I’ve experience lower back pain for most of my adult life. Some of this comes from reckless behavior in my youth at music festivals where I foolishly allowed crowd surfers to be thrown at my head. The rest resulted from an injury I sustained after a drunk driver turned in front of me, totaling my car and nearly crippling me in the process.
I believe everyone should get massages regularly, as they are relaxing and benefit physical and mental health. I used to go to a massage school in Las Vegas where I received cheap rub-downs often from students trying to get their certification hours in. Most of them were pretty adept, surprisingly, including an older woman who would ultimately be in charge of my last session at that facility.
For those of you who have never had a massage, they typically tell you to “disrobe” or “strip down” to your comfort. This is a polite way of them letting you know that you may remove your undergarments if you wish. I had previously never done so, but felt it was time to really get into a full body experience this time around.
After settling under the sheet, the woman entered through a curtain that kept us separated from the other cubicles of naked bodies. I closed my eyes and prepared for healing hands to start kneading into my aching muscles. Everything was going well until she reached my legs. Specifically my inner thighs.
Why she decided to go to town in a way that seemed like she was jerking off my hamstrings is unknown to me still. What I do know is that the physical stimulus conjured up a raging erection that turned that white sheet into a pop-up tent.
“Why?!” I thought to myself. “Is this batty old woman going to think I’m turned on? I’m gay! This shouldn’t be happening! I can never return!”
She ignored my very obvious boner and continued on until I eventually left the school with my tail between my legs. After doing some internet research, I found this tends to happen to a lot of men. But nonetheless, I decided I would only receive massages from men henceforth, believing there would be a better understanding should it happen again.
Fast-forward to my recent past here in Austin. My back was troubling me once more, and I needed to find a new massage therapist for some relief. I naively searched online for “male massage” and found endless listings of fuckboys masquerading as “experts of the body”.
This all sounds very exciting, but I needed a legitimate massage, not a romp in the sheets.
Finally I found an ad for a guy named Brian who wasn’t presenting a thinly veiled invitation to pay for sexual gratification. He was one of few who was fully clothed in his profile picture and avoided using any innuendos or euphemisms in the description of his at-home business. I made an appointment via e-mail and was reassured by his professionalism.
The date arrived, and I approached his penthouse condo. The door opened to a man who was much more handsome in person than I had expected, as well as three pugs that were yapping in response to my existence. He quieted them down and directed me to his “office”.
The table was located in the master bedroom, but it seemed entirely irrelevant at the time. He provided a hot shower with towels, aromatherapy, and a myriad of candles dressing the perimeter of the room. He left me to “disrobe to my comfort”, so I got naked and folded my clothes neatly in the corner. There was no sheet to get under on the table, so I laid face-down, unabashed with my ass up for all to see.
He entered the room and began conversing with me, I think in an attempt to make me feel more comfortable. He was a Louisiana boy, and his accent would betray him should he ever try to deny it. The massage wasn’t that great to begin with, but he was friendly in the very least. It’s hard to imagine feeling more vulnerable than being blindly naked on a table while a man is hovering over you. I deflected any sense of awkwardness by slipping coy humor and witty jokes into our talk – a natural defense mechanism I use as a sturdy crutch. He talked about his obsession with Mickey Mouse and even mentioned that he had an absurdly large plush collection as well as a tattoo of the iconic cartoon on his lower back. Perhaps this was his own crutch.
Brian passed along the table and his leg brushed up against my arm ever so gently. It took me a moment to register, but I was feeling his skin against mine. The hair and musculature of his upper thigh grazed against my resting limb. “Is he naked?” I thought to myself with mild panic. I pretended not to notice, and he continued around the table to reach new areas of my body.
He passed again along the other side of the table and hesitated. It was then that I felt the full weight of his junk in my upturned hand. He didn’t linger for long. Just long enough to let me know he too had abandoned his clothes entirely.
Our conversation continued normally as I did my best to ignore the situation at hand. But I knew it was almost time for me to flip over. In only moments I would be face-to-face with the masseur circling my table – a fit man with strong hands and a full-on display of his wedding tackle, as well as the aforementioned Mickey Mouse tattoo.
I attempted to avert my eyes in the least obvious way possible, but felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. He was quite the specimen to behold, truly. I thought back to the old woman in Vegas who aroused me without meaning to. His intentions seemed to welcome it.
Brian continued pressing his thumbs and the heels of his hands into my muscles, moving his fingertips to my legs and groin. “My, my,” he said, watching the inevitable rise before him. He smirked at me with satisfaction. “What do we have here?” It was a rhetorical question, I hoped, as the only response I could think of was, “My penis?” I laughed nervously and mustered a smile reminiscent of Shrek.
Without another word his hands wrapped around my dick and I found myself in some kind of fantasy world I had actually tried to avoid initially. There was no going back now, though. I figured I might as well enjoy myself. And so I did.
He motioned over to his bed, which looked much more comfortable and accommodating for sexual conduct than the table I was laid out on. There’s something to be said about having sex after a massage. Suddenly my lower back wasn’t presenting itself as an issue any further.
My happy ending arrived simultaneously with his own. “Perks of the job,” I thought to myself. “I wonder if this is going to cost me extra?” My mind reeled at the idea of managing to accidentally engage in what was essentially a hired prostitute with benefits.
“I hope you come around more often,” he said. “At first I thought you weren’t going to want to play. What took you so long?”
“I… wanted a massage?” I said, unsure of how to answer other than with honesty.
He left me in privacy to shower in a bathroom much fancier than my own. I dried off, dressed myself, and met him back in the living room.
“How much do I owe ya?” I asked. “Do I throw cash on the bed, or what?” I joked. He ended up charging me the rate previously indicated for a massage, much to my surprise.
“When am I going to see you again?” he asked, as if we had just ended our first date.
“When I need another massage, I suppose,” I replied, earnestly. We had built up an odd sense of comfort around each other in a short amount of time.
“Hopefully not too long,” he said with an air of Southern charm.
“I’m sure we’ll see each other soon,” I said, lying through my teeth. After all, I was only looking for a massage.