I leaned for a moment on the bed of the old Ford truck. Its rear tires were flat; the paint was peeling and dull. I was standing in the parking area of an ageing apartment complex. The single-story buildings were painted gray; they were of wood that probably had been cut from nearby forests by men who lived in this Oregon logging town. The lawns and walks of the complex were clean, trimmed. I looked to my right. A door opened and a man stepped out, raised his hand and motioned me in.
Meeting men for sex dates on the internet is a curious process. The contact often starts with a simple Hi or the winking eye on my favorite hook-up site. For lots of reasons it usually doesn't go beyond sharing a few dick pics. And, typical of roaming around on the net, I had arrived at Morgan's profile by a circuitous route: a man contacted me through one site and sent a picture with a another site's number on it, a site often used by older guys. I decided to check him out, created a profile and posted it. Nothing came of our flirtation, but three days later a guy from Corvallis contacted me and I did a location search to find his profile. I tripped across Morgan's, in which he offered "full body sensual massage." He was forty years old, two hundred twenty pounds, oral versatile. I have always wanted an erotic massage, so I sent him an email. That's how I arrived here, at this moment, standing by an old pick-up at the Peoria Grove Apartments.
The man who stood in the door was tall, as promised, well built and dressed in brown canvas work pants and a t-shirt. His brown hair was cut short, as was his beard. He looked younger than forty, and handsomer than I'd expected. Since we hadn't exchanged photos, until this moment I really didn't know what to expect. Morgan extended his strong hand and we introduced ourselves. With a friendly expression he beckoned me into the small room.
The window was obscured by a closed Venetian blind, yet the afternoon sun lit and warmed the room. Shelves to my left held plumbing parts, white plastic p-traps and water supply valves. On the desk was a monitor showing four security camera views of the property. Morgan had seen my car enter and anticipated my arrival at his door near the Ford truck. We chatted about building maintenance, something I'd done a bit in my previous work and was happy to have left behind. Morgan, it turned out, was the half-time maintenance man at Peoria Grove. He was married and had children and enough free time to meet guys here for free massages.
We both undressed to our underwear. Morgan spread a fleece blanket on the floor, the kind of blanket you take to a college football game on a chilly evening. The floor was carpeted and soft enough and I lay face down for my massage. Morgan, in his black stretch Jockey briefs, began rubbing my back and legs. His touch was confident. He kneaded the muscles on my shoulders and rubbed between my thighs. I wanted to turn over so I could see his naked body as he touched me. Now I reached up to touch his face, beard, and hair. I asked him if he liked to kiss and he said sometimes.
