Massage Heaven

Massage Heaven

     She enters into my sacred space with her soft words, “Are you comfortable?”
     My deep voice whispers, “Oh yes I am.”
     She has me lying on my stomach on the massage table. She reaches beneath the towel and gingerly clasps my perineum between her dainty fingers. With her calligrapher’s finger, she traces the flesh ridge between my figs and orifice. She says with forgone surety “Is it ok to touch you there?”
    “Need you ask?” I reply.
     “My body is naked when I massage. My nudity relaxes men’s fear of emotional intimacy so healing can happen. My men are a wounded lot with women their only cure. How could I deny males like you the sight of my bare body which brings ya’ll such great joy? And so I shed my inhibitions like a cicada does its shell.”
    “There is courage in your nudity. You are a Florence Nightingale to the suffering men of humanity” I reply.
     “Oh, she was my heroine when I was young! But I learned the secret to male happiness back in Natchez. Here in New Orleans, I made the bottom rub into my own art. It became the essential ingredient which turns an ordinary massage into an opiate for oedipal men. They flock to my studio for my hour-long panacea. But the grail they all seek is a spanking. How can I deny them expiating their sins by me chastising them as they do their women?”
     I reply, “You are my Karmic dessert.”    
     “Men find religion through me.” She works her magic on my supple body. “You’re a good-looking man,” she says.
    Her hands crawl across my shoulders. Their spidery prisms web her touch. My rose blushed hips rise in her hands which tenderly cradle and cup my twin moons.
     “Do you like these nighttime sessions, Paul?”
    “I like them a lot,” I say.
     She replies, “I get more daring at night. I’m glad you undressed completely. I love working on a naked man. Skivvies get in the way.”
     My heart beats in a bath of ambient music. The waves of sound wash over me like a tropic surf. I am her client, yet her hands hold me like a lover. I am naked underneath the cotton towel which drapes me like an altar cloth. Deep in the crux of my manhood, I feel my nexus pulse.
     She places her hand upon my boyish bottom in the heart of my pleasure. “Paul, feel my hand upon your tuchis. You are so soft like down.  I want to be soft and feminine with you, but you are so naughty. Your body is tender like a bamboo sprout. You’re trembling. Don’t be afraid. You are so young and in need of my guidance.”
     Suddenly her hands spank my fanny to send surges of Caribbean warmth flooding under her touch. Her smacks are met with my moans of gratitude.
     “Young man here comes your first real lesson in Ginny’ class.”
     My hotcakes turn nice and warm. I exclaim, “Ooh! Ah! This is a real education. I’m going to scream if you keep this up. Wowza! Oh my God! There I go into wonderland! Keep them coming, my Queen. I’ve been a very bad boy. Oh la la! The heat! The Heat! I’m melting.”
     After her act of disciplinary compassion, words come. “Ginny’s hot sauce got some kick to it don’t it?”
     “Ginny, there ain’t no Tabasco as hot as yours.”
     “Did you like your derriere workout?”
     “It felt like the ache of lilies dying to flower blossoming in my buns.”
     “Oh, Paul your poetry melts my heart.”
     Her heart is guarded but disclosure comes. “I just turned twenty-one,” she says. I lie in acquiescence to her kneading of my body’s need. Ginny unfolds like a fan with intimations. “When I was a kid I had a dog. He didn’t like men. But he liked me. I think it’s because I was a woman and he was a male.” She has me pivot onto my back and says, “So you won’t feel too vulnerable we’ll cover your family jewels with the towel.” I nod assent.
     She says, “I usually have a good feel for my client’s comfort zone. So I’ll stretch the boundaries of our encounter. If you point ‘it’ down I can go lower.”
     I look up, “What is ‘it’?”
     Ginny repeats “Point ‘it’ down and I can go lower. I won’t touch your kielbasa if that’s what you’re worried about.”
     I sink into silence. She asserts, “My intuition has never steered me wrong before.” She reaches across me and points my quill down. Then she rubs up and down my pubis until my manhood grows from a sapling into a mighty redwood. Yet her fingers never make contact with my tree of life.
    She speaks “You know one of my colleagues has a problem with giving men a bikini wax. She doesn’t like the guy’s rod slipping out of his underwear. I tell her to just push it back under. I don’t mind massaging a man’s rod, if not for the rules. It’s just another part of the human body. It’s natural.”
     My voice quivers with excitement. I tell her “Please keep massaging me down there.”
     Her hands orbit my pinnacle with determination. My crown is exposed as the towel slips under her pressure. My eyes close in the unmistakable float in her sea of sensuality which I’ve experienced countless time from Ginny. After an eternity of bliss, she asks me “Did you like this kind of massage?”
     I huskily answer, “Oh yes.”
     She says “I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s your wife doing?”
     “She’s moving out as we speak. We’re divorcing.”
     Ginny exclaims, “But you still love her, don’t you? You don’t stop loving her just because you’re breaking up!”
     I scarcely dare to breathe as I feel her fingers rub my match-head until stricken into liquid fire. “It’ll be ok honey” she consoles me.
     She retreats from the room. My heart throbs like a boy who got his wish on Christmas day.