When Jerry called, I recognized from his name and his tense, timid voice that I’d given him
a massage once before. I found him in my client log, but the entry didn’t churn up any detailed memories.
The creature who arrived at my door might as well have been a total stranger. He was short and nearly
bald on top, an out-of-shape blob of a middle-aged man with reptilian slits for eyes. My notes reminded
me that he was “overweight and ashamed of it.”
He didn’t seem to recognize me or remember that he’d seen me in the past. So I pretended I didn’t
know him, either. We had the standard first-time preliminary chat. Did he have any injuries I should know
about, or sensitive spots, or places he didn’t like to be touched? He told me he’d just gotten a bunch
of shots to go overseas, therefore I should avoid working on his arms. The control freak in me gets
cranky when people say things like that. How are you supposed to get a massage when the masseur ignores
key limbs.
I suspect that when someone says “Don’t touch my legs,” or “Leave my neck alone,”
there is something else going on. Some fear of pain is being masked, or some shame, or some drive to control,
or to pretend to have control. Even more likely though, I think it’s an indirect way of saying, “Let’s skip
the massage charade, I’m here to bust a nut.” Trying to determine which of these factors might be at play
without getting unnecessarily confrontational is a delicate matter.
“Did you get your shots earlier today?”
He said, “No, yesterday, but they’re still a little sore.”
I didn’t point out that yesterday was Sunday, an unusual day for inoculations.
He went to the bathroom and came back wearing only his white button-down shirt. He slipped off the shirt
and wanted to hop right onto the table. I said, “I’d like to have you do some stretching before we put you on
the table, to loosen you up.” He looked at me as if I were crazy. Reluctantly, he took a step away from the
table. As I directed him to close his eyes, take some breaths, and become aware of his body, he followed my
instructions, but he acted like a little kid annoyed at having an adult make him do stupid things, such as
walking downstairs one step at a time.
When I had him stretch his arms up to the ceiling, I noticed he was holding something in his right hand.
“What’s that in your hand, Jerry?”
He showed me the white plastic inhaler.
“No,” I said, feeling shaky. “I don’t use poppers.”
He said, “You don’t have to.”
I said, “I don’t mix poppers with massage.”
He said, “They help me relax.”
I said, “I’m really a good masseur. You’ll be plenty relaxed.”
He dutifully deposited the tiny bottle on top of his clothes, which he’d left on the chair next to the
massage table. As he lay on his back and I stretched out his arms and legs more, I tried to lighten the atmosphere.
I mentioned that I had lived in Japan when I was young and the shots we’d had to get before moving there. He didn’t
respond. He kept his lips pressed together tightly. He seemed to be pouting about having his poppers confiscated.
It made me nervous. I felt guilty for shaming him about using poppers.
He resisted a lot of the massage. He seemed restless and impatient with my slow tempo, scratching himself
and coughing. He never sighed and sank into the pleasure of being touched. I got the picture that he’s someone who’s
used to going to masseurs for a half-assed backrub and a handjob, no questions asked. Perhaps at the beginning I could
have broached the subject of his real desire and made some accommodation. Often I do say something like, “What’s the
experience you’d like to have today?” Not that anyone ever says, “A half-assed backrub and a handjob, please.”
Guys like Jerry who crawl around in a snail-shell of sex-shame rarely have much experience at asking for what
they want. They either expect you to read their minds, or they’re masochistically resigned to whatever you want
to dish out. In my desire to be conscious about sexual touch, you’d think I’d have developed a smooth routine
by now of letting shy, sexually undernourished guys like this know what they’re in for with me. For instance,
I could say, “I’ll get around to focusing on your erotic body, but first I’m going to spend about 40 minutes
massaging the muscle tension out of your back and your legs and your feet.” I refrain from being that direct because
I want to avoid sounding too much like one of those wholesome Danish sex-education films. Rather than tease clients up to
my level, I suppose I tend to sink down to their level of inarticulateness.
In any case, now I was launched into my usual massage routine, and there was no way of stopping it gracefully. I knew
giving him a thorough massage had value. I also sensed that he couldn’t give a shit.
Everything changed when I got around to his butt. My notes told me I had done buttwork on him before, so I
felt confident in moving in for close butt touch. When I spread his cheeks and lightly brushed the coarse black hairs
and the shiny pink skin around his stretched-out butthole, he twitched as if shocked by an electric current. When I
rested the palm of my hand against his pelvic floor and rocked him back and forth, his erection swelled out from under
his ballbag, the snail poking its head out of its shell, antennae first. I leaned in close to his ear and said, “If
you like, Jerry, I could put on gloves and do some more massage around your butt.”
“Okay,” he said.
I reached back to my supply cabinet and grabbed a pair of gloves and a tube of K-Y. When I turned around, he
was reaching for the inhaler he’d left on top of his shirt.
I was on him in a flash. “If you insist on using poppers, Jerry, I can’t continue with the massage.”
“What?” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was hard of hearing or just selectively so.
I retreated from my ultimatum. “I’d rather you not use poppers during the massage.”
“Okay,” he said again. He returned his head to the face plate like a child scolded.
“I want to invite you to keep breathing and taking in all the sensations you’re feeling, Jerry.
Does that sound okay to you?”
He shook his head yes, face down, buried in his shame.
I climbed up on the table and knelt between his spread legs. The sight in front of me—the hairy back and
flabby butt of a middle-aged man—wasn’t the most appetizing I’d ever encountered. I wasn’t turned on but I wasn’t
turned off either. Some people can’t imagine touching—let alone giving an erotic massage to—somebody they’re not
attracted to. For a lot of young gay men, the idea of having anything to do with a guy like Jerry would be absolutely
unthinkable. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. I like the feeling of control, of being entrusted with another human
being’s vulnerability. I have a hard time only when clients assume—because I’m touching them erotically—that we’ve
suddenly moved into some kind of reciprocal sex mode and they’re free to grope me.
I guess that sounds awful. Don’t kid yourself. I’m the attractive one around here. I’m
the one who gets to touch and have power. Well, it’s true. I want it to be clear that I’m in control.
I want them to behave. There’s definitely arrogance on my part. But no contempt. Anyone who presents his
tender butt for loving touch gets a big gold star in my book. He can rest assured I’m going to take good care of him.
