The Massage

OK, I've decided I must, no fooling, and this-time-I-really-mean-it, get out of Casual Encounters.

So I start to explore Miscellaneous Romance instead.

It's a much smaller category of posts. More manageable, as it were.

This is where you find the "non-passable" cross-dressers who seek beauty tips from factory-equipped girls (they're not gay, they're lesbians). This is where the married come looking for the married. This is where a 40ish website developer posts his offer to come over and massage me in the comfort and privacy of my own living room.

He's a recent emigre from LA. Unlike most transplanted southern Californians, he has nothing bad to say about my hometown. He loves it here and he's going to stay here forever. Of course, it's August, right? Just wait a few months...

It's a dull, rainy evening, almost chilly enough to light a fire, so I'm surprised when he asks if I have "AC." (AC -- what's that? Ah, I remember, air conditioning. You're not from these parts, are you?).

He is well-scrubbed, boyish, with a crew cut, squinty eyes and a slight overbite. There's an ex-military vibe here. He looks like Ron Howard's less-cute brother, you know, the little boy who always played bullies on TV? So let's call this guy Clint. Of course, I imagine everyone from LA is a former child star.

I've dragged out my massage table and put it at the lowest height to compensate for the thickness of my body. He wants it high, higher, highest, and watches me as I scramble about adjusting the legs. Then I fling off my linen dress and climb aboard, chastely draping myself with a large flannel sheet.

I'm playing Neil Young, the recently released Massey Hall concert. It was recorded when Harvest came out, so it's all those early, sweet, heartbreaking songs, only even better since it's just Young accompanying himself on acoustic guitar, harmonica and piano, no soaring, sappy strings or overblown production. Normally, I avoid playing music I really care about for a "casual encounter" -- I don't want to contaminate future listenings with unpleasant or indifferent associations. But I figure, it's a massage, right? No monkey business tonight!

Clint lubes up his palms with my "Kama Sutra Oil," with its unfortunately suggestive label, but the only lotion I have in stock. His hands are warm and glide smoothly across my back. It's quite pleasant; he's got a pretty confident touch for an amateur. However, he seems to lack focus and intent until he works his way south, and starts to give my buttocks some attention. Well, actually, a lot of attention. That's fine, though: the buttocks are often sorely neglected, and as we all know, the gluteus maximus is the largest muscle in the body.

Then his hand insinuates itself between my thighs. Uh, oh, here we go... He suggests I turn over, so he can work on my front. Although I'm a bit disappointed the "legitimate" part of the massage is over so quickly, I comply, keeping the sheet across my belly and its embarassing network of scars. (I'm not so self-conscious about the hernia, because on my back, my intestines drop down into the abdominal cavity, where they belong -- gravity working in my favor, for a change.)

"Why don't you work on my arms a bit?" I suggest, tucking a hand into his armpit. He does a little effleurage along the arm, but pretty soon, he's down there again, gently urging my knees apart. It feels better than I thought it would. It just feels good to be passive, for a change.

He slides a finger gently into my vagina. I think we're both surprised how wet I am. Then he touches my clit, and I think, Yeah. But he's not quite on target. After a few minutes, it's driving me a little mad. You ladies know just what I'm talking about! I reach down and guide his finger a centimeter to the left: there. But it still isn't right. His rhythm (or mine) is somehow off. I'm about to suggest he do my neck or my feet or something, when he murmurs, "I've brought some condoms. Only if you want of course -- no pressure or anything."

Well, I dunno, what say we try kissing first? I lift my face to his, and he drily pecks my lips. "No tongue," he says firmly. "I don't kiss people I don't know."

Actually, that makes sense. My dentist informs me that the human mouth is a real cess pool. And you always read about prostitutes who refuse to kiss clients. It doesn't even hurt my feelings. How does he know I floss religiously twice a day?

Still on my back, I reach over to tug his jeans down. They're already unbuttoned. Hello nurse! The table is so high, I only have to roll over slightly to be in a perfect position to slip his cock into my mouth, no neck strain whatsoever.

Again, he draws back. "I'm not really into oral," he says. "Not with a stranger, anyway."

OK.

"I really want to be inside of you," he says. "But I don't suppose this table would support both of our weights?"

Probably not -- I think it's only rated to 300 lbs.

We retire into the bedroom, where he flips on the lights. "Too bright!" I complain. "Just a sec," he says. Apparently he needs light to remove his socks.

I'm pretty willing, but also pretty shy, so I flop onto my belly.

"How'd you know that's my favorite position?" he says.

It's actually more fun than it sounds.

Afterwards, he cautions me not to talk about "the things people always want to talk about." Like what? "You know, traffic, the news, American Idol," he says. That's easy for me. The only thing I really like talking about, under these circumstances, is Sex. And Me. We talk about blogging. Don't you know I'm already composing this entry in my head?

The recent unpleasant incident with the truckdriver makes me reticent to demonstrate affection or even a remote interest in Doing It Again. I lie very quietly and let Clint rub my ass while I tickle his sacrum. Basically, I am waiting for him to leave, but very, very politely. Basically, I am waiting for him to leave so I can get myself off without suggesting his performance was in any way inadequate.

Finally, I can't wait. I take matters into my own hands, while he fondles my breasts. At the moment of climax, he gives me a real, full-on, tongue-involved kiss. Then I quietly start to sob, more from relief than sadness.

It's his turn to wait politely. While I regain my composure, we search for one of his socks, which has gone missing. We find it, moist but intact, in the dogs' bed next to the couch.

Then I see him to the door with instructions on how to get back on Highway 99, and thank him for the massage. Although next time I could use a little more work on my neck.