How did you get me on to this? I was going to tell you about the 'sensual massage' I had today. My dry weeks had made me realise how much I miss the touch of men, so I found a male masseur in the nearest big town who would do me a massage with a 'happy ending', which I took to mean massage + wank, for forty quid. I booked myself in for an hour well ahead of time a) to enjoy a sense of anticipation and b) to give myself time to bottle out. I think you may need to have been fifteen years celibate to understand how much the prospect of being naked with another man can seem at once blissful and intrusive.
Well, today was the day. Cold, grey, wet - a day for staying under the duvet if ever any was. I do not know this bloke, I thought. Will he be alone in the house, or will he have heavies watching us on CCTV? (I was watching T2 Trainspotting at the weekend.) Sweeney Todd, John George Haigh of acid bath fame and Dennis Nielsen came to mind, the images impatiently dismissed, as serial murderers tend not to have websites disclosing their every contact detail along with photos of the inside and outside of their house. Even so, the erotic was far from my thoughts as I set off for the station in driving rain.
Adam turned out to be a sweet. quiet, gentle and welcoming young man, half Turkish, half Romanian. I shucked off my clothes and lay prone on his massage table. He shucked off his and watching his preparatory faffing with bottles of oil at the side of me I thought, 'that is the first flesh and blood cock other than my own that I've seen this many a year.'
He didn't intend it to sound like 'this is hopeless' but I felt it that way, briefly. He wiped away the oil with a towel and I started to get dressed. He put on his t-shirt and dick aswing, moved the massage table back against the wall. Our nakedness now seemed more of the changing-room than the bedroom and I knew I'd need to hold him and caress him if I was to get a hard-on. A massage, or a massage plus wank, is a service, like a haircut, pedicure or private medical. I'll pay for that. But I won't pay a man to pretend he desires me.
Adam made small talk and guessed my age, missing by a decade, which was flattering even if he was perhaps being diplomatic. I paid him and we hugged before I left and it was genuinely affectionate on both sides. (I think.) Later in an email he said he had deliberately avoided touching my packing area because I had seemed so nervous and he hadn't wanted to make me feel more so. This was a kindly miscalculation, because I always did flinch when anyone touched me anywhere around the waist but my cock has always been up for grabs. (Sorry, couldn't resist that.) It also dispelled a prejudice I held about people who work in the sex industry. As well as a very good masseur, Adam is an escort, aka rent-boy, and I had always thought people who did such work were ipso facto well dodgy. But no: Adam was as concerned for my comfort and satisfaction as the private GP I saw for a thorough medical at the end of September, and there are organisations and people in my profession who should be avoided like high voltage.
I walked to the station from Adam's place, realising I need not have paid over a fiver in taxi fares to get there on the outward journey. I got home with a stiffy like a milk bottle and this was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment - relief that I don't need Viagra, disappointment at the delayed reaction.
* A lot, actually.
|Not him but not unlike him.|
A handsome young hunk who is attending my lectures arrived half an hour early and helped me to move the tables into cafeteria style. (Other lecturers seem to prefer them set out in rows as in a Victorian school room.) As I was pootling about on the computer, he asked 'sir, is it OK if I go to the toilet?' Of course it was OK - why did he need to ask, and why call me 'sir'? Later a few others arrived a discussion of an assignment for a different module arose, the brief for which it seemed was less than transparent. 'I'll have to ask Miss' said the young man, who is six foot if he's an inch yet as innocent as a toddler. I could have hugged him. Now I'm waiting for him to call our five minute break 'play time'.