The sanctity of massage

To resume the story of my recent trip, and to try to balance the profane with something more sacred, I saved the morning before my colleagues arrived in town for a therapeutic massage. I had scoped out the online ads and sex forums and decided to visit J, a licensed massage therapist who had gotten good reviews and seemed to know what her male clients expected.

Luckily, the mass transit system was pretty easy to figure out. One of the bus routes had a stop about a block away from my destination. I got on the bus early just to be sure, and left downtown with its offices and restaurants, rolled through the college district with academic-looking buildings and coeds with musical instruments, and dieseled into a mixed neighborhood of brick and wooden row houses, dry cleaners, and convenience stores.

It turns out I was too early so I stopped for a coffee at a local greasy spoon and then walked around a little. It seemed like a pretty safe working class neighborhood. What stood out, in addition to the blocks and blocks of row houses, were all of the churches. There was every denomination and just about every kind of architecture - cathedrals built of stone, modest cement structures, ostentatious steeples, storefronts with hand painted signs. The streets were so quiet and solemn on this weekday morning and I imagined the stained glass windows rattling from massive organ pipes or painted-over display windows shaking from the Sunday night gospel singing and dancing.

J's place was in what looked like a former brick mansion once owned by a sea captain or a captain of industry that was now divided into offices. Insurance agents, a barber shop, financial services. I met her outside after some confusion about the time. A thirty-ish black woman, she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, not what you might expect from someone about to give a sensual massage.

I followed her into what used to be a formal greeting area but now holds an empty reception desk piled with papers. On the left a former sitting room, now filled with several more desks and piles of paper. Next to the missing receptionist the grand staircase, finely appointed in dark mahogany, was still grand, and I followed J up the creaky, musty stairs that bore several generations of families and businesses.

The stairs wound around in a full circle and on the second floor landing, next to a full length mirror, tucked into a corner, was the door to J's room. A tiny space - there was just enough room for the massage table, a chair, a huge steam radiator, and space for her supplies - it was probably once a servant's room. We were both glad the radiator was working and J turned the lights down low and left the room while I undressed. The so-called closet was so small, the hangars could only fit in at an angle so I stuffed my clothes in as best I could.

J came in as I was lying face down on the table, covered my ass and legs with a towel, and put some new age guitar music on her CD player. I wondered about the towel, but she advertised not only on the legitimate therapeutic forums, but also in the erotic. I also read reviews of her services that really left no doubt about a happy ending.

The massage was very thorough - she left no muscle tense. We chatted a little. She sees 3-4 clients a day and sets her own hours. After more that four massages her hands and arms get fatigued. She talked about the neighborhood which is quite safe, but like other cities, one block can make the difference between affluence and desolation row.

After finishing my back and arms she moved the towel over one leg and worked on the other. Her brushes against my balls every now and then gave me hope and some hardening around the arteries down there. A strange sensation - almost lulled to sleep by the relaxing hand work yet stirred by anticipation of orgasm.

J asked me to flip over and she again covered one leg while she worked on the other. However, when she was at the top of my thigh, she had to move the towel a bit and it became obvious that my anticipation had overcome my sleepiness and was making itself known in no uncertain terms.

She finished with my toes, slathered more oil on her hands and carefully and sweetly wrapped her fingers around my cock and began a slow stroke. I must have sighed a little and she hesitated, then asked, Do you want me to stop? Oh, no please continue. And she did. And it was good. There's something about an oiled-up hand job, especially after being rubbed down so expertly everywhere else, that draws something primal out of me - my whole sense of being focused on those few square inches of skin and muscle engorged with blood, sending a feeling through my core and out of my throat as guttural moans.

I was able to run my hands over her ass and up to her tits, but I didn't really need the extra fantasizing since she had my attention focused so well. It didn't take too long for me to release and I couldn't move a muscle. I don't know where she got it but J produced a steaming hot towel to clean me off and I thought I was going to come a second time then and there with the sensation I got. If someone asked me what year it was right then, I'd be hard pressed to answer.

She finished up my other leg, worked my chest and head a little and we were done. She left the room and I dressed myself (no subservient Asian girl help with my clothes). We hugged on my way out and she seemed genuinely grateful for my tip. I walked out of the building feeling tingly all over. I felt like I had been through a religious experience. I think I saw God in the second floor storage room of an converted mansion in an old east coast city with the help of God's angel of mercy and a bottle of oil.