In the on-going 'applying for massage school' saga, I am required to have had two professional massages within the last year. Friday I had my second.
I called a local day spa that afternoon to set up an appointment. I am not One Who Patiently Waits. I requested the first available session. "I can give you an appointment this evening," the receptionist told me, "would you be okay with a male massage therapist?"
I was game. I'm funny about other people touching me, but if I go through with this school thing, I am going to spend most of a year, mostly naked, getting all touchy-feely with both women and men. I might as well get used to this.
Enter Jeremiah. Ruggedly handsome, 30-year-old Jeremiah.
We chatted a little--mostly formalities (J: Any specific reason you need a massage today? Me: Yes. I have children . . . ) And Jeremiah went to work on me.
It was feeling good. I was relaxing into it. And then his hands started working on my lower back. I've had one professional, and several non-professional, massages from women, but this felt different. His large, manly hands on the small of my back, working out laterally halfway round my waist . . . I shouldn't have been thinking it--let alone feeling it--but there was something so sensual about what he was doing.
I remembered to tell you that Jeremiah is gay, right? Yeah. I'm evidently such a ho for intimate masculine touch that it matters not from whence it comes . . .