Monday 31 March 2008
Things I like: Sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Okay, wait, sorry – those are the things I think I'd like. Things I know I like: solo sex, over-the-counter drugs, and radio-unfriendly modern rock that they play at the Spring Chicken most nights. Still, I'd like to think that this is but a start. An inauspicious start, to be sure, but the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Most days it feels like I'm still kinda trying to find my shoes. But it will get better.
It had better get better.
Please G_d let it get better please please please.
Meanwhile, things have not got better. My back is feeling a lot better, but I kinda did something stupid with Ian at my third session on Friday and it was all a bit of a cock-up. Like, literally.
So I'm face down on the massage table, shirt off, shorts loosened and lowered a couple of inches so he can work on my lower back. I gallantly offered to strip to my undies, but he said not necessary. I should seriously stop flirting with the guy. He's massaging away, big time; we're shooting the shit about random stuff. It's what he calls deep tissue massage, really working at the lower levels of muscle and he has to knead and push quite hard to get to where he's trying to get to. At some stage he leaned on me a little harder than necessary and I must've winced or twitched or something because he apologised immediately and for some reason I replied "I enjoy a bit of pain in my pleasure from time to time" and judging by the look he gave me... it was clearly something of a faux pas on my part. I hurriedly tried to gloss over it, saying I meant that if the pain meant he was working harder to fix my back, it would be a pleasure to have it, but I don't think he bought it. Hell, even I didn't buy it. I felt like such a tit. What I should have said is something like "I'm kidding" and laughed, or played it like an obvious joke.
To further aggravate matters, each push from all the deep kneading is causing my pelvis to move against the table and... eventually... bam! Erection. I dress up to the left normally, so my winkie expands from three-ish floppy inches to full-blown boner simply by sliding up into place along my groin if I have my undies on. While I'm grateful I don't need to adjust anything, it doesn't occur to me that with my shorts half off and a skinny-fit pair of boxerbriefs on it is probably quite an obvious bulge from the side which of course – thank you, G_d – is the side he's standing on. He begins to work the muscle closer to my hip and suddenly my blatant hard-on is grazing the side of his hand. It took ten or twelve strokes, me lying there in horrified silence, for him to realise what was going on and look down and make the connection and man, did we both ever blush. He apologised profusely but now I look like a fucking pervert – I'm sure in his line of work this sort of thing happens all the time, but I'm also sure that the bulk of his patients don't preface it with "I enjoy a bit of plain in my pleasure from time to time," which of course changes the complexion of EVERYTHING.
I should have said something, but I was mortified and so was he. The next twenty minutes were Silent City, and to make things worse my fucking cock didn't go down the entire time, which is what you get when you haven't been able to wank for a week. Thank goodness I don't ever have pre-come, because that would have been a damp and sticky disaster. I've always kinda felt a bit cheated for not having a few drops of pre-come leak out to show my appreciation of things, but on Friday it was like winning a very small and very specific lottery. Anyway, I have another session booked for lunchtime today and I don't really want to have to go see him again, but I don't want to have to stop the therapy, either. What an abortion. I've decided I will apologise today; it'll be even more embarrassing, I'm sure, but at least I'll know I did my part. What a shocker of a session.
And of course with my back still all shit, I still can't find a decent position to rub one out. No point in just taking a quickie, I don't feel, and I don't think it would help anyway since I'm all about quality and there isn't much worse than a disappointing orgasm when you're really in need of a good one. But this is becoming unbearable. If indeed blue balls are a real phenomenon, mine must be a fairly fetching and asphyxiated shade of indigo by about now.
-C