I have a dream job. Or perhaps more of a fantasy job. Unfortunately those fantasies are mostly in the minds of my friends. I run my own private massage therapy practice from home, no other staff, just me and the clients. So my friends luridly imagine this means I spend my days oiling the pliant thighs of nubile young ladies who are then so overcome with lust that they rip off my clothes and have their wicked way with me. I try not to spoil their illusions but it's not really quite like that.
For a start, at least in my experience, nubile young ladies don't have the spare cash for regular massage. Or if they do they've found something better to spend it on that being groped by a 40-year-old guy. In reality many of my clients are the wrong side of 60 and most are the downhill side of 40. That seems to be the age at which the arrival of the spare money coincides with the onset of the twinges and niggles that call for a massage.
And quite a few are men. Not that that's a problem. They are easy ones. With them everything is by the book, especially the draping. I'm not gay so being scrupulous with things like that lets the ones who might be hoping know that I will not be offering 'a happy ending'. It saves us both the embarrassment of them asking and me turning them down. It also lets the heterosexual ones know my practice is legit so their sweet wives will be safe in my hands. And mostly they are.
But with the attractive ones I let things be a bit more relaxed. If those husbands only knew the countless happy hours I've spent feasting my eyes on their wives' supposedly hidden treasures in all their wonderful variety. I love them all, from the neat little slits to the large fleshy lips, the smoothly waxed to the luxuriant bushes and the ones that stay shut clam-tight to the those that gently unfurl and even glisten in the candlelight. A lot of women like candlelight.
And every now and again there's a surprise. I mean who would have thought that beneath her prim uniform Charlotte, our local girl guide leader had a little gold clit ring complete with a blood red stone?
Some of the more naive ones may not realise what I'm seeing but a surprising number join in the little game, wriggling and fidgeting until the drape has ridden up that crucial couple of inches or opening their legs that little bit wider than necessary for the massage.
Most, I think, are just giving themselves a naughty little thrill, flashing a man who's not their husband, others maybe just want to see if they can interest another man after all these years of wedlock and others perhaps want to see if they can provoke a reaction. Occasionally one will 'accidentally' move their hand on the edge of the table so that it fleetingly brushes me to see if it has had any effect. One or two, I'm pretty sure, would like the massage to go further. The trouble is how can you tell which ones are which? It's the sort of thing you only need to get wrong once to find yourself in deep trouble. So mainly I just admire the scenery.
My favourites are the tennis club crowd. They tend to be a bit younger and more relaxed with their bodies. In summer the long afternoons on the court lend them a healthy glow and the exercise keeps their muscles firmer, which is more pleasant to work on than a mountain of flab. Oh yes, guys, I get those too.
Best of all is Julia. She's the wife of one of the local doctors, my own GP in fact. These days she does something vaguely managerial down at the health centre but her background was in nursing. Apparently it was the classic hospital romance, the attractive young nurse and the dashing trainee doctor, their eyes meeting over the bedpans or however these things work. Despite her move to pen pushing she's retained that earthy sense of humour you find in a lot of medics. Presumably they get it from seeing too many semi-naked people in undignified positions. She's been coming to me for a couple of years and over that time we've developed a relaxed, jokey and occasionally mildly flirty relationship, which I enjoy.
Lately she's been having problems with tightening in her hamstrings – the long muscle in the back of the thigh – so we've been working on those and I've been on what Julie calls 'first name terms with her arse.' And a very nice arse it is too – in my professional opinion. Still firm and quite pert despite pushing forty. I'd finished her hamstrings and turned her over to loosen the quads on the front of the thigh and was now doing the inside of her leg, working from knee to groin. At least the fact the drape was not hiding all it should have let me see exactly how far I could go. I'd just returned to her knee when she let out a theatrically exasperated sigh.
"God, Michael, you really know how to tease a girl, don't you?"
"Sorry?"
"Well, you've been ogling my bum for God knows how long, then I've been lying here, legs apart for God knows how long again while you do your magic fingers bit and every time I think it's going to get interesting you go back to my knee!"
I was a bit taken aback by that. As I said, we sometimes indulge in a bit of light flirting but nothing like this. Unable to think of any response I'd dare give I settled for a non-committal chuckle which would let me laugh it off.
"No wonder my husband likes me coming here. He says I always come home horny as hell."
Mention of her husband seemed to be putting things back on a proper therapist/client basis. Working from home I'm a bit fuzzy on where the boundaries are supposed to be but we seemed to have been nudging it for a moment. "Lucky husband," I said. That seemed safe enough.
"Not tonight he's not. He's in Harrogate at a conference. I may have to pounce on the paper boy."
"If it's the same one we have round here you'd better be careful. I suspect he's not actually legal yet," I replied with another chuckle. This seemed fairly light-hearted stuff again.
