After the separation from a passionless romance, the world presented itself in kaleidoscope eyes. Desserts tasted more delicious, the aesthetic value of common things became obvious, and smells were robust and more evoking than before. In being alone again, I could only feel sensations. I rekindled with my spirituality, my senses, and the desire to experience real passion hit me like a ton of bricks.
I have always wanted to live intensely, experience my femininity. To desire and be desired, experience synchronicity and chemistry, joyful, selfish pleasure; the act of giving and receiving, to be an animal, raw and dirty, to be a woman, tender and loving -- to express all modalities of my being -- and be understood.
I work long, hard hours at my career in management. I imagine I am tough and untouchable, I live inside the guise of pragmatism, as a distraction from my inner thoughts. On the outside, I am strong, independent, intelligent. I make decisions. I am an oak. Inside, I am an empty well waiting to be discovered, to be filled.
My desire for the simpler pleasures of life have resumed as if awakened from a long, dreamful slumber. I have regular dates with numerous men and women, some are dear old friends with whom I am catching up. My best friend Kari, is my girlfriend of sorts, I toy with her, kiss her, caress her, make love to her. She has the most beautiful face and the softest lips. We can get lost for hours in one another, kissing and caressing one another in nightclubs and lounges, or in private. Only when we look up do we realize the sets of eyes on us. I abhor not being not easily attracted to the men who are the most accessible, who shower me with attention. I refuse to sleep with them; I refuse to take them home. I sleep with Kari instead.
In my isolation from my ex, I began a number of rituals. Hitting the gym, researching, reading astrology or divination, exploring music, hitting the clubs, writing, and finally, a massage club membership. At the spa, Mike, my regular masseur had not been available for some time, forcing me to schedule with a different therapist. Because my shoulder and neck muscles had been tense and painful, waiting for Mike was not an option.
I prefer male therapists, their hands are larger and stronger, capable of applying sufficient pressure. I also found that their energy benefits one beyond the physical. Male energy, I find, is characterized by patience, warmth, and kindness. Women are often harder, less sensitive. I am psychic when being touched and can hear their thoughts. I am turned off by anyone's lack of enjoyment in performing. I believe a person should enjoy performing their job. Patience and sensitivity are vital qualities to the massage; the sensual aspect is a large part of my therapy.
I reluctantly scheduled with Brendan in Mike's absence, I noticed him at the front first; I had never before seen him. I overheard him talking with the receptionists excitedly about his girlfriend. First I noticed the unique chrysanthemum plugs in his ears, perfectly complementing a remarkable baby face. His features were feminine, he had beautiful skin. His voice is kind, he exudes much physical energy. His appearance suggests a subtle androgeny, an admirable quality.
I am surprised when I am called in by him; He is smiling. I respond, following him into the dark room. Quickly I express to him, the aching pain ever present in my upper back and neck. He retreats so I may undress. When he returns I am naked, stomach down on the massage table, under the sheet, which was folded perfectly. He turns on the table's heat. He puts his hands on me.
Almost instantly, I notice his dexterity and remarkably skilled touch. We talk, fencingly at first. He teases that he enjoys stealing Mike's clientele; he hopes I will come back to him. There is something unique about his hands and fingers, and particular about the way he speaks and reciprocates my thoughts. I like both. My shoulder is painful and wedged In position.
He rubs, lubricating my skin with massage lotion. He feels it when I do, in his voice, young and sweet, "Ooohhh," he says, as he rolls over the muscle that is tender and bulging in my back. "I'm sorry, I tend to make noises as I react to the muscles". "It's quite alright." I say. "I know I am jacked up". I appreciate his sensitivity. He appreciates mine. I thank him, I tell him when it feels good.
There is something sexy about the tone of his voice, but I am only thinking of the massage... his hands on my body awaken my sense of touch and every nerve is pleasurable as he moves about my back. I have a facility for sensuality, and I am open to it. Comforted, I am able to relax with him, as I tend to find relaxation typically difficult. I am immersed fully, allowed to be one with the experience. I can read his mind, he enjoys giving to me. I am somehow closer to this man my first time in his care than I have ever been with a therapist of longevity.
I continue to talk, in part to distract myself from incredible pain as he places fingers underneath my shoulder blade, working it, it is intense and painful but wonderful all simultaneously. I am happy to be myself around him in therapy. He is apologizing sweetly to me for causing me pain, and I am thanking him for it, as I grimace and groan. I am like a project to him, and I feel feminine and nurtured. For a moment I wonder if he is turned on by my moaning, It occurs to me they sound much like my moaning in sex. I think he is reading my mind, too. He is elated at my obvious pleasure.
Brenden asks to rest my arm upon his lap so that he may massage with both hands. I oblige and appreciate his candor. His hands travel down my back, my legs. Oh, how I have missed this sensation! I did not experience the same massage when in with Mike. He moves to my feet; from my leg, to my ankle, my heel and my toes, reminds me to relax. I feel my foot resting upon his neck as he rubs. He has the strongest power, and that is to affect my imagination -- as I hope to be affecting his.
