Photo Credit: iStock
By Alex Alexander
I’ve always heard of men going to special massage parlors for that happy ending “relief” at the end, but I had no idea if that was something that ever happened for women.
I never judged anyone for going but felt it wouldn’t be something I would enjoy. Until I experienced it for myself.
I was at a regular spa. Not a special parlor, but your garden-variety spa known amongst all the new and popular chain spas that have popped up all over the good old USA, offering monthly spa memberships.
I wasn’t a member but I was having severe pain due to a sports injury and needed some relief. At the time, I was also going through a bad breakup.
My ex and I finally ended our long-term relationship; in the last few years of our relationship, the sex was non-existent. He never wanted it and he’d shut me out. It was emotionally crushing and killed my self-esteem. I wondered if I was still sexy and still lovable.
I had a male masseuse and he was the absolute right choice for my sore and broken-down body. At one point during the massage, as I was face up, my towel slipped revealing my right breast.
Rather than getting embarrassed, as I would’ve expected myself to be, it actually felt a little exciting to momentarily flash this masseuse. So, when it happened a second time (perhaps “accidentally” knocked off by his intentional tough kneading), I laughed and said, “I’m so sorry to flash you — twice.”
“That’s OK. I’m a man. I don’t mind.”
I noted that. And noted that I was excited. Sexually. Yet, this man was easily fifteen years older than I was and not even close to my physical type. It was just fun to have that kind of sexual tension in the air again after a few years of sexual drought.
Plus, my body was so relaxed that it was hard not to get excited. When you’re in a bad relationship and constantly fighting, the stress gets to you. Here was an hour of peace and relaxation just for me to forget everything.
I left that night and knew I’d return. Not only was the idea of teasing him again a bit exciting, but my neck and back — which were a mess — felt a million times better. The spa receptionist had definitely set me up with the right masseuse.
A month later, I went back and requested the same man. Except this time, when I entered the room there was a familiarity and playfulness.
As we got into the massage I noticed him getting particularly close to sensitive areas. For example, when he started to massage the backs of my thighs, he got particularly far into my buttocks and vaginal area.
I was already getting turned on, so by the time he flipped me over to work my front, I was curious: how far would it go this time?
As he massaged my upper chest area he told me, “I notice you’re very tight in your chest.”
“Oh?” I said, “What would help it feel better?”
“Well, I could do a breast massage. I wouldn’t be fresh. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“That sounds fine. I’m not a prude. Whatever you think will help.”
Obviously, the two of us had a different plan than just helping my tight chest muscles.
He pulled down the sheet and began to rub my breasts. He didn’t touch my nipples (sadly), but just his hands on my breasts were enough to have me continue to pull down the towel until it exposed my belly button and above.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’m getting a little hot.”
“That’s OK. I don’t mind at all. I’m getting turned on.”
And with that, he moved from behind my head and massaging my breasts to standing in front of me, pulling down the towel all the way, and “working” my clitoris.
Finally, I asked for what I wanted: “Will you go down on me?” I got my wish and I have to admit, it was one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.
My “happy” tune changed, though, when he asked if he could have sex with me, and I said absolutely not. I suppose I was selfish; I wanted to get off and didn’t care at all if he did or not.
Afterwards, as the massage ended and it was time for me to get dressed, I started to feel awkward. That female guilt, something a man would never feel, started to hit me.
What had I just done?
As I thanked him for the massage, he handed me his card for a private at-home massage service. I said I’d call but as I walked away I knew I wouldn’t. And now I really felt like a man (minus that guilt).
I waited a year to return to that spa and made sure to never request him again, despite the excitement. That after-orgasm regret stuck with me. Besides, what if this was something he did with many women? How would I know?
And when he asked to have sex it felt way too real. Not that I should’ve been surprised but that the “fantasy” became all too real and I knew I couldn’t handle any more than what he did to me. I knew his “card” was really him asking to have sex with me, and I didn’t want that.
Almost two years later, the experience still excites me but the guilt is gone. I had fun, and while I probably wouldn’t do it again, I’m glad I have the memory.
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