The moment she opened the door I knew I had hit the jackpot.
It was always a roll of the dice, back in those days, booking some companionship from one of the available options. Sensual massage was my usual poison. In those days before the internet, before review sites, the game was played through newspaper ads. The most reliable was the iconoclast tabloids, where on the literal back page you found a variety of notices for unconventional goods and services. You could go for an aura reading, or colonic irrigation, for example—or for a massage.
In those ads, you had to read between the lines, because explicit details were out of the question. By calling the number you could hear her voice and gather a few more particulars, but try to get to the point on the phone and next thing you know you were talking to Mr. Dial-tone.
Sometimes you knew right away; usually, though, you had to make your best guess: would she or wouldn’t she? If the ad had a picture and a name, chances were she wouldn’t be that kind of girl. But usually, the woman would be attractive, and if she was hot enough, I often took a shot despite the odds. So you pay your money and you take your chances, hit or miss. More often than not that was a mess, and she’d disappoint.
That’s how gambling works, though, isn’t it? They have it calculated: just that tiny percentage of the time you score big, and that keeps you trying despite loss after loss, and you’re hooked. On a really good day, your masseuse would look, to all the world, as a completely respectable professional and proper lady, until she brought out her menu of delightful extras. Victories like that were few and far between, but they fueled the big game of the hunt for cunt.
Not that I sprang for full service very often, maybe one time in ten. Oral about twice as much, but mostly I was a level one kind of guy, rub-and-tug. So as much as I loved pussies and mouths, my passion was what a talented pair of hands could do.
So, if the first question was how far would she go, the second was what would she look like? Obviously, I wanted gorgeous, though I was happy to settle for merely attractive. On a few occasions, once I got a look and knew I couldn’t handle it, I’d bow out as gracefully as I could. Other times, even if she was downright repulsive, I went with it. One thing I learned was the perverse thrill of orgasming for someone you wouldn’t look at twice across a room. I also learned many a smoking hot babe was a zero in the services department. On the other hand, some of my most erotic memories came at the hands—or lips or snatch—of coyote ugly.
One prime example, I lost my virginity to a woman who was fat and ugly. I had chosen her because she was African-American, and I was curious and aroused to be with my first black woman. I hired her to bathe me, with the understanding she was going to shampoo my cock until I came for her. My first surprise was how good a kisser she was. No question she didn’t care about me personally in the least, but my god did she have loving lips!
When it came time to work my dick, you could tell it wasn’t her favorite thing. She became bored and impatient pumping me by hand, and before I knew it I was in her mouth. It wasn’t my first blow job, and she was pretty good, but I still didn’t come fast enough for her. She expressed some exasperation for my being a slow-poke, and without warning she slid up and impaled herself on my erection. Moments later, I ejaculated into her. I filled her cunt with my cum. Who knows, maybe she had my baby nine months later. I never knew her name, had never intended her to be my first fuck, and I never felt like going back to see her again.
Just as many women had been very good-looking. My very first, for example, was at a nude modeling studio on a busy street in town. I was only seventeen, but I lied and said I was eighteen. I had never even seen a girl or woman naked before, but there was my chance, and I brought my camera. There were four or five models, and they lined up for me to make my choice, and one was going to take her clothes off for my viewing pleasure. I picked a blonde with big tits, no surprise. She had to have been at least twice my age, so at least thirty-four, which of course is still the prime of life. She took me to a back room and made herself naked for me. I wasn’t allowed to be totally nude with her, however. She told me I had to leave my shirt on!
Oh my god, whoever thought of that angle was totally brilliant! Somehow, naked only from the waist down deliciously accentuated my naughty bits. She was the first female I ever showed my cock to (and she told me it was “beautiful.”) She was also the first woman to watch me masturbate—if you don’t include my mother, and that was more of a glance, the right place at the wrong time. (And wasn’t that a fantasy come true? But that’s another story for another time.)
Now, it was 1982, and, at twenty-four, I had been in the game for six years. Estimating no less than one masseuse, nude model, or escort a month, accounting for some return visits, I had experienced well over fifty different women.
I’m not counting masseuses who didn’t put out or at least stay after and watch me do myself in her honor. Even the most strictly professional massage therapist understood I was going to give myself a happy ending even if she wouldn’t. A few kind souls would squirt some oil in my hand or on my cock so I could masturbate once she had stepped out of the room. What I couldn’t understand were those women who somehow weren’t on board with the sexual arousal part of the fun.
Like the one lady who complained that I had been staring at her breasts the whole time. Well, of course, I had. First, it was an impressive rack, which richly deserved to be leered at. True, her breasts were huge because she was obese, and she had to be fifty if she was a day. But shouldn’t she at least have felt flattered, instead of “disgusted” as she said to me? How often did she garner erotic attention from guys in their early twenties? Anyway, quietly admiring a woman’s breasts, so that she sees you’re admiring them, is some of the body language you use in the game. Then you can use more direct means, such as asking to see them.
I’m also not counting dates with regular girls. Of the girls I knew and masturbated for, I only managed to ask out maybe ten percent. I’m happy to report more accepted than not, at least for the first date. So, lots of one-offs, a few second dates, and an occasional third date with a girl. None of which I ever fucked. Not even the three who became regular girlfriends during those years: Betty, Terri, and Robyn.
Dating was on the “good guy” side of my double life, and dating “good girls” has its own set of rules. First base was a given, I’m happy to say. If there’s no making out, it wasn’t really a date. More often than not (and as a rule, on any repeat date) we got to second base. Good girls like having their breasts fondled—it’s walking on the naughty side of nice for them. All exploration, though, is strictly north of the border. The waistline is the cut-off. So third base and home plate were not on the menu. All my sex, therefore, was on the dark side of my double life.
Ironically, it was when I was a bad boy, hiring women to service me erotically, that I was able to deal mostly honestly and openly. It only makes sense when you really think about it: with the pros, you knew what you were getting and you got what you paid for.
Good boy dating was no less a pay-for-play arrangement; only everything was done on credit, pay now, play… later—or never. Best-case scenario: miles to go before we sleep together.
That brings me to that fateful day in April 1982. I was in grad school and between girlfriends. It was a Tuesday, and I was horny as hell. At the time, there were five or six girls I fantasized about regularly and masturbated for. So, I was having plenty of orgasms, but all by my own hands. Putting aside any false modesty, I always gave myself a fabulous self-fuck, but you do get tired of doing all the work yourself. I hadn’t been pleasured by anyone but myself in weeks. So, I was overdue for a sensual massage from a woman—and oh, please, this time let her be both fucking hot and goddamn good with her hands!
So, I drove to the usual place and picked up the usual rag, and turned immediately to the back page. The ads were mostly the same as always. A few I had experienced, already, and, so, a return visit was a strong possibility. Only, I was in the mood for trying someone new; always questing for that elusive holy grail. Three or four ads I was familiar with, two I had spoken to on the phone, two not. Then my eyes landed on one I had never seen before, to my recollection. It was very simple:
“Pampering massage for gentlemen, by Susan.”
It was elegant and enticing. “Pampering” sounded like what I was looking for, provided it included tender loving care of the genitals. Plus, I liked the name Susan. All the Susans I had known were pretty girls.
So, I found a phone booth and called. “Hello,” she answered, in a sweet, feminine voice. A southern accent. So far, so good. She didn’t tell me much about her service, certainly not the crucial information, not over the phone. And she had time later that afternoon; so, I booked an hour. Only $100.
She told me the address, but not which apartment. She send me to a 7-Eleven in her neighborhood, where I was to call, and she’d tell me her apartment number. That was a very good sign. At a quarter to four, I arrived, jumped out, and called her. She told me, “$375. Go up the elevator and turn left, and it’s three doors down on the right.”
At ten minutes to four, I pulled up in front of an upscale apartment building. I parked and went in, a bit slowly. I didn’t want to be late, but also not too early. Three minutes to four, I knocked on her door.
The moment she opened the door I knew I had hit the jackpot.
I already told you that. But god, it was so true. Maybe she was more than that—my fucking holy grail!
How can I describe Susan? Blonde with big tits? Hell, yeah, as in Dolly Parton tits—or nearly. I later learned Susan’s bra size was 40 D, whereas Dolly was 41 DD. Her hair was very Dolly, however, a shoulder-length layered shag. Her face was adorable, angelic, with an upturned “celestial” nose. And she had big, baby-blue eyes. She was impeccably made up, the essence of a lady, and dressed in a tight-fitting blouse and short skirt.
She shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mark. I’m Susan.”
My cock was rock-hard, and I dearly hoped she noticed the bulging tent at my zipper, all for her. Her apartment was not large, and the massage table filled most of the space in her living room. She sat me down on the couch with her for a brief exchange. It was sexy as hell, and yet in another way, she was very professional and businesslike. She asked me about myself, and I told her the short version. She asked me if I was married, and I told her no, and that I didn’t even have a girlfriend.
She smiled at that. “Oh, that would be all right if you did. Most of my men have wives or girlfriends.” She paused a moment, a twinkle in her eye. “Some have both.”
“You look so young!” she said. “Just how old are you?”
“Twenty-four”
“We are the reverse of each other, then. I’m forty-two.”
She asked some of the obligatory health questions. She asked if I’d had a massage before.
“I have, yes. I go as often as I can.”
I didn’t tell her they were erotic, happy-ending massages. I didn’t ask her if she was going to be massaging my cock. It sort of seemed clear she was, but still, you never know.
“I’ll give you a moment to undress and make yourself comfortable. The restroom is right there if you need it. When you’re ready, I want you to start off face down, head at that end. There’s a towel there if you prefer to be draped.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied, barely able to repress a smile.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, gently touching my hand. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get yourself arranged, and then I’ll come back and we’ll get started.”
I wasted no time in getting myself nude. I did go to pee, but it was hard because… well because it was hard. I washed my hands, checked my teeth, and went back out and lay prone as instructed.
A moment later she returned and asked me if I was comfortable and if I needed anything adjusted. I was fine, just fine, and she proceeded to turn on soft, soothing music. She stood right where I could see her and took off this and that. She started just removing bracelets and rings but did it with such sensuous style, it seemed like a high-class striptease.
She stepped out of her heels. I estimated she stood about five-foot-seven in the heels; five-foot-four without. She looked me in the eye and smiled as she began unbuttoning her blouse. She laid it over the arm of the sofa and then unzipped her skirt on her left hip. She slid it off and laid it across the arm of the sofa as well.
She stood gloriously before me in a lacy satin bra and panties. She was still bejeweled with earrings and a necklace.
She smiled sweetly at my bulging eyes. “I take it you approve,” she murmured. One thing was for sure: this woman wouldn’t be complaining about me staring at her breasts.
She laid her hands on my back and let their warmth soak into my skin. “Now, Mark,” she said, “I want you to breathe in, very deeply. Now let it out slowly, to a count of five. That’s right. And again. And one last time.”
These were cleansing breaths. Nothing new to me after so many massages. I lay relaxed, content, ready to give myself over to this delightful woman.
“Mark, would you tell me a secret you’ve never told anyone else?”
That one took me by surprise, but in my heart, I wanted to open myself to her. I assumed that’s what the question was for, a kind of shortcut to intimacy.
“Um. Well, I masturbate… I mean a lot. Way too much.”
“How much is too much?”
“Every day in the shower. Every night when I go to bed. Usually at least once during the day.”
“Three times a day? You feel like that’s too much? Oh, honey. That’s the bare minimum for a healthy, emotional life. Who or what do you like to masturbate to?”
“Oh, you know. Playboys. Hot women, like Farrah Fawcett. Girls I like and would like to date.”
“Really. Are there a lot of those?”
“Four or five.”
“That’s okay… three a day, but you really should try and work in a few more. Five or six orgasms would be so much better for you. I have some ideas to help with that. Anyway, you’ve been keeping it all a secret? Why? I realize some of the details can be private, but it’s no secret everybody masturbates.”
“Do you?”
“Of course! We all start by making love to ourselves long before we make love to other people. It’s vital… not to mention fun. But thank you for sharing your secret with me. I appreciate your openness.”
She reached for her oil, two plastic squirt bottles perched in a warming stand.
“This is almond oil, very good for your skin. Unscented, of course. I like to be the soul of discretion.”
Saying very little else, she set to work, starting with my back and then my shoulders. Clearly, she had professional training, and her hands were strong but precise.
“How is this for pressure? Is it too much?”
“It’s perfect,” I told her.
What can I say? She thoroughly relaxed my muscles, neck and back, and arms and legs. Riding back up each thigh, she stopped short of my glutes. But her fingers slid over the curve to my inner thighs, and at the top, along the crease of my buttocks. At irregular intervals, just a fingertip brushed against my scrotum, as if by sheer accident. I couldn’t help myself, with each touch, I let out a gasp of pleasure. Precisely what she intended, no doubt.
I reached out my hand and touched her on the thigh. She received my touch without objection and even pressed into my hand.
Then she began on my glutes, over the full hemisphere of each butt, long and lingering, loving and sensuous. Now she was teasing, deep down between my legs, no question. Me, I was sighing and moaning, as intended.
She fondled my balls. She cooed, “Does that feel good, Mark?” She knew damn well it did, fucking minx! I was quickly falling in love. Or in lust. Both!
I loved having my butt massaged, but…
