I'm a salesman and I had a work trip to a little Canadian town with a population hovering near 5000 recently. It was a short trip from Washington and coming into town I passed the obligatory "Welcome to Osoyoos" sign. It billed itself as the warmest place in Canada, which I started to believe when I learned it had its very own desert. Who knew there was a desert in Canada? Or maybe it was the people who were warm?
I checked in to my motel and paid in cash because my credit card wasn't working. I grabbed my bag from my car, but then the room key didn't work either.
Next the clerk claimed I'd never checked in, and never paid, but told me I was welcome to book a room. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.
I went next door to a little diner to collect my thoughts and have dinner. What was I going to say to the clerk to make him see reason?
My waitress was a semi-attractive woman pushing forty. She displayed a few lumpy patches under her uniform, but was overall shapely with a nice ass. I think she was flirting with me, but reading people was never my strong suit. She might've just been a warm person.
If I came onto her in error I would make a fool of myself. I did nothing.
After dinner, I wasn't quite ready to try to work it out with the clerk, so I walked across the street to a little bar. I'm not a confrontational man by nature.
I couldn't drink too much or I'd be up several times in the night to go to the bathroom. A pitfall of growing older.
I was on the last beer I dared - beer number two, when a real life cowboy walked into the bar, scanned the room, sat right next to me, and bought me a drink. "Hey Partner. What brings you to our little slice of heaven?" This really was the warmest place in Canada.
He was a tall guy wearing the classic hat, and when the door closed behind him several people said their helloes, calling out "Hey Top." I was to learn a helluva lot more about that before the night was through.
We got to talking and it turned out he led trail rides into the desert but was also a professional masseuse. He had the kind of confident personality that always made me jealous.
In the course of conversation, he told me all about the different types of massages including, the standard, Percussion, PMT, and Sauna Massage.
The idea of a sauna massage intrigued me. It was just a massage given in a sauna room, and while I'd never had a massage, I liked saunas. I just didn't find them relaxing enough because you couldn't lay down.
In case you're wondering how a man gets to be 55, with sciatica, without ever getting a massage, it's because I'm not a touchy, huggy person. Generally I'd prefer not to touch or be touched - especially by a man.
He offered to let me try the Sauna Massage but I sorta declined his pitch. He pressed the issue assertively and it became harder and harder for me to deflect.
The PMT was another story, however. I'd never heard of one of those either. Basically it was a massage of one's prostate - Prostate Massage Therapy.
Now, that I could use!
Aggressively, he told me all about it in all the most glowing terms. It would be medicinally beneficial. The Prostate Wand was made of a soft forgiving material. I could even get it laying down in the sauna. When he said I'd only have to pay for it if it allowed me a bathroom-trip free night I agreed.
The sauna was as hot as I guessed the nearby desert to be, and only a few minutes into the massage and I didn't care when he removed my towel completely.
He also wore only a towel due to the heat. At first it was uncomfortable to be around a near nude man but he had a way of putting me at ease.
The massage itself was quite relaxing and I decided to start getting massages regularly in the future.
When it was time for the PMT he first massaged my perineum with his thumbs. There was an embarrassing stirring in my loins and I was glad my package was hidden underneath me.
Next he inserted the smallest of the wands to warm me up. There wasn't any touching of his hands on my anus so it was easy to pretend that another human being wasn't stretching it out. By now the heat and the massage had lulled me into a very relaxed accepting attitude anyway.
This first wand wasn't intended to work on my prostate, only to prepare the way for the larger wands.
Three progressively thicker wands later and he announced he would use the largest, the one with the hooked tip which would supposedly feel amazing on my prostate.
The others had felt pretty good, with the slick vibrations and all, so I was more than ready for one that would relieve my nocturnal bathroom trips.
Out of the corner of my half-closed eyes I saw him move some machine. It was the size of my fishing tackle box, but looked sufficiently medical. It was even painted Red-Cross red.
I figured the wand would get attached to it: to power the vibrating and thrusting he claimed would do miracles.
And if he was just selling snake oil I wouldn't have to pay. It was my lucky day in a life with too few lucky days and too many times when I'd trusted the wrong person.
I felt him climb up on the table. No doubt the apparatus was heavy, and hard to put into position. I had my doubts about him being on the table with me, but I didn't want to make waves. He'd been so nice to me all night - free drinks, no upfront payment for the massage, and he was an easy guy to talk to.
He put each of his hands on the table next to my ribs and placed the wand against my lubed and stretched asshole. I could already tell it was a large blunt instrument. But I trusted Top completely not to use a wand that was too big.
This one didn't vibrate anywhere near as strongly as the others. I easily could make out the buzzing, but the vibrations themselves were subtle. He said it had a vibrating ring.
The first entry was a little tense but Top's encouraging words helped a lot, "Don't worry lil' buddy. It's gonna feel real good. And when it milks your 'tate...well that's awesome!"
I quierried, "Milks?"
