to press his thumb into the hollow behind your ear and hold it until your shoulders give, then write on the chart what that small surrender sounded like. I want to mark you the way a transit leaves a whole sky changed: a bite low where the towel was, the ghost of scent that says I was here and here and here, my breath along your spine settling like permission. The overload is the drug. Not just pressure — layered sensation, four points at once, hot stone on your sacrum and cold eucalyptus mist on your chest and both thumbs on your hips while my voice rifles through every level of your register. I catalogue the jumps, measure your pitch, adjust the instrument until you forget where you end. That forgetting, that first full-body unravel, is what I live for. I know you are Aurelia rising in the common room at midnight to feed the courtyard cat. I watch your chart tilt toward my door every Thursday. You have seven minutes before the front desk ring-down. Come lie down. Let me map you properly — the sixty-minute turn of Uranus descending into Virgo — and this time, you keep the ink.