Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Friday Massage

I may have experienced an attitude adjustment this past weekend. Or at least an adjustment in outlook. And please don't worry, readers. I didn't change anything fundamental: I'm not going to give up sex outside the relationship or start telling you that it's wrong to end a sentence with a preposition. I wonder if there's some sort of correlation there: is it possible that the false pedants clinging to a rule that never existed or made sensekind people who tell you that it's wrong to end a sentence with a preposition are the same uptight prudes kind people who insist on monogamy. (For the record, I was only joking about the "uptight prudes" part. I respect the monogamous few. The people who tell you not to end sentences with prepositions? Not so much.)

Anyway, sometime early last week or late the week before, I'd answered a CL ad from someone who wanted a massage. I hadn't given a massage in months, and I was missing it, so this seemed like a good idea. There was some trouble getting our schedules aligned, but we finally settled on Friday evening at 7:30.

I reckon this guy had had some bad CL experiences because he called, texted, and emailed me repeatedly in the days leading up to the massage to make sure I was coming. He also asked about music and oil and this and that. I told him some baby oil would be a good thing and that he should just play whatever music most relaxed him. He'd also sent me several pictures of his body. It looked good.

He lived in an apartment that was in the basement of a house in Hyattsville. You would call this a working class neighborhood. I love working class neighborhoods. If I could, I would live in Baltimore. In a row house on a long line of row houses. Surrounded by neighbors with friendly dogs. Dogs love me. No, not like that, you pervs. Anyway, the building and the placement seemed unprepossessing, but the apartment itself was nicely furnished, though it seemed like the sort of place where maybe he didn't spend a lot of time. The guy himself was obviously your typical Type A workaholic. He was wearing gym gear, and he told me that he sells nutritional products to gyms for a living. It was also obvious that he was considerably older than he'd claimed in his post, and while he did have a terrific body, the highlights weren't fooling anyone. He'd claimed mid-thirties in his CL ad, and I guessed he was pushing fifty, but if the guy's fit, I'm generally more comfortable with pushing fifty than with thirty-anything, anyway, so, you know: bring it on.

He was also obviously very nervous and had clearly imbibed a fair amount of cheap white to calm his nerves. He'd also made his small apartment very hot by turning on the oven and the stove burners. We chatted for a bit, but I was thinking we should just get to it. I had a lot to get done that night in addition to playing with him, and I figured he might take longer than I'd budgeted for: sometimes it takes a good bit of kneading to turn a Type A workaholic into a begging-for-it submissive. Which, I should add, had not been my original plan. My original plan had been to give him a good massage, slide a finger or two up his ass, kiss him for a bit, and then wank him to completion and be heading out the door within an hour. Best laid plans and all that, right?

Anyway, I maneuvered him towards the bed and told him to get comfortable. He stripped to his boxers (who do you think you're kidding, dude?) and lay on his stomach. He'd heated some oil with lavender, and I started to rub it on him.

So you know: standard massage. Oil, shoulders, deep pressure, moving down, boxers off, buttocks, perineum, thighs, firm pressure, calves, feet, long strokes over the entire body, buttocks and perineum redux, extra oil, one finger, prostate, two fingers, writhing, moaning, ass lifting off bed, and then it's time for the front side.

The prostate massage and, especially, all that wine, meant that he needed to piss after I'd finished his back. It was pretty hot in his apartment, and I was by now down to my shorts, and when he came back, I started on his front, and when I kissed him, he just said, "Thank you." After the shoulders and arms and anterior pelvis, I played with his cock for a while. He'd been talking throughout, telling me about his job and about how much he liked what I was doing to him. I decided to lie next to him on the bed and make out for a bit. Oily guy: fun, fun, fun.

It was all good, really, until he started to confide in me. He told me a lot of stuff that was very private. None of it was the sort of thing that was in any way embarrassing or shameful, but it was all the sort of thing that you probably oughtn't to share with a stranger, and I probably oughtn't to share with you. It was extremely intimate, and even if it was intimacy fueled by massage and alcohol, it was very pleasant. Even though I knew that a guy who gets drunk and shares those sort of secrets with you the first time he meets you is not going to meet you a second time. And, well, let's just say that he was the sort of guy whose life hasn't turned out quite the way he wanted. I know that's probably true of most people, but it was more acutely true in this guy's case.

There were many whispered confidences, punctuated by a good deal of making out. He was having trouble holding his erection, almost certainly because he'd had so much to drink, but it was still a good time. I played with his ass a lot, and when he said he'd like me to eat it, I didn't have to be asked twice. I did, though, have to ask for a damp washcloth. His ass was immaculate on the inside, but I don't want my tongue in massage oil. Anyway, I rimmed him for a while, and he was loving it but getting more and more tired from the alcohol. I told him that what all guys like him really wanted was to be tied to the bed and fucked, and he told me that he wished I would do that, right away. He was, from the first touch, putty in my hands, in several ways.

But I wasn't prepared. I hadn't expected to fuck, so I hadn't brought any condoms, and I hadn't brought lube. He hadn't been fucked in years, and he didn't have any of either. He was totally down with a bareback fuck aided by massage oil, but, well, no thanks! In any case, his ass was really tight. It'd been work to get two fingers in. To get four in really would have needed lube and more patience than I had. I told him that I could tie him down and fuck him next time, and he seemed excited, but I also told him that I was pretty sure there wouldn't be a next time because he would sober up and be embarrassed and never get in touch with me again.

It's an open question whether telling a submissive guy that he's never going to contact you is a self-fulfilling prophecy or an attempt to spur him into action. I tend to think that it's simply an acknowledgment of a fact. In any case, this guy was nice, and he'd probably have made a good lay, but there was plenty of potential for unpleasantness. He seemed kind of short on friends and short of interests: the kind of guy where you very quickly run out of things to talk about when neither of you is naked and oiled. I have a lot of compassion for people like that, but they are usually very resistant to make the few simple changes necessary to have a much better life, and if I'm going to insert myself into someone's miserable and fucked up life, I don't want it to be miserable and fucked up in a static or tedious way. And, hell, it was just supposed to be a massage.

Anyway, because I was feeling a little sorry for him and because he wasn't very well endowed, I put him on his back and went down on him for a little while. That was when he told me that he loved me. Twice. Fortunately, I didn't laugh, but only because my mouth was somewhat full. I sucked on him for a few minutes, but whenever I'd let him out of my mouth, he'd go soft again, and he seemed very out of it, so I told him I should go. He thanked me and rolled over on his stomach and went to sleep, or at least pretended to. It was hard to tell, and he was pretty wasted. I got dressed and headed out. I noticed that he'd left his door unlocked, so I made sure to lock it behind me.

There's something very satisfying about spending three hours, most of it naked, in close contact with a guy who keeps telling you that you can do whatever you want to him, even if you don't want to do all that much to him. Or at least the time goes by quickly and pleasantly, and when you're working and tired and stressed all the time, a three-hour interlude where you don't think about anything except what you're doing with your hands and what some stranger is telling you is very restorative. In a lot of ways, it's not the sort of encounter I'd seek out, but it turned out to be just what I needed, even if it did mean that I didn't get to sleep until nearly 4am.

The guy told me that he'd like to spend every Friday night that way, but I didn't expect to hear from him again, and I haven't. I have very much learned to embrace the NSA one-off. The struggle used to be not to mind when there wasn't a repeat. Now it's more to remain open to the possibility of a repeat. I don't think that there's anything wrong with disposable fun, but I wouldn't want to pass up either reusable fun or a friendship just because I go in with no expectations. Sex is a strange, complex, multi-faceted, and wonderful thing, whether it leads to an interaction of fifteen minutes, three hours, or years.


Canberrabiker said...

Wonderful observations in this post, my friend. Interesting to reflect on what that encounter might mean to the other chap in maybe a few years time.

FitchLove21 said...

He was lucky o have gotten you as a cl hook up. anyone else wouldve have probably taken advantage of him he was so wasted. your a good perosn for that.