Tuesday, Jul. 16, 2002 - 10:26 p.m.
I’m An Envelope: Push Me

So I hired a gay masseur to come over to my place—portable table in tow—for what was specified upfront as a non-sexual massage. I’d had coffee with a friend of his, Jim, Friday night when Travis—in his late twenties or early thirties, short, well-built and cute—came up to our table to hand Jim his brand new card. Then, almost as an afterthought, Travis shyly handed out cards to the rest of us around the table before walking off. I immediately pressed Jim for details, and learned that Travis was just starting up his business, and that he does “out-calls” only. Jim doesn’t know me that well, we’re only acquaintances at this point, but he must have intuited something about me because he made a point of reiterating what was spelled out (‘Non-Sexual’) on the business card: “Just so you know, he doesn’t give naughty massages, eh?”

This sounded rather interesting, and I had already decided to have a massage this weekend on account of my shoulder. I called the next day and booked Travis for Sunday afternoon.

He arrived, set up his table in my living room. He told me to strip down as far as I was comfortable; “Oh, and I should tell you this because it may affect your decision: a butt massage is included,” he added shyly. “Non-sexual, I mean,” he added, chuckling self-consciously. This was all sounding good so far.

I lay down, naked, on my belly. “I should warn you,” I said, as he covered my butt with a towel, “I make a lot of noise, eh?” Laughing, Travis said, “Ah, you’re a screamer.”

I confirmed same.

With that, he was off and rubbing. A pretty decent back rub; he could use some work on his technique but overall I was satisfied. A little later, there were several titillatingly close calls that got me moaning and spasming, but when those fingers traced and caressed the cleft of me to graze up against my asshole I cried out, thinking Non-sexual, my ass!

It was time, Travis informed me, to turn over. Nearly out of breath, I was happy to comply. And lo and behold, there my non-sexual masseur was: shirtless! When did that happen? Hmm…

Travis, I soon realized, is one of those guys who looks better bare-chested. Clothed, he appears paunchier than he is. I was mesmerized by that potent, hairy chest and those bulging biceps. As he tucked the towel in around my hips—he arranged it so high on my midsection, I could feel my balls exposed—Travis avoided meeting my eyes. Just as well; it was getting warm enough in there already.

“How’s the massage so far?” he asked, sounding insecure. I gave him a reassuringly rave review.

Travis worked on my legs. Perhaps his fingers detected knotted muscles I myself wasn’t aware of in the uppermost and innermost thigh regions; in any event, I got a lot of attention there. As I whimpered and gasped, my cock danced beneath the towel. Especially when his fingers grazed my right testicle.

Then he rearranged the towel again, pulling it low on my hips and loosening it. I raised my neck so I could see just what this looked like, and sure enough, my hard-on was now completely and utterly visible, straining against the loose towel. Even I was slightly embarrassed by how much pre-cum there was.

Travis, meanwhile, didn’t bat an eye. He man-handled my chest, and all of a sudden I felt vulnerable, momentarily overwhelmed by a yearning to curl my head into his furry belly, inches away. I refrained. Then he commanded, “Now relax, I’m going to rub your belly.”

Relaxing was out of the question, but I gave myself over to it. Oh my fucking god. How he managed to jostle my erection into such a prolonged frenzy without actually touching it, I have no idea.

I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

Travis moved down to my feet and worked them over; I caught my breath. And then the ninety minute massage was over.

He put on his shirt, I slipped on my bathrobe and we had a smoke together.

“Wow,” Travis said, laughing, “You do moan a lot! A couple times I closed my eyes and—man!—it sounded like we were having sex.”

“Oh yeah?” I said.

There was a pause. We smoked our cigarettes.

He talked about setting up his business, about why he chooses to—ahem!—provide non-sexual massages. Not only does he have a boyfriend, Travis explained, but he “wouldn’t feel right” charging money for any sort of sexual services.

“One of my clients did ask last week if I’d mind if he jerked off while I rubbed his feet at the end. And I said sure. But that’s as far as it’s ever gone. I wouldn’t ever have sex with a client.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“But I could tell that you wouldn’t mind that little extra bit I threw in there during the belly rub,” he said, impishly.

“Perceptive!” I exclaimed, laughing.

“I figured you’d enjoy it.”

I confirmed same.

I asked him more about his boyfriend and—get this—I know the guy! I’m not going to say how, but I’ve met Travis’s live-in boyfriend a few times and, at least up until very recently, I did not like him at all. He tried to pick me up aggressively when I first moved here last fall and I was turned off. In the last week or so, though, I’ve crossed paths with him again and find him not nearly so overbearing. And now I learn that he and Travis are a couple. Sheesh.

The massage did help relax me—at least, once I whacked off like a fiend moments after Travis was out the door—and it helped my shoulder too. And, more than all that, getting rubbed by a man—however it’s advertised, whatever actually happens that may or may not have been advertised—regresses me to those childhood fantasies (and sex games) that form a substantial part of my sexuality. It’s a huge turn-on.

Such escapades are probably best sought from masseurs whose boyfriends I don’t know. I’d be wise not to explore this any further with Travis, eh?

Well, I forgot to mention that he’s got this special on right now: two for the price of one. So I get a free ninety minute massage; he’s returning Friday evening for Part Two.

But after that, I promise I’ll find my jollies elsewhere.