I've been a devotee of massage for a long time now. I don't mean the grubby little back-street massage parlours you see, where a teenager with a Slavic accent runs her hands across your back twice -- if you're lucky -- then asks what other 'services' you want to pay for; I'm talking real therapeutic massage. Okay, I admit that part of the attraction, for a bloke locked into a long and stable, but basically dull, marriage, is the feel of a strange woman, usually attractive, running her hands sensuously across your semi-naked body (they usually drape towels over your midriff). It's not just that, though; I get very stressed at work -- sometimes it feels as if someone's sticking hot knives into my shoulder blades -- and I do find that the occasional massage helps to relieve that. My wife isn't exactly wild about the idea, but she takes the view that there are a lot worse things that I could be doing with my time and money, and, after all, a massage is a form of non-sexual relaxation. Usually.
I've been interested for a while in the idea of tantric massages, but I'd never had the opportunity to have one. I'd read about them on the Internet: lots of tantalising references to massaging the 'lingam' (Sanscrit for the cock, apparently meaning 'wand of light'), wrapped up in all sorts of Eastern mysticism bollocks. Unfortunately you just don't get that sort of thing in the remote corners of Scotland. I thought I'd have to invent an excuse to go to London for it. There are ladies offering the service there using exotic names like Goddess Electra and Enchantress Romana, and similar handles. They all charge a lot more than you'd pay for a standard session, but, well, for a two-hour sensuous massage, entirely naked, with an extended hand job thrown in I thought it probably sounded worth it.
Then, tapping words into the Net at random one day, miracle of miracles, I found a 'tantrica' operating less than 100 miles away! I think she must be the only one in Scotland, and I was onto her website like a shot. That was called mystichealingtherapy.com, but she didn't go in for any fancy personal titles, just her name, Juliet Reid. There was a photo of her, and she looked like an average, reasonably pretty, middle-aged white woman with short brown curly hair, green eyes, a longish slim nose, a dimpled chin and full lips, with a smile that revealed even white teeth. The accompanying blurb told me she was 43 years old and that several years ago she'd ended her marriage of 15 years in order to 'become more grounded and find my true self', with the help of her Californian partner, Zachary. About eighteen months ago she'd trained as 'a facilitator and counsellor in sacred sexuality and tantric massage'.
The website introduced me to her 'sacred space' -- basically a wooden shed behind her house -- and there was all the usual stuff about chakras, life force potential, self-balance, that sort of thng. Yeah, yeah. The description of the massage itself sounded interesting. It began with a bathing ritual, 'to commence the process of purging the body of the toxins of everyday life', and then proceeded to a full body therapy, 'with particular emphasis on the lingam'. The massage took place in a 'naturist environment', but the client was there to receive, not give, so was requested to respect the therapist's boundaries and not touch her in return. So, to sum up, a fairly pretty woman of a similar age to me was going to strip naked, give me a bath, then an extended massage with scented oils, which would end with her giving me a luxury hand job, and I could look but mustn't touch. I thought that sounded fair enough, on balance, and whipped off an e-mail to her.
Juliet replied the next day and we'd soon arranged an appointment for me in the middle of the next week. I didn't actually mention it to the wife, just booked a day's leave at work, and on a fine, crisp Autumn morning I set out for the wilds of Perthshire. It was just as well I'd checked the location on Multimap. It was miles from the nearest town, and at least half a mile from any other building that I could see, down a leafy lane several twists and turns from the main road. As I got out of my car I nearly walked into a human tower of flesh: a huge guy, tall, wide and bulky, with a greying beard, a rapidly receding hairline and a long ponytail. He greeted me with a warm smile and a soft American accent -- clearly this was Zachary. He directed me to a side door of the cottage a few yards away and went back to creosoting the gate post. As I approached the house, Juliet opened the door and bid me "Namaste", placing her hands in a prayer position just below her chin and dipping her head in a small bow.
My first impression was her height -- she was only an inch or two shorter than me, maybe five-ten in her flat bamboo sandals. She had a Home Counties English accent, quite posh, and I would have taken her for ten years younger than her actual age. She was pale, and slim, but there were a decent sized pair of boobs under the plain white elasticated blouse she wore. That was accompanied by a simple shin-length blue cotton skirt, trimmed with daisies on a white background, also with an elasticated waist. Not sure how to reply to her greeting I just smiled and said "Hi", and she showed me into her tastefully decorated lounge. There we sat while Juliet asked me the usual health questions, blood pressure, allergies, that sort of thing. Then she showed me to her bedroom and invited me to strip while she ran what she referred to as a rose petal bath. As I waited I sat in a wicker chair and sipped a freshly pressed apple juice she'd given me, wearing only a light cotton robe and feeling very self-conscious under the unblinking yellow stare of a smoke grey cat which nestled on the bed.
