If the kitchen of Kasem's family in the upcountry jungle of Thailand hadn't burnt to the ground, I possibly never would have found out what the special Bangkok sports massage was all about. Kasem was my masseur at a fancy Bangkok gym, which was open for "men only" a couple of nights a week and which was a major pickup place for prime cuts of male meat. Of course, when I'd started going to the gym, I hadn't known it was "that sort of place," and I'd never experienced a male-male coupling before—although I'd certainly given it some serious thought. With my male model and minor TV and movie "the handsome young stud" role background, I apparently qualified as prime cut, and it wasn't long before I was humping with—and being humped by—the best-endowed of them.
It also wasn't long before I heard about the special Bangkok sports massage that a lot of the guys were getting from their masseurs. But after a couple of months at the gym, with a massage after each workout, my own masseur, Kasem, hadn't shown the least bit of intention of introducing me to any such special massage. I don't want to leave the impression that he didn't give a really good sports massage, though. I never could quite figure out how such a short, thin—almost boyish and shy—Thai man, who I was told was well into his twenties, could have such strong hands and masterful technique. But then, I quickly learned that, with the Thai, looks were deceiving. They could look like they were weak and starving, but they'd show out to be able to manhandle grand pianos up three flights of stairs in a solo effort.
Kasem's family house lost its kitchen to a stove fire, which, fortunately, was set away from the main structure of their house, in keeping with Thai good common sense practices. And to get money to rebuild, the family was forced to come to their "rich" city son—which would be the masseur Kasem (who probably was rich by Thai standards from the tips he made from farang—foreign—clients). But Kasem was stretched for money himself, so he passed on his family's plight to his clients.
Kasem didn't hit me directly for financial help when he initially told me of his family's dire problem. But he started softening me up while he told me about the tragedy. I was flat on my belly on the massage table, completely naked, as that's how all massages were given at the gym. Kasem was deep massaging the backs of my thighs, when I felt him pull my thighs apart, and he was massaging the inner thighs right up to the groin. This was a little farther than he'd ever gone before, and his touch was sending electric shocks through my body. He moved one hand to the small of my back to keep me pressed down on the table and his other, well-oiled hand wrapped itself around my cock, which he had brought back through my legs. And he slowly stroked me to ejaculation—all the time chattering on about how difficult it was to live life in rural Thailand when your kitchen had burned down. He wasn't drawing attention to the almost surreptitious hand job he was giving me, and I—other than the sighing and moaning I was doing—didn't bring any attention to it either. I was afraid that if what he was doing was openly acknowledged, I would be breaking some sort of unspoken rule, and he'd stop short of giving me satisfaction and release.
