Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Playing the Cello

After the fairly intense sexual experiences of Friday night and Saturday morning, I was ready for something a little more relaxed and methodical. Which was good because I had scheduled an afternoon full of massages. If I weren't having sex on a regular basis, I would probably find doing massage frustrating. But as a successor or antecedent to sex, it can be a good way to extend the afterglow or foreplay, respectively. For me, when massage is a wind down from sex it has a very different energy from when it's an appetizer, but the guys on the table seem to enjoy it pretty well either way.

I was motoring homeward Saturday morning when my noon appointment called to say that he was having some trouble with his car. That may have been an I-have-to-pick-my-friend-up-at-the-airport excuse, but probably not, since he expressed a willingness to have me pick him up at the Metro station on my way home. But I had another guy coming at 1:30, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to get this guy back to the Metro and still make it home on time. Ninety minutes is about the minimum amount of time you need between the start of one massage and the next: some massages can be comfortably completed in an hour, but others can't, and in any case, you need to change the sheets and take care of other minutiae.

Anyway, I took advantage of the cancellation to get home at a more leisurely rate and to cut the grass in the front yard. Then I showered and was more than ready when my 1:30 showed up at 1:15.

[Let me just stop here to give you an overview of the rest of the weekend:

The first massage went from 1:15 to 2:30. Then I changed the sheets, started a load of laundry, looked all over the place for my car keys, found my car keys, and got in the car to drive to the Metro to pick up my 3:00. We went back to the house and did the massage, then I drove him back to the Metro and hauled ass to make it back to the house before my 5:00.

At 5:05, my 5:00 called to say he had been delayed but hoped I could still do a massage. I had purposefully left the evening free to loaf and take care of a few chores, and he was my last guy, so I told him to come on. At 6:00, he called to say that he was still stuck in traffic, but that he was going to take an alternate route if I could still do the massage. I was just puttering at that point, so I told him to come on. At 6:30, he arrived, and we started the massage, and then he left at midnight. He was on the table for an hour of that, and we spent some time chatting, but mostly we had about four hours of epic sex. (I was going to say "marathon sex," but top marathoners only have to go for a little over two hours.) I'm going to have to put that story in its own post, however: it was wild and not a little mind bending, and I'm still processing.

Sunday morning, I was up at 8 to be at church at 9:15 to sing with the choir. It was the annual bridging service, where we celebrate the graduating seniors and their march towards adulthood. Since EFU is a senior, she had to give a two-minute homily, and she totally rocked. I was simultaneously immensely proud and a blubbering mess, but I hear that kids will do that to you. I came home and called my Mom and got her machine. I had called her on Friday, though, because on Thursday, I'd gone online to send her some flowers for Mother's Day, and only after I finished the transaction did I realize that I'd asked for delivery on Friday, May 18, instead of Friday, May 11, so I had to call her to make sure she and my Dad were still going to be in Florida on the eighteenth. They usually come north to their summer place sometime just before Memorial Day. Anyway, we talked for a while, and then we talked briefly on Sunday late afternoon when she called back when YFU and I were at Costco, but I meant to call her back again later, and I didn't. So: insufficient phoneage, and the flowers will be a week late; I am officially the Worst Son Ever.

Sunday afternoon, I was supposed to give a massage to another guy that I've been emailing back and forth for a while. I figured he'd bail at the last minute, and he did, so I cut the rest of the grass and worked in the garden. Another buddy of mine who'd said he might want a massage did want a massage, but his email came too late. I was supposed to pick up YFU at 4, but she called and asked whether I could pick her up at 3 instead, so I did. We hung out and watched some TV, and I finished up the yard work. Then I made her her first fried bologna sandwich. Another milestone.]

I always have some music playing when I'm giving a massage. Occasionally, it'll be some light pop (the Mamas and Papas are a good choice), but given the approach I take to massage and what I intend to get out of a massage, the much more common choice is classical music. Specifically, baroque music. Specifically, Bach. Specifically, the unaccompanied cello suites. Specifically, the Yo-Yo Ma recording of the unaccompanied cello suites. Specifically, disc one, though I'm willing to entertain the possibility that after another dozen or so massages, I might give disc two a test drive.

I'm not up to the task of explaining to you why the Bach unaccompanied cello suites are great music in a general sense. You can listen to it yourself, and if you don't like them, well, I'm afraid there isn't much hope for you, though I'm sure that aside from that whole thing where you have no soul, you're probably a wonderful human being, and you likely have a bright future ahead of you in marketing or politics.

Part of why it's such great massage music is that it's great music generally. But more than that, the music is simultaneously simple and deep. It's a single instrument whose frequencies resonate well with the male body. Additionally, there are a variety of tempi, and that's good for accompanying a variety of massage techniques. Plus, it's just over an hour long, so it's about the length of a single massage, and there are eighteen tracks, so it's easy to be sure that you're not getting too far ahead or behind by watching the track numbers. And each track has a satisfying ending note, so you can finish up after track 13 or 16 as well as after track 18.

Mostly, though, it's the energy thing. It promotes calmness and allows you to feel like you're channeling energy directly from the music into the body of the guy on the table. Or channeling energy directly from the body of the guy on the table into the music: giving a massage is a lot like playing an instrument.

The first two guys I had on the table on Saturday had little in common, except that they were both about 5'8. The first was gay and single; the second was bi (I'm guessing) and married. The first was slender and smooth; the second was compact, muscular, and hairy (he was, in fact, built a lot like a cello). The first was talkative; the second was nearly silent. The first was generally loose with tough knots in his shoulders; the second was generally tight with few knots anywhere. The first had thin lips and was nervous about using them; the second had full lips and was a pretty decent kisser. The first had extremely sensitive nipples and an average, straight cock; the second had moderately sensitive nipples, and a short, bent cock.

There is, nonetheless, a universality about the massage experience. Both arrived with a lot of stress, and both left minus some tension and a load. Both responded well to Bach and to my hands. Both say that they want to come again.

I'm not sure where the massage thing goes from here. I did drop about $200 on the table and another c-note on supplies, so I reckon that I should give at least a hundred massages so that the per-use cost is less than a trip to Starbucks. And God knows I love doing it. I suspect that it will become a steady hobby, and I hope that I get a regular group of people for the table. I'm certainly open to the possibility of it becoming a supplemental source of income, but that would probably happen a while in the future, if ever. I think this weekend showed me that, with some training and practice, I could probably give twenty massages a week and have it be a pleasure rather than a chore.

And, hey, if every once in a while an hour on the table turns into four hours in the sack, it's just one of those avocational hazards that I'll have to deal with.

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