That’s most of the story, right there. The details pale beside the obdurate fact that there’s something subtle missing from your life, because your pig-massaging needs have gone unmet your whole life, and mine have not. Lest you despair, though, I will offer such details as might prove either vicarious or sufficient to motivate you to go find your own pig to massage.
Mind, your pig-massaging session would not be as glorious as mine, even so. My loaner massage pig (named “Pig”) weighed 550 pounds – making him both Some Pig and Awesome, in the Charlotte’s Web taxonomy – and any pig you might acquire for the purposes of massaging would be Humble in comparison.
Now, the house I lived in when I massaged Pig was worthy of a few But That’s Another Stories in its own right, but its most salient feature in this story was that it was located next to Pig’s house on a tiny ancient wizened street owned by the neighborhood owners, not by the city. So Pig was nestled in the heart of metro Boston: no farm pig, he! His owners had bought him as an advertised Vietnamese potbellied pig; when he reached 100 pounds, they brought him back to the pet store to show that there had been some mix-up. The store offered to buy their now-firmly-bonded pet pig back from them to be made into standard-issue pig products. They returned home with their pig and resized their accommodations as needed.
When I met Pig and his 550 pounds, he was so fat that he tripped on folds of himself when walking. His vision was impaired by folds of fat hanging over his eyes. He was on a diet of blue Gatorade and tomatoes, which would have made me grumpy as all hell. But he was still friendly and curious, and I had a reputation to uphold as massaging anyone I could get my hands on. Now, Pig was covered with coarse black hair, an inch long over most of him with a razorback-mohawk stripe. His skin, under that, was also like an inch thick. In other words, Pig was going to be a challenge to massage. (On the other hand, it would have been difficult for him to get away from it.) But I said to the challenging-massage-gods, bring it.
I basically grabbed big hunks of him and kneaded them like the stiffest dough ever. His flesh was incredibly dense, and it took all my strength and leverage to squish and prod him meaningfully. But it was worth it. He made a sound exactly like you’d imagine an ecstatic porcine boulder receiving massage to make. Gruntysnorty “oh god yes right THERE.”
I moved away months later and don’t know what became of Pig. Eventually, though, I dated a guy who did chiropractic adjustments on chickens. Yes, really. I suppose you can make this stuff up, but why would you bother when life is such a font of improbable stories as it is?