Massage Parlor

I'm a regular corporate job IT worker. I sit behind the computer half the day and in pointless meetings the other half. My boss thinks of himself as the good guy for handing out movie tickets as a bonus. At the same time, he forgets to tell me that my project has been canceled. I find out when I schedule the show and tell presentation, and nobody shows up. Our company creates protocols for network switches, which I guess most readers have no clue what they are.

So I live a pretty average frustrated life. Wednesdays, I take a longer lunch break to make it down to the Hampton strip mall for a massage. You know massage reduces anxiety and improves self-esteem. Those are things the modern male has to worry about. In between Benny's Tacos and Ever Clean Dry Cleaner, there is a little glass door to a low cost massage place. The waiting area with cheap office carpet is tiny. There are two blue plastic chairs and three people standing. They are scrawny middle aged moms who really need a massage. There is the odd potbellied, male city services blue collar worker who feels out of place but very open minded about trying it. We all try not to touch each other, not breathe too loudly, and find an unoccupied spot to stare at without actually seeming like we are staring. So, we need a secondary spot to switch back-and-forth between, so that it seems like we are totally comfortable.

It's $40 for an hour. I wouldn't waste money on a luxury of over $100 for an hour of feeling nice. So the place has to be super-efficient. The college girl behind the counter is talking on the phone and berating an older customer for not tipping enough at the same time. A skinny massage therapist, who is evidently new, looks scared to interrupt the receptionist to find out who her next client is. An older tall male therapist behind her pushed the skinny massage therapist aside to take the center of the waiting room to bark out: "Who's here for Lorenz?"

I try to stay out of the fray of massage therapists and clients pairing up on the hour. Having a very noble attitude, I never ask for a female therapist. I try to let chance pick the therapist and be non-discriminating. There is a constant turn-over because most freshly graduated massage therapists realize that the profession isn't for them. So I don't have to worry much about getting the same dud twice if the therapist turns out to be a dud. Despite all the knightly nobility, my heart always hopes for a cute girl, a warm hearted hippie girl that makes you feel like running barefoot through a field of wild flowers hand-in-hand with her.

That day was a good day. When only rubble was left in the waiting room and a mindless Styrofoam cup on the floor, a short, slim, young white girl called out my name. She wore a causal t-shirt with a big print and workout pants. We walked down the dimly lit hallway with many doors leading into therapy rooms. The therapy rooms were all the same. They were tiny. The massage table didn't even fit in straight. It was diagonally in the room. The door didn't open fully. I kind of had to squeeze myself past the padded foam to get into an open enough space. There was soft music playing from a cheap radio alarm clock. A candle was flickering in the corner. Ah, this was going to be my sanctuary for the next hour from the stress at work. I had survived the parking lot fight to get a spot and the waiting room. I would be able to zone out.

When Angie flicked her finger casually, actually with almost a lack of respect, for me to undress and lie down, I knew something was different with that new girl. Her hand flick felt like a South Central hood rat telling someone: "Yo, slam it down there!" It was very differently from the New Age caring -- "Oh my god, has your aura been bruised by the world?" attitude. There was no concerned question about any areas on my body that might bother me. I kind of liked it. I'm not at all a submissive person who yearns to be bossed around to clean the toilet. However, there was a freshness and direct connection in that. It felt like a wakeup call. Hey, someone is breaking the veneer of the soft elevator music of everyday veneer. She is going to interact with you in a way that's new and keeps you on your toes.

While I undressed with her outside the door, I wondered what kind of massage it would be. I suspected that she didn't have a lot of training and rather fell into it with minimal training. It probably wasn't going to be a high quality massage, but when one gets a massage, the body listens with 100% attention to every touch. The accidents or mistakes sometimes provide the most interesting sensations to feel.

I raised my head out of the face basket on the table to call out that I was ready and under the sheets. The paper towel for hygiene reasons on the face basket was already sticking to my forehead and making a mess. That's what you get for $40 massage. But once I'd close my eyes and feel her hands on my back, there wouldn't be any difference between a high end massage place and this. I was being smart with my money.

Angie walked in. She ripped the sheets of my back AND butt. I nearly jumped off the table for the panic of exposing my butt. I clutched hard to the table instead. A second thought of panic reminded me to keep my groin to the table to hide my penis. My heart was beating frantically. I felt oil being poured over my back, that cold wet sensation. She didn't warm up the oil between her hands. Her small hands pushed down my back. She acted like this was normal.

I remembered that different places have different draping methods. A couple years ago, at another place someone had once explained to me that the sheet down the butt wasn't a big deal because nothing was really visible. It's an old style that died out because obviously American society is rather prude. So, I started relaxing and focusing on my breathing. This was simply a rare thing. I think she hasn't done more than a weekend course in massage. That was probably the only thing they had taught her.

As I relaxed into the strokes, my mind turned gooey. There is that mental space where you think you pay attention to every stroke to soak up the deliciousness, but you are also so out of it that you don't realize when you fall asleep in between and wake up without realizing. I did like that sensation of my bare butt sticking out. It was daring. It was a little sexual under the radar. I was with a young and pretty cute girl in the same room and my butt was out. I tried to remember her look. Her hair was black. She had a trim belly and round boobs lifted by a bra. The workout pants weren't skin tight. They were a bit loose, just a little imagination of how easily she could slip in and out of them with what looked a pretty tight and round butt.

"Flip," she called out like a waitress calls an order into the kitchen.

Where was the gentle touch and soothing voice of "It's time to turn over" and the gentle lift of the sheet to give me room to wiggle my way onto my back?

My butt was sticking out naked! If I'd turn, my dick would be in plain sight. I thought she'd help me with the sheet. She didn't. I could sense her standing back and watching me. I panicked a little on what to do. Then I realized that it was all up to me. My hands struggled to reach low enough to get the edge of the sheet. Flailing hands behind my back like a person in handcuffs, barely mobile, I got the sheet up to my lower back.

"Oh," she called out like she had made a big mistake. There was such depth to her oh that it fully acknowledged the predicament of the situation. But no hands came to help me.

So I struggled like a beetle on its back to keep the sheet over me without throwing it to the side as I turned. I had to scooch down on the table at the same time. Being so out of it from the massage, I could have believed in being able to travel through time as well. On my back, I had pinned the sheet with a butt cheek. I was yanking on it to get it out. And she was watching me, not the slightest motion to help me.

When I was done, her hands returned to my shoulders and worked their way down my arms. There was the soothing feeling. I was back into my private space behind my closed eyes.

"What would have happened if I had simply turned over and swung my dick out into the open? Would she have run screaming out of the room?"

"A friend who frequents strip clubs once told me about a stripper. All the regular girls would only do crotch rides on the pants (lap dances). But this one stripper had come from an underground club. Whenever the security guy wasn't looking, she'd unzip his pants and slip his dick inside of her. Was Angie the equivalent in the massage world? Nothing about her act was like those people who follow a higher calling for healing."

I started wondering, almost yearning to find out, what would have happened if I had simply flipped around without covering myself? Would she have rushed to raise the sheets? Would I have found that one unicorn where things were different? It would be fun to have sexual tension with that cute girl.

Her hands were kneading my shoulder more like a Chinese cook slaps around dumpling dough than a massage therapist. The signals were there that maybe something could happen here. I had always been afraid to get a boner during a massage. The sheets at this place were so thin that they were see through. They contoured the body almost like tights, revealing everything. Massage goes to a great length to be above board and legitimate.

I usually focus on deep breathing and fill my mind with thoughts about computer code and my boss in his swivel chair. That usually flushes any blood out of my penis when the tingles start warning about an impending erection. Before quick, I'm back in a sleep state and forget. With her, I wanted to dare. I let those arousal thoughts of the girl working on me fill my penis with blood.

There is a funny thing that the female readers may not realize. It's hard to tell for a guy if he has an erection or not. Unless one looks or the penis is rubbing against something, a flabby or hard one against the belly feels pretty much the same. The only surefire way to tell is to squeeze it. The way how it reacts to a squeeze is different. A flaccid one won't feel much different when squeezed. A hard one will bounce. But that would make my dick jump up. So, it took quite some sensing to be sure that I had a hard one resting on my belly, flush against the skin. The outline on the very thin, crispy sheets must have been quiet evident, a rise of fabric on my flat tummy.

She worked all around my body, chest, tummy, legs, and arms. In the center, there was that oblong lump of hard manhood. It was like a dance around it. I don't know if she had noticed and ignored it. I don't know if she was too focused on the area she was working on to notice anything else. That not knowing and wondering made it more arousing, more of a game, more of a daring, slowly inching towards a dishonorable line. The blood felt warm and good in my penis. The sexual tension created a heightened state in me that was very rewarding.

"Done. You see me again," she said short and direct before she left the room.

Again alone in the room, I checked my loins. The wood was a super hard seven inches, veins popping out all over the place. With those thin sheets, my dick was like a birthday cake on a platter. I mean, with those thin sheets, my penis was always visible. Could she tell the difference between an extra-large soft penis and my still respectable hard penis? Thinking about how she spent all this time with penises, some surely pitching a full on tent, turned me on even more. There is something depraved and sexual about being around so many dicks and being comfortable with it.

I dressed myself and rushed back to another meeting about some status report. My skin buzzed the whole afternoon from the touch. My mind raced about Angie. Could I get away with more? My entirely boring world of working long hours had a sparkle in its secret center.

Next week, I called the massage place again and for the first time asked for a therapist. "When is Angie available during lunch hour?" My heart was pounding. Would I be labeled a perv for taking an interest in her? Would I be judgmental for not going with anybody? I had to know. I was ready to get a blazing red "A" stitched to my chest, but I had to know. I had to find out if she really was willing to do things over the line.

That Tuesday, Angie was wearing a big pink t-shirt. It was about four sizes too large for her. It's a style. Being so large, one shoulder of the t-shirt slipped down to reveal a lot of décolleté, really a lot more, including bits of her bra. On top of that in giant big letters, it said "BE MY BF." If that isn't a flirty come on. She was super relaxed, not even wearing shoes, she walked around barefoot. She got a cup of water from the water cooler for the last client. I could barely contain myself.

Was that advertising for sexual services? Was she really looking for a boyfriend? Was it merely a fashion statement?

She definitely didn't fit the massage therapist fold. The other therapist all moved and dressed differently. Even the receptionist gave her a stinky eye when Angie walked up to check for her next fare, me. There was a gloating disapproval in the eyes of the receptionist and slight implication that this job wouldn't last much longer for Angie.

Could there be another explanation? Was Angie realizing that her massage skills sucked? Was she on probation and using any means, including appearing sexy, to get the bookings she needed to stay on?

"It's you!" she said with a knowing surprise, not hinting at what she really meant. She simply turned around and started walking to the room. I was left checking out her butt in her sweatpants to figure out what that tone meant.

A boner already started forming. They are most annoying when they are a quarter formed. They are not hard enough to fully stand up against the belly and be flush, nearly invisible. Yet, they are not soft enough to hang along the leg. They just kind of lift enough to be in the way, to poke forward, and to get stuck on the underwear or jeans. So, I have to always shimmy my hips side to side, turn my knee in, and do all kinds of gyrations to get the tip loose of stuck fabric. I mean I can't really reach into my pants in broad daylight to straighten it out. So, I'm doing my little retard dance behind her, always careful to be ready to walk straight should she turn around.

She quickly drops me off in the room with the same flippant finger gesture. I'm already exited to get there and hide my now half grown erection under my belly. She walks in. Like last time, she yanks the sheet of my back and butt. She presses the edge against the bottom of my butt cheeks. I let my dick get hard underneath me, not even worrying. I just like that feeling of being hard in a room with her feminine and youthful energy.

She's rotating her hands over my gluts. I realize that's what the low covering is officially for, to have access to the gluts. Yet, I also realize that the sheet is placed to barely cover my balls. She could be staring at my butt hole. Like, I have no clue if I have full butt cheeks that bud against each other to create something like a cleavage or if I have scrawny butt cheeks that fall apart and show the puckered hole. Anatomically, I simply can't turn around enough to stare at my butt. Evidently, my mind was aroused with sexual thoughts. I wasn't in that yummy dreamy state, but a buzzing electric state.

"Turn over," she said. The way she said it, her massage manners had marked improved.

This was the moment. This was the moment that I had been thinking of over and over during those boring hours of coding applications. It happened again. That was awesome. I felt scared, scared to simply roll over. I pretended to be groggy. I moved a hand loosely and very slowly to put on an act of not knowing what was going on around me.

I was going to go for it. Very slowly, I let myself roll to the side. I could feel the very thin sheet gliding across the top of my thighs. I was going to do it very slowly to give her a chance to jump in and cover me up. My right hip raised of the table. I could feel the fresh air around my penis, still fully secure that she couldn't see. I kept moving. She evidently must foresee that I would be exposed. I brace myself for a rushed hand and having to apologize profusely.

I keep going. I'm half on my side. I stop breathing to listing for a movement from her on the office carpet or a sharp gasp. I keep turning over almost all the way, almost in disbelief. Nothing has happened. My dick is wagging high in the air with impunity. She's rubbing her hands with oil. Her hands glide down my arm.

I'm there on my back, fully awake. Reality fractured. A matrix moment. My dick was fully out. My dick was fully hard. It was so hard that it raised away from my belly. She was going about the massage as normal. I couldn't detect an attitude change.

Was I supposed to cover up? A shocked thought rushed through my head. Maybe, she was in so much shock that she couldn't react at all. Was I traumatizing a young woman starting out in the world? What was going on? I had always worried so much about just having a hint of the appearance to be attracted to a therapist. They'd surely be offended by that. Now, I was fully sexually exposed, yet not the slightest thing happened.

She moved the sheets to work down my quads. She never bothered to cover me up. She casually pushed the sheet out of her way. Okay, so she must be okay with it. If she weren't, she would have used the chance to cover me. I can start to enjoy having my penis out and imagine her stealing glances at my manhood.

"Do you want your wallet?" she interrupted my inner monolog. I had started painting this fantasy of what was going on outside of my closed eyes in vivid colors. It was beautiful like a fairytale, only it included my dick and Angie, whom I was dreaming was melting under sexual tension like chocolate.

"Why?" I quipped stunned.

"Sure!" I hastily added. I had realized where this was going.

She lifted my socks out of the way with such a familiarity of handling men's clothing. She knew exactly how to pick my wallet out of the crumbled up pile of jeans like she had done this before. A second later, I was partially sitting up on the back of my elbows and holding my wallet in my hands. I realized that I was supposed to give her a hefty tip for a happy ending. I had no clue how much I should tip. I had no clue what kind of service I could pay for? Just a hand? Or a lush blow job? Would she go all the way? Would she offer kinky things like her butthole? I mean who knows what's going on in this secret world. I might miss out on a sexual experience that I have only one chance at during my lifetime, this very moment.

"Can you take the tip out? My eyes are a bit blurry," I said. Phew, I figured that would be a good enough excuse. What if this was a police sting operation? What if lots of people who were clueless had that same excuse?

She flipped through the inside of my wallet. She was fully interested. This was the only time that I had seen her that curious and engaged. Every other moment with her, she had always been casual and relaxed. She might have been somewhere else in her mind entirely. This moment, she was fully engaged folding around the paper money. She was checking it. She was counting. I had never seen anyone so interested in actual money bills before. Sure everyone pays attention when it's money. However, it's usually an abstract thing. It's not the actual paper bill of money that gets the attention.

I had a surprising emotional sensation reveal itself. I actually liked her going through my wallet. There was something exposed and vulnerable about it. I let her see my most guarded part. Since being a kid, my parents had always trained me to carefully watch my money and expect pocket thieves and thieves of opportunity everywhere. There was something intimate about letting her roam around freely to see that part of me. It also reminded me of the intimacy with a girlfriend. I was feeling very evidently a connection by allowing her into that space. I might be just a chump to her. She might only care about the money. But in the room for me as my first time, I felt a special connection -- almost something innocent like butterflies.