she may be, but dangerous. Watch yourselves, boys. I smiled to myself as I pumped myself up. It had taken a long, long time to rebuild my self-esteem after my divorce.
Nine o’clock ticked around, and I took my first client. I’d seen him the first day, and thought he might be gay, but obviously it wasn’t my place to ask.
Ten o’clock was Neema, easily my favorite so far. She was Nigerian and spoke with the most beautiful accent, and had no end of stories to tell about where she was from and what she’d seen. Some of it was rough, but mostly her stories were about the insane things her and her family had done living in the African bush when she was a girl just surviving day to day and being happy. Eventually her brother had gone to medical school and brought her to America with him to get an education herself. She was wicked smart, and hardcore, and I loved her from the first time I met her.
And then, at eleven o’clock, I had Rex.
It was my first time seeing him—most of my clients were first-timers, though Logan, my nine o’clock, and Neema had both rebooked for Monday when I finished with them the first time.
I knew Rex’s type the minute I saw him. It wasn’t so much that he looked a particular way, physically; it was the way he walked, the way he looked at me, or at parts of me anyway, and the way he answered my preliminary questions about his health and needs with short, one word answers loaded with suggestive subtext. Unsurprisingly, he needed a lot of thigh and groin work. I politely informed him that I was fully capable of that, and then left him to undress and get under the sheet.
“I got nothing you ain’t seen, doll,” he said. But I excused myself anyway.
I waited outside the door, watched the clock, and gave him the three minutes that was enough for most people.
When I came back inside the room, Rex’s ass was bare, the sheet gathered at his ankles where he’d left it. The furry mound of his balls was showing between his thighs. Guys, we can tell when you stuff it down there to ‘show it off’.
I didn’t comment, though. In my book, everyone got one chance to learn the rules. I pulled the sheet up from his ankles and to his back. “In here,” I told him, in a flat, professional tone, “you stay covered up. Them’s the rules. Got it?”
Rex grunted. “Sure. It’s just hot is all.”
“I’ll turn on the AC,” I told him, and did that—I cranked it down to about sixty. I could always put on a hoodie. Maybe a little cold air would shrivel him up and make him embarrassed to ‘show off’ again, assuming plain human decency wasn’t enough.
I started the work. Deep tissue—real deep tissue. The work I did here for Jarome’s trainees wasn’t some namby-pamby feel-good massage. These were athletes who were sometimes racing deadlines to push themselves for the next match, or to pack on muscle, or meet some other critical goal. Rex’s massage was all elbows and knuckles.
To his credit, he did grunt, groan, and struggle to control his breath. I worked over his back and shoulders, his neck, and arms, and while I didn’t think he’d actually realized he needed it his glutes and hammys were, in fact, knotted and tense.
Once I finished his legs, and carefully tented the sheet for him to roll over. “Flip.” I said curtly.
Rex did, and I made sure he was nice and tucked under the sheet. “You got some serious muscle in that little body, girlie,” he said, eyes closed, face red and decorated with the ‘toilet seat’ impression everyone tended to get from the face-rest at the head of the table.
“My name is Ella,” I told him, as if he didn’t know and it was an honest mistake.
“Right,” Rex said, “Ella; yeah I saw that up front.” It wasn’t an apology, but it seemed like an acknowledgment at least.
I sank my knuckles into the muscle over his chest and stripped both sides an inch at a time
Nine o’clock ticked around, and I took my first client. I’d seen him the first day, and thought he might be gay, but obviously it wasn’t my place to ask.
Ten o’clock was Neema, easily my favorite so far. She was Nigerian and spoke with the most beautiful accent, and had no end of stories to tell about where she was from and what she’d seen. Some of it was rough, but mostly her stories were about the insane things her and her family had done living in the African bush when she was a girl just surviving day to day and being happy. Eventually her brother had gone to medical school and brought her to America with him to get an education herself. She was wicked smart, and hardcore, and I loved her from the first time I met her.
And then, at eleven o’clock, I had Rex.
It was my first time seeing him—most of my clients were first-timers, though Logan, my nine o’clock, and Neema had both rebooked for Monday when I finished with them the first time.
I knew Rex’s type the minute I saw him. It wasn’t so much that he looked a particular way, physically; it was the way he walked, the way he looked at me, or at parts of me anyway, and the way he answered my preliminary questions about his health and needs with short, one word answers loaded with suggestive subtext. Unsurprisingly, he needed a lot of thigh and groin work. I politely informed him that I was fully capable of that, and then left him to undress and get under the sheet.
“I got nothing you ain’t seen, doll,” he said. But I excused myself anyway.
I waited outside the door, watched the clock, and gave him the three minutes that was enough for most people.
When I came back inside the room, Rex’s ass was bare, the sheet gathered at his ankles where he’d left it. The furry mound of his balls was showing between his thighs. Guys, we can tell when you stuff it down there to ‘show it off’.
I didn’t comment, though. In my book, everyone got one chance to learn the rules. I pulled the sheet up from his ankles and to his back. “In here,” I told him, in a flat, professional tone, “you stay covered up. Them’s the rules. Got it?”
Rex grunted. “Sure. It’s just hot is all.”
“I’ll turn on the AC,” I told him, and did that—I cranked it down to about sixty. I could always put on a hoodie. Maybe a little cold air would shrivel him up and make him embarrassed to ‘show off’ again, assuming plain human decency wasn’t enough.
I started the work. Deep tissue—real deep tissue. The work I did here for Jarome’s trainees wasn’t some namby-pamby feel-good massage. These were athletes who were sometimes racing deadlines to push themselves for the next match, or to pack on muscle, or meet some other critical goal. Rex’s massage was all elbows and knuckles.
To his credit, he did grunt, groan, and struggle to control his breath. I worked over his back and shoulders, his neck, and arms, and while I didn’t think he’d actually realized he needed it his glutes and hammys were, in fact, knotted and tense.
Once I finished his legs, and carefully tented the sheet for him to roll over. “Flip.” I said curtly.
Rex did, and I made sure he was nice and tucked under the sheet. “You got some serious muscle in that little body, girlie,” he said, eyes closed, face red and decorated with the ‘toilet seat’ impression everyone tended to get from the face-rest at the head of the table.
“My name is Ella,” I told him, as if he didn’t know and it was an honest mistake.
“Right,” Rex said, “Ella; yeah I saw that up front.” It wasn’t an apology, but it seemed like an acknowledgment at least.
I sank my knuckles into the muscle over his chest and stripped both sides an inch at a time
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