Category — massage

I have been burning candles for years in my massage room. I like the good ones. Most people think soy candles are good, but a real good candle is pure petro-based parrafin. It burns clean and even and has a “memory”. Properly scented, a good room candle will burn evenly and maintain a constant, reliable atomosphere.

Incense also has grades. Good incense is not on a bamboo stick, because you don’t want to burn bamboo stick while you burn your incense. The Japanese have mastered the art of making incense. The French are th perfumers. So it seems the best room incense is from France, hand made in Japan. It is also expensive!

As for massage music, I have been straying lately. I like world music, because I think it helps bring peace to the world by exposing people to different cultures. Lately I have not played any asian zither stuff, but more Enya-like world stuff. Music is hard. The client preference plays a big roll, as is the need to ‘cover up” certain noises and sounds in certain circumstances, if you know what I mean.

Can anyone tell me where they get scented candles, aromatherapy candles, room fresheners , incense, and the like? I have decided to investigate beyond the client I currently buy from. She has been very good to me, but she is moving on to other things and I really don’t like the new fragrances she is pushing.

Tell me in the comments what you buy, and where you get it? Please?

Busy massage day today. Started with a bang, when a local city council woman came in and asked for me. Not sure where she got my name, but she asked for me and my mamasan BFF hooked her up with the first appointment of the day.

Powerful lady, all locked up in that tight little aging body. I did my best, and then she did her best to psycho-mind-move me into her erogenous zones. But I played innocent; blind to the obvious gay-dar. Clue to the powerful — I’m just a massage girl with talented hands and tongue (and feet, by the way). I am not a mind reader, and I won’t take responsibility for your needing what you need. That’s the courage you must find within yourself. I make it easy – I make myself available for a price well within your reach. All you need to do is ask for it, and that doesn’t have to be verbal. Show me. Tell me somehow what you want, and I guarantee you will be rewarded for your courage. And anyway, it’s way more fulfilling when you take the emotional risk and lay it out on the table.

I did let her know she should come back to see me again. As she strained helplessly to communicate her erotic desires to me with only her will, her body lying face up and her pubic mound obviously swollen in anticipation, I placed my palm against her lower belly and sat on the side of the table. I reminded her our time together was up for now, but that I sensed she had more stress under the surface, in need of release. I let her know I had after-6 availability as well, which she might consider. As I stood up from the table, I let the edge of my hand brush along her panty line, casually as if truly just lifting off of her belly. Sorry, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. if you hand me a pin and show me an inflated balloon, I won’t be able to stop myself from bursting it. Same deal here

So why Happy Ending, Happy Day? Ms. Achievement returned at 6, carrying a small satchel. She didn’t even check in with the desk – she acted like she had an appointment and came right into my room, closing the door. When I entered, she was prone face down on the table, with a towel over her midsection. Her cell phone was on the ledge with her bag. The bag had contained work out clothes, which were stacked neatly with sneakers already on the floor. She was naked, under the towel, ready for massage. Quiet. I said hello, and entered. Now I was hooked. This lady was hot to me, and we had a new game.

I walked over to the far side of the table, and sauntered past the back of her head placing my warmed hand onto her shoulder. As I continued walking down the side of the table, I dragged my hand down her back, catching the towel as my hand passed over her bottom. I continued towards her feet, and let the towel fall off the far end of the table over her toes. As I came around the front side of the table, my hand glided up along the outside of her thigh, up along her bottom, and softly up her back. As I reached her head again, I paused with my hand on her neck, my waist in front of her eyes.

She was staring to the side, right at the vee of my satin hip-huggers. My hand moved down her shoulder, to her arm, and dropped off of her and onto my lower belly. I began to massage myself, inches from her face. and I began to speak.

“I’ll start a massage, and get you relaxed”, I said clinically as I gently twirled the pubic hairs surrounding my clitoris, through the satin fabric of my pants. I was warm and she was close enough to feel it. I remained clinical with my voice, my hand clearly erotically involved with my soul. “I have been looking forward to getting off work today, as you can imagine. I’m so close now, I can feel the relief.”

Her eyes were wide but her face was tense. She truly didn’t know what was happening, but she was hot.

I lifted my fingers from the bottom of my inseam, pressing deeply into my pubis as I dragged the fingers upwards slowly. As I reached my little golden pebble I moved my hand off to her neck, and tranferred my warmth to her body. I bent over and leaned in to her face, letting my hair fall onto her neck and face, and I softly told her to relax, that I would take care of her, and she could close her eyes and enjoy. She did close her eyes, and I delivered a very simple, very effective hand release to this very pent-up and overly ambitious middle aged woman. She came like a kettle boiling violently on the stove top. It was obviously the first she had experienced in a long time, but we’ll change that after a few visits.

What I delivered was an anonymous hand release, preceded by intimacy. That’s what she earned by coming back so soon, and as we get to know each other, she’ll learn how to get whatever she needs from me. She tipped me generously, and I gave part of it back. She can’t buy me – she has to earn me.

I’m now enjoying a wonderful glass of very expensive wine, and I love the way my day is ending. The score for the armchair whores out there: 3-6-7-6-2

(3 sensual massages delivered, 6 massage sessions completed, 7 advances from customers, warmly horny tonight, and not at all disgusted with the human race)

I am a massage girl, working in a massage parlor. I am a licensed and properly trained massage therapist, taking care of men and women. I have my secrets, as they have theirs. Sometimes, when I am working in a decidedly erotic massage parlor, every customer is a man and every man wants more than a massage. Hell, sometimes they don’t even want a massage! Other times, I work in a legitimate spa or massage clinic, where most customers are men but many are women, and all want massage. Almost. But many want more. Both men and women.

My secret is what I will and won’t do, at either kind of place, for money. Their secret is what they will offer me, ask of me, imply they want from me, or otherwise try and take from me when they visit. I won’t tell my secrets, and I won’t divulge theirs. But what a colorful life I live!

On this personal blog I will disclose a lot of details… but no names. And of course I have to say it is all fiction, in order to satisfy those out there who seek to stomp and kill anything that threatens their ridiculous view of the world we live in. You be the judge if it’s fiction or not, ok? Truth is, until you’ve been a massage girl in a massage parlor like I have, you could never make up stuff like this.  And if you are a customer of massage, either man or woman, if you see yourself in these stories you and only you will know if they are true. Of course I will obfuscate some things to protect the not-so-innocent, so if you think you recognize someone in your town or perhaps even your wife as the recipient of my very, very talented handy work, you’re probably wrong, ok?

One thing I will divulge every time I post is a score. It is a count of success factors associated with my business.  I will do that to keep you entertained. I will reveal a number in every post, and that number will reflect the following things:

• how many times my delicate and skilled hands have been on someone else’s genitalia during the prior 24 hours
• how many times I have been asked to deliver sexual services for a fee during the prior 24 hours
• how many client sessions (overall, non-sexual and sexual) I have closed during the last 24 hours
• my general state of arousal at the time of the post (1 to 10, 10 being the most horny)
• my general state of disgust with the human race at the time of the post (1 to 10, 10 being humans are garbage)

It’s a number, like this: 2-2-2-2-4. So you can be an armchair whore at home.  I hope it is fun for you!

That’s what he said when I asked him “Why do men get erotic massage?”

“Because it’s better than crack” was the response.

I asked “what about frantic, needy, chaos and acid-ripped mouth sores, chemically-stained fingers, and acrid nose tissues reminds you of my massage?” He didn’t like that, and I suspect it’s because he has never really been a crack addict. But he tried to explain. Erotic massage is a reward, following a physical and emotional need. Receiving an erotic massage is a form of conditioning, for him and many men.

He gave me a scenario from his life. It was like this:

I get up, recognize my woman has been breathing her foul morning breath into my face. I forgive that, because I’ve got morning wood and will screw anything for the release. So I reach over an prod the squishy butt of my too-many-years mate, imaging how I will promptly dump my load into her mouth as breath freshener. I not only get rejected for my attempt, but I get rejected with a nasty scowl of that fiery dragon breath and a sharp reminder that my wood isn’t as woody as it once was. I didn’t need that, especially not in the morning.

So I rise and as the mirror reminds me I’m not young and not handsome and not fit, I tell myself I will reward myself later at the massage parlor.

I get a nice young Asian girl to massage me, and when I show her my wood she’ll respond with an understanding manual effort to relieve me of both my $60 pocket money and my wife’s unwanted tooth glaze.

I asked him why he treats the massage girl better than he treats his wife. I mean, I didn’t hear him describe her as dragon breath, and he wasn’t dreaming of filling her mouth with his discharge. He said:

“I don’t know. I want to get dirty with my wife, but not the massage girl. If anything, I dream of getting the young girl pregnant, as if that were glorious. Strange, I know, but that’s how it is.”

I reminded him I was not a full service girl (for him), my teeth were plenty clean without his paste, and I would not be interested in his wanting to get me pregnant. He laughed. But I believe him. I believe he is driven emotionally to fondle and adore and ultimately (if he could) impregnate the young naked massage girl who presents a no-obligation opportunity. I also believe he emotionally wants to soil his mate, to rebel against his frustrations and perhaps resentment for his position in the world. To bury it. To make it useful in a way that it is not currently useful.

Massage thereapy is a funny business in a massage parlor. Some guys have it good at home, with a beautiful young wife and easy access to good sex. They come in wanting anal, or fetish stuff, or ethnic variety or abuse or fast and dangerous sex. Others have safe and stable home situations, and they dream of no-obligation “lovemaking”, the GFE, or the massage girl who speaks no Ingrish. We get all types in here, but truth is, they are from your world.

I am a massage parlor girl. I have been for many years. Not an owner, but a worker. Not a massage therapist, but a massage girl. You know, one of those massage parlor girls who has a certificate, a license, and very good hands.

I have a blog on erotic massage, and now this is my personal blog.