This is a work of fiction
I stopped asking women for dates in my late twenties, tired of the laughing rejections. Me, a desperately shy, pleading specimen of a man.
Instead, I lived an enforced celibate life. All I could do was jack off when I was horny. In my mid forties I discovered massages and received the occasional massage from women. I was very innocent at first, thinking that a massage could only consist of a woman massaging my legs and back. Then I discovered that some were willing to massage my cock to orgasm, although no more than that.
I went gay when I was about fifty, when on a business trip, with my back in pain, the only person available to massage me at short notice at a parlour was a man. I found it turned me on to be with a man with only a towel concealing me. On another business trip to the same city I asked for him in advance, to the barely concealed giggles of the woman receptionist on the phone (this was before the Internet). There were fresh giggles from the same receptionist on my arrival, and I went red. She gave me a knowing look.
To my surprise and joy the massage got, shall we say, very intimate at the end, led by the masseur. I still like women, but more as works of art to appreciate than as objects of sexual desire. After all, I really enjoy watching cute actresses like Jennifer Aniston, Sandra Bullock, Jennifer Lopez... unattainable women, if you like.
Over the years I spent a lot of money getting massages from gay masseurs. I only came across one who was straight, and only one gay masseur declined my advances. Sometimes they were about the same age, or a little older, but some were young enough to be my son. Daddy sex! A few times they made the first move, at other times I moaned appreciatively and stroked their cocks and gently squeezed their balls with my hand as hints, though sometimes it took a few massages for the seduction to occur.
My massages were my sex life, and I loved being submissive, to being under the control of these experienced gay men, following instructions. It felt a lot safer to me than going to saunas or trying to be picked up in gay bars. I also liked trying different masseurs, as I loved the novelty and challenge of fresh men taking me. They probably enjoyed the fact that I've always been straight-acting -- one masseur even told me he only massaged straight men, preferably married.
When I was fifty-five I was declared redundant by my company with a sizeable payoff. Together with an inheritance and savings, if I lived carefully -- as, except for massages and cheap holidays, I normally did -- I could carry on without a job for years. I decided to take a break of a few months before looking for another job.
One day I had a light-bulb moment. Instead of paying for massages, I could give massages myself. The maximum of opportunity and the maximum of temptation! I was slim, tall, not bad looking, just shy. The masseur could always surrender himself to the client if the client had such tastes. I could make enough money to see me to my retirement.
I paid £2000 for a full-time six-week course, bought a massage table and various oils, and learnt the details of the job. Half of the training was "practical", where those on the course carried out massages on each other. These were exclusively with women, as, for the first time ever on the course, I was told, I was the only man. I did get some suggestive looks from a few of the women I massaged, or when they gave me massages, but I ignored them, as I thought of women as gossips, and didn't want to take it further. Also, the pretty ones were those who ignored me on the massage table.
Once I had finished the course, according to law I had to carry out a certain number of free massages for months to build up experience before charging for them. I also had to buy insurance. I read the text on lots of massage websites so that I could read a carefully honed message, hinting rather than stating what I was offering. By only hinting I could always avoid close contact with anyone I didn't care for! Strictly speaking the money was for a massage: the laws didn't care what happened between consenting adults. I offered "Sensuous massages for all men", and stated that it was a clothing optional massage, for one hour (I could offer to extend it, of course!), and made it clear that straight men were welcome. I've never really enjoyed being with effeminate men, and relished the idea of seducing any fit, straight customers. It sounded as if it would be fun teasing their bodies. Anyway, anyone looking for, and answering, such messages was at least to some degree interested in being with a man!
As soon as I put up the primitive website, with a photo of my bare (and slightly hairy) chest, I got texts. Clearly I was not the only man who avidly looked on the Internet for massages by men. Which man would be my first client? I picked the one who made it clear that he was a straight, married man who was wondering what it was like to be massaged by a man, and hinted at being bi-curious. I didn't know what he looked like, of course, but gave him details to get to my house. I hoped he would be nice!
At ten o'clock on the dot the doorbell rang. I slowly walked to the door, my heart pounding, and opened it to John, a short, paunchy man in his sixties. Not ugly, but not particularly attractive. Like me, clean-shaven. He looked anxious. I was disappointed, but of course quickly ushered him in, and led the way to the simply furnished spare room with the massage table. The curtains were already drawn across, and the lights were low. I pushed a button and gentle, soothing oriental music quietly filled the room with peace.
"Please undress in here. I leave it up to you if you take all your clothes off, and if you choose to use a towel." I had carefully rehearsed the words, and only on subsequent sessions did I add "I will wear shorts and t-shirt", if my client wasn't attractive, or the alternative, "I will be nude". In the case of the latter, I always stayed in the room to chat and stripped as soon as the client was naked. On this day I was indeed wearing shorts and t-shirt, but without underwear.
"I'm completely straight, you understand,", John said, "but I'd like to see what it's like to be massaged by a man." He paused. "Um, no funny business, please." I nodded and smiled, and left him to undress.
A minute or two later John called out that he was ready. I entered. He was lying face down, head in the usual hole at the table's end, with a towel across his bottom. I saw that his underwear was with his clothes on the chair. I also saw some money on the table.
"The money is for charity," he said. "It doesn't seem fair to get a massage for nothing." I admit that I was touched. I took off my shorts and shirt, and my five-inch circumcised cock slowly hardened in the warm atmosphere of the room.
I began to use the oils to massage a man for the first time ever. It gave me a feeling of power: I was in control, deciding on when and where my strokes would be. I worked first on his back, applying firm pressure. Then the bottom beckoned, but what about the towel? I began, rather awkwardly, to massage his bottom by shifting the towel a bit. Then I bent down to John.
"May I move the towel down your body, if you'd like me to massage your bottom?" There was a gruff, grunted assent. I did a trick a masseur liked doing to me -- I very slowly slid the towel down his legs. John squealed with delight.
I pressed on my elbows to massage his bottom. He began to shift a bit. Then I moved to the thighs. I made slow, short strokes, and began to move up his ample thighs towards his bottom. Little appreciative moans rose up from the table. John parted his legs a bit more. I grinned. This was going to be fun, playing John's body like a harp to make sweet music which perhaps only I could hear.
