Sensual and Erotic Massage

Sensual and Erotic Massage… sounds so cool. But it’s a dirty business.

It wasn’t always that way. There was a time just a few years ago when an erotic or sensual massage girl had to know how to give a good massage. She had to know how to look like the girl next door, while suggesting through her looks that the girl next door was capable of some very exciting activities. I think the men out there know what I mean.

It doesn’t take a genius to recognize a street walker on The Track at Vancouver, Canada or near the tunnel in New York City. If you are driving alone along the access roads to the Lincoln Tunnel in New York at 11 pm and not simply entering the tunnel Jersey bound, then everyone and his cousin knows you’re cruising for a hooker. There is no other reason to be there. And just to make sure you know what a hooker is, the girls there wear Hollywood Hooker clothes… Fredericks of Hollywood, that is. Very skimpy and shiny and practically glued-on clothes. Most guys don’t know that the tunnel hookers in New York don’t actually take anything off nor do they let you touch much… it’s all for show. The real patrons know to visit the Queens side bridge for the real whores.

But while those super-obvious sex workers cater to the visual thrill seekers, the massage girls used to cater to the quiet indulgers. The guys who didn’t want to cruise barren industrial streets after hours in search of pooty tang. The massage was the act… hands on touch therapy. Touch touch touch and then maybe a little extra special touch towards the end of the session, if you know what I mean. Taking off my top back then was very optional, and actually rather rare in those days. A fondling through the shirt at the moment of release was far more common than a bare breast hanging in front of a wanting mouth, as seems to be the case today.

Back then I witnessed more ejaculations under sheets than across massage tables. If a guy wanted to be managed to stress relief, it was a forbidden treasure that usually involved an upright pole raising the sheets, and my hand beneath those sheets helping raise the flag. Discretion was part of the thrill. He knew what was going on, and I knew, and the sheets would later reveal its wet spots but all through the event the eye contact expressed shared excitement at the thrill of forbidden fruit. The “ahhh” was far more exciting than laborious. Today, it seems erotic and sensual massage is work for you guys. It could even be compared to stress… fancy that. Getting off in a massage parlor for some of you guys these days seems more stressFULL than stress release. And I think it’s because you’ve lost the thrill of the forbidden treasure.

Back then, of a girl wrapped her palm around your crotch, handling you through your jeans while looking into your eyes and suggesting she might help you to a little stress release, the guy was shocked and excited and anxious to go find a quiet place with her. Nowadays, if I do that the guy more often than not says something aggressive, like “I’ll bend you over and show you what stress release is” or something else that is relatively harsh. Had I wanted to get “fucked”, or even better “fucked wildly from behind” I would not have wrapped my palm around your gonads and brought my lips close to yours, daring you with my eyes. I would have raised my skirt almost far enough, turned away from you and pressed the crack of my ass against your stiffening pole. Come on, guys, get with the program. If you can’t match the girls communications, you won’t please her. And if you don’t please her, or at least show the potential for pleasing her, she won’t be into you. If I say I want to play secretly as per forbidden fruit, that’s what I mean. I didn’t say I wanted to experience your best attempt at rape play.

There was a day when, in the final minutes of a good hand job after a solid massage session, I would bring my warm mouth close to the head of his anxious penis and blow gently, and perhaps extend the tip of my tongue just enough to enable him to sense the moistness of my mouth. He would sigh in feigned distress, as if in pain that my forward movement of mouth to penis was not (yet) a blow job. He would tell me I was killing him with the tease, and beg me to swallow him. I would resist, but I would eventually lick, and as I licked he would come, and it would be perfect.

Nowadays if I do that I get grabbed by the hair in an attempt to choke me with a rod stuffed down my throat. Yeah, that’s real sexy and inviting, eh? Or better, I get whiny “bitch” like comments that suggest the client isn’t getting what he paid for, or is otherwise being cheated because I’m not letting him throat fuck me. Gimme a break. It’s erotic and sensual massage, not Sadie’s Whorehouse. Or is it?

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