"I'd like to book a massage." Came the gruff voice at the other end of the line. It sounded suspiciously masculine.
"Can I take a name?" I replied. This always seemed the politest way to determine the gender of a caller without actually asking outright.
"Fiona."
"Er... is this for yourself?"
"What? No, of course not! My wife, Fiona. I'm Dave." Good, I thought, that has at least cleared up one question. Although it opened up several more.
"Sorry. Bad line," I mumbled. I checked exactly what they were looking for, price, dates and times. All the usual questions. It still felt a little odd. I mean, nothing wrong with a guy booking a massage for his wife. In fact, a beautiful, loving gesture, I would say. But often there's some ulterior motive, like wanting to watch, take photos, video etc. It's always good to find out if there are any additional requirements.
"That all sounds fine to me," I said, then paused, waiting. Hubby hesitated then spoke, a little quieter this time.
"Can you give her, urm, you know... a happy ending?" He said. Bingo! I thought, now we're getting somewhere. This is where I have to speak with absolute caution, both from a legal perspective as well as a moral one.
"All you're paying for is a full body relaxation massage," I stated firmly. "What Fiona does after that is entirely up to her." Essentially, I was saying: "I'm not a fucking prostitute, mate! But in my spare time..."
"I don't think she really knows what she wants. But I would love to see her..." He paused. I guess he realised that it was his turn to speak with care. "...you know? Have a good time," he finished.
Alarm bells rang in my head. Thankfully, this wasn't the first time I'd received a call like this. I sighed inwardly.
"Does she know you're making this booking?" I said plainly.
"Erm... not yet."
"Are you suggesting I seduce your wife?"
"Could you?" he replied meekly.
"That would be rape," I said plainly.
"Oh, no, she would have to consent," he stuttered, beginning to realise his error.
"Still rape," I said clearly. "I suppose you would want to hear all about it? Or see pictures? Maybe a hidden camera? All forms of rape. If you plan to seduce a woman by withholding information that might otherwise cause her not to give consent then it's rape. Even your own wife."
I guess he finally got the message. "Oh," he mumbled. He sounded genuinely dejected. A wild fantasy dashed in seconds.
"Look, I said, just talk to her. Loads of guys fantasise about their wives being pleasured by other men. And more often than not, their wives are fantasising about the exact same thing."
"Not sure I could do that," he mumbled. "She might not take kindly to that line of chat."
To be honest, I didn't hold out much hope for this loser, but I felt sorry for him a little.
"How about this. Just mention my massage service. Offer to pay for a session if she wants one. Leave it to her to decide if she does. And if she books, I'll let you know how it goes."
It was a bit of a fib. I had no intention of letting him know how it went, unless, of course, Fiona agreed to that. Privacy and consent are a bloody minefield!
I almost instantly forgot the whole conversation until about a week later. I was arranging a session with a new lady so, as usual, asked for her details.
"It's Fiona," she chirped. A bell rang in the depths of my brain.
"Oh, of course!" I said, instantly recognising the name.
"Sorry? Do we know each other?" She replied. Oops.
"Er, no. I play little games sometimes, trying to guess a caller's name. Looks like I got it right for once!" Totally lame but I was thinking on my feet. Extremely suspicious but she seemed to have bought it. I quickly deflected.
"So, was I recommended?" I enquired, innocently.
"Well funny you should ask," she said dropping to a whisper. "A friend of mine is one of your, um, regulars. Vanessa Martin? She spoke very, er, highly of you."
I was slightly confused by all this. What happened to hubby? But I couldn't exactly ask that question. Never mind. Her call, her choice.
I booked her in at my place which, since Laura's departure from my life, had become a sort of home therapy studio. She arrived a couple of days later and I welcomed her in.
Now I want to make it clear that I have no prejudices whatsoever. I love women of all shapes, sizes, colours, races and sexual orientation. I make no judgment at all. But when it comes to massage there are occasional, shall we say, 'logistical issues.'
Fiona was a big girl. And I mean very big! Pretty and piercing eyes, but a chubby face and sporting a massive jumper over the top of what I guessed might be size 30 jeans. She marched into the room and plonked her bag on the sofa.
"I'm looking forward to this," she said with a smile, looking me up and down. "Where do I strip?"
It's not the actual size that's the problem. It's the excessive layers of fat tissue that make things a little trickier. Massage should, when done correctly, involve soothing and softening the muscles, as well as draining the lymph system. Those are a lot more difficult to reach and work on when there's a three-inch barrier of blubber. Fiona wasn't the first larger lady I had worked on, but she was the biggest so far. I took a deep breath (internally) and got to work.
I started by massaging and teasing her skin all over. She shivered as I gently stroked her back, sides, arms and legs. I applied a little more force to her back, pushing the skin aside so that I could work the muscles of her shoulders. She started moaning. So I guess the fat tissue doesn't prevent the magic, I mused wryly.
As I worked on her arms and legs I asked her a few probing questions, eventually touching on the subject of a husband.
"He's a lovely fella," she said quietly. "But no imagination."
