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  NIGHTSPOTS

Deep Tissure
a touching new column by C.J.
2012-06-20

This article shared 1957 times since Wed Jun 20, 2012
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As the first client of the day finally ejaculated from between my almost closed and nearly palsied fist, I wondered if I had any patience left at all. This particular client wanted me to tickle him slowly—barely touching him—for one hour ... in silence. His requests turned a sixty-minute massage into an exercise in monotony. I spent my time trying to remember the lyrics to "Poker Face," and wondering how many square inches of back fat he had. I also thought about lunch, a haircut and if I should blame an older cousin who tickled me too much as a child for a slight stutter I had in fourth and fifth grade. My patron's face was far too small for his massive head covered in blonde peach fuzz. His skin was pasty and white, stretching over a body that smothered my massage table. Full body massages can be tough when you look down at the client and feel like you're polishing a turd.

Had he been remotely attractive I might not have minded how boring he was. Unfortunately, I was working in Philadelphia that week and attractive is not an adjective I would associate with many of Philly's residents. In a 2009 poll by Travel and Leisure, the City of Brotherly Love had been voted number three (between Baltimore and Anchorage) as having the ugliest citizens in America. Now, I'm not a super model but I am a handsome guy of German-Irish descent with a linebacker's body and a great ass. So, I wrapped up one of the more boring hours of my massage life, then, after two more clients that day (one whose entire body was so hairy I thought I was going to rub the skin off of my hands), I decided to buy the quickest ticket I could find to Miami.

I arrived in Miami the next afternoon under a ray of sun, ready to once again enjoy being a masseur without having my gag reflex constantly tested. It didn't take long. One hour after checking into a South Beach hotel with a room large enough for a massage table, I received my first client. He was a repeat customer who loved having his ass and calves massaged and I loved fulfilling his wishes. He was a built, six foot, handsome Italian with a niner and a muscular, round, happy ass that defied gravity. He had thick black hair and a strong profile with a whisper of Guido. He walked in and without hesitation stripped and hopped onto my table as he had done many times before. I put on Hotel Costas 12, a down-tempo lounge album I loved playing while massaging the hotter clients.

I started the massage and within seconds he was telling me about the "girlfriend" he had recently broken up with and how he missed banging her. This was the same girlfriend he had been complaining about to me on every other appointment we'd ever had. In the two years I had been doing massage I had seen the Italian maybe ten times on five separate trips and we always had variations of the same conversation about his girlfriend. This day was no different.

Like clockwork, he'd eventually turn over and ask, "You never fuck girls?"

I'd say, "No, not since high school," which was a lie. I never fucked girls. I never wanted to.

He'd then shove his massive hand between my legs and run it up the back of my ass then back towards my cock and balls then around the side of my ass pulling me closer. I'd happily acquiesce and we'd kiss passionately for a few minutes while I jacked his perfect cock, trying to control the urge to suck it. He always came while squeezing my well-endowed ass.

As always, he left a hand print as well as an extra fifty on top of the two hundred I charged for a nude massage. On the way out the door, as usual, he'd ask if I'd like to meet him in a few hours for a drink but I always said I was booked for the day, which was usually true. I preferred keeping him in the massage box.

I almost never let relationships with clientele bleed into my personal life, however, had I thought we had a real connection other than our regular role play massage and shallow sexual attraction' I may have cancelled an entire afternoon of appointments for him. I rarely kissed clients like I did with the Italian but he made my butt quiver on sight. I only had sex with a healthy handful of customers but, they were men I would have hooked up with anyway.

That said, there have been a few single date disasters with clients during which they looked at me like a living blow-up doll. Their side of the conversation was always of a sexually suggestive nature. When five minutes into a Martini your date suggests a prostate massage, it's time to walk away and stop, as they say, shitting where you eat.

After a prosperous week in Miami I decided to head up the coast to Fort Lauderdale and work for a few days. I found a beautiful hotel on the intra-coastal waterway and readied myself for business. Setting up my table using one of the ridiculously high thread count sheets supplied by the hotel, I reminded myself to take it when I left.

After a couple of ninety-minute back-to-back therapeutics with a twist I decided to take a walk down the street to my bank to deposit some cash, as I never kept more than six hundred in my hotel room. On the way back to the hotel I received a call from a prospective client.

"Hi, is this C.J?," he asked.

"It is. How are you today buddy?," I responded.

"Fine, can I please get a massage in the next hour!"

He was breathless, as if he would explode if it didn't happen.

"Ok."

I then gave him directions to my hotel and told him to be there in thirty minutes. He agreed and thirty minutes later I was opening the door to a plain, yet attractive man in his forties, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as if he were about to piss himself. I invited him in then asked if he needed to use the restroom.

"No, No, I just really wanna get on the table if that's coolsy."

"Absolutely," I said happily while internally cringing over the word "coolsy."

Within a few seconds he had stripped and was lying face down on the table. I turned on MGMT's Oracular Spectacular, guessing he would appreciate the energy of the album. I launched into the massage with medium pressure as requested, making small talk about nothing worth remembering. Forty-five minutes into the hour massage he asked if he could turn over for the ending and make an additional request. I said that would be fine, depending on the request.

As he rolled over he asked, "Can you tickle my feet while you give me an ending?"

Thinking this sounded harmless I told him it wouldn't be a problem. Being right-handed I thought the best strategy would be to finish him off with my right hand while tickling his feet with my left hand. I proceeded to carry out his request. Within seconds he was giggling wildly in between moans that resembled a dog's closed-mouth cry for a treat.

After a minute or two he said, "Tell me you're gonna tickle me harder!" So I did.

"I'm gonna tickle you so damn hard! I'm gonna tickle you hard all the time!"

And I tickled and I tickled as he squirmed, wildly moaning and giggling. At the time I felt privileged to be witnessing such a display.

"Tickle me harder. Tell me you wanna tickle me harder than ever!," he then demanded, through odd moans.

"I'm gonna tickle you so damn hard. I'm gonna tickle you to death!"

Silence.

The moans, giggling and squirming stopped faster than they had started. I tried to continue stroking him but it was futile. He went from hard cock to flaccid ding-a-ling in a nanosecond. I had gone too far.

"I'll tickle you to death?" he asked, judgingly.

I couldn't believe this grown infantile man with a tickle (gag) fetish was judging me. I can barely listen to that MGMT album anymore without hearing that damn giggle. I apologized for my wording as he put on his clothes and paid me. I then offered him a discount on his next massage. I never saw him again.

Sometimes you hit the cock on the head and sometimes you miss it by a mile. I felt a little defeated afterwards so I only took a couple clients for the rest of that day. I then went out to a popular gay nightclub called Sea Monster and got drunk on vodka lemonades and tequila shots. I woke up hung over and surly the next morning in bed with a Cuban who couldn't keep his finger out of my asshole.

In a clouded memory of lights and skin I recalled us having sex the night before and enjoying it, but I got rid of him and bought a ticket home to Chicago. While this had been a monetarily successful trip I was ready to fly north. I folded up my table, packed my suitcase and within an hour I was in the air, wondering if I had remembered to snatch that sheet.

— C.J


This article shared 1957 times since Wed Jun 20, 2012
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