Turn Over Please

The internet is all about efficiency. Every day, the internet transfers electronic funds from businesses buying stuff to businesses selling stuff. You can register your car online and never have to stand in that soul-crushing line at the DMV. Thanks to the internet, you can do all your Christmas shopping in an hour without leaving your desk. But most importantly, you can find someone to suck your dick -- and very well - in about fifteen minutes.

The internet is so efficient, actually, that I find I have to regulate the amount of sex I have using what willpower I have. In the, "old days," I had as much sex as I possibly could. Then, the limits were my willingness to go to bars and my even more limited social prowess once I got there. No, I didn't have much sex, but thanks for asking, wise guy!

Relative to more traditional approaches, internet hook-ups are insanely efficient. Efficient, I should clarify, if you're okay with a little mustache burn with your toe-curling, OMIGOD, blow job.

Because, efficiency or no, the first law of human sexuality: that men are innately promiscuous and desperate to drop a load, while women are not, is still completely in effect. This is not to say that there aren't some promiscuous women, nor that plenty of men aren't entirely monogamous. But we're talkin' bell curves here, and averages are averages. The power of the internet doesn't make super models go for guys like me anymore than it makes stock options worth millions. Even as I felt no right to call myself gay, I'd regularly sought oral sex online. I was stuck in a sexual demilitarized zone; neither truly gay nor straight. I guess, at my core, I was all about cumming, and that was enough.

I'd had a pretty crap week at work and, by Friday, I was more than ready for a little relief. After five long days of customer ass, I was keen to have someone kiss mine -- and with feeling.

Among my favorite ways of achieving the advanced state of bliss I sought was the for-hire masseur. And, thanks to the internet, I knew I could be hoisting my badly used body on someone's crisp sheets for a thorough treatment before dinner.

As a cold rain drizzled down outside, I cruised my favorite massage referral site and in no time found a promising guy about whom the reviews were nearly unanimous. I don't know why, but I usually liked my masseur a little older than myself, and I definitely preferred incall. That way, if you want to, you can slide off into the night and never see the guy again.

After a gratefully brief phone call, I had my appointment and knew I'd have to hustle to be on time. I had smoked several bowls to celebrate the end of a tough work week and smoked another before jumping into the shower for a very thorough cleaning. I liked going for a massage after a good workout, but I had no time to get to the gym and, anyway, lifted heavy enough the day before that I still had plenty of knots to be worked on.

By the time I got into my car I was squeaky clean, pretty buzzed, and already fairly horny. The drive across town was a real buzzkill, though, and I was maybe half a traffic jam from abandoning my quest outright. The combination of wet roads and Friday night drivers was conspiring to dilute my enthusiasm.

But I somehow kept motivated and got where I was going. The guy worked out of a beauty salon, of all places, in a strip mall. Strip malls may not enhance any landscape where they're found, but they always feature a ton of parking, and that was alright with me.

I was momentarily dismayed to see the salon was closed, but a few polite knocks brought Marc to the door. He was pretty tall and dressed for the parallel bars in loose, white warmup pants and a white tank. They might have a tanning bed somewhere onsite to give him the flattering color he had, but I was pretty sure they didn't have enough gym equipment to give him the lean, rippling, physique I saw. Actually he reminded me of a really good-looking guy who worked out at my gym. I might not ever have the ambition to pursue the gym guy, but I decided then and there Marc was going to be playing, "hot guy at the gym #1," in my private, perverted, screenplay.

He opened the door and smiled a really great, really warm, smile that instantly put me at ease and inspired me to congratulate myself secretly for deciding to treat myself to a good time.

We walked through the dimly lit salon to the back. The unmistakable aroma of peroxides, conditioners, and shampoos confirmed the salon was no front for illicit activity. I had a hunch that Marc's day job was at one of the chairs we passed on the way.

He opened a door and we went inside the massage room. It was pleasantly lit and had a few vanilla-scented candles burning. It was also very warm -- like, conspicuously so. But on a shitty, rainy, Friday night, I was completely in favor of some heat.

He took my wet jacket and motioned at the table. I couldn't wait to get started, but Marc darted out of the room with my jacket. So I shucked off my clothes and hung them on one of the many pegs along the wall next to the small sink.

I felt kind of sexy, really, just standing there with a semi in Marc's massage studio. Something about getting naked in a strange place, I guess. I crossed the room to the massage table and laid down on it, settling my face into the padded hole on one end. I took the sheet thoughtfully provided and draped it over my butt.

I definitely expected to cum. But visiting a masseur with a naughty side is still visiting a masseur. I happen to love being rubbed down and as I laid there warm and comfortable, on the table I couldn't help but congratulate myself a second time for deciding to stop in. The with the smell of vanilla and clean laundry was somehow comforting and I laid there waiting to hear the door open again.

In no time, it did and I heard the exciting approach of footsteps. There was a little shuffling and some really corny, but completely relaxing, new-age music (you know -- with lots of chimes, minor chords, birds, water 'n stuff) began at a low volume.

There was a brief sound -- almost flatulent -- which I realized was a bottle of lotion. The lotion and Marc's hands were very warm where they touched my back, right between my shoulders. Standing on my right side, he pressed down and spread the lotion from just above my buttocks to the back of my neck. Even his preliminary stroke was bliss and I felt all the air leave my lungs before being drawn slowly and calmly back in.

The lotion was almost odorless, but I could smell a hint of peppermint and the heat on my back confirmed the idea. After only a few brief strokes up my back, Marc moved silently to feet. I appreciated the way he always kept a hand on my body as he moved from place to place around the table.

Starting with my toes, he kneaded my feet, squeezing what I imagined might be acupressure spots, but ignorant of the science, I merely relished the sensations. By the time he inched up to my calves, I was deeply relaxed and breathing slowly. His hands were strong, but he really had a knack for knowing precisely where to draw the line between pleasure and pain.

His hands were relentless and innovative as they worked past the sensitive backs of my knees and into my thighs. I felt a quick, purely sexual, thrill as he squeezed both sides of my thigh. But he remained chastely short of any impropriety and instead returned to my back.

After some more of his long, heavenly strokes, he would pause to massage smaller areas more deeply -- always balancing right on the edge of pain. He congratulated me on my muscle tone. I am a dedicated gym rat, but I'm still insecure enough about my physique to be a genuine sucker for any kind of recognition -- even when an opinion is a paid one.

After a very deep massage of the area just inside my shoulder blade, he resumed his long strokes along my entire back. As he was doing that, I felt something brush against my left hand at the top of each stroke. I was thrilled when, after a few more strokes, I realized it was his clothing-confined cock. Almost as soon as I realized what had been happening, he again shifted. This time to the top of the table.

My vision mostly obscured by the table's deep padding, I could still a bare foot on the floor at the head of table. From where he stood, Marc could press on my lower back and pull forcefully up all the way to the back of my neck. As before, each long stroke was pleasure. And, almost as before, as he leaned into the table, I could feel his cock -- this time on the top of my head. This continued as he worked my neck and shoulders and massaged my scalp.

I was in a peculiar state; both profoundly relaxed by the massage and, at the same time, intensely aroused by the incidentals.

When Marc again shifted, this time to my right side, he went straight to work on my thighs. This time, however, something was different. His touch was still as perfectly balanced, but this time, completely bold. He massaged my thighs between his hands and pulled smoothly up until I could feel the edge of his hand moving up and down against my scrotum. That set my cock immediately erect but, because of how I was arranged on the table, kind of painfully off to one side.

He set in on my butt but before he could press down with his weight, I kind of half-rolled to the side in order to re-align my by now undeniably hard on. I hadn't wanted to move, but I had little choice. Deftly, Marc reached under me with his hand and arranged me so that in no time I was again flat on the table and he continued his magic.

He was still massaging my thighs and ass when I felt the table shift very slightly. I realized he'd climbed up on the table and had positioned a knee between my legs. This pushed my legs apart and allowed him to get his thumbs into the very northernmost regions of my thighs, where those heavy tendons that hold the legs on live but that aren't ever touched in a more polite massage.

I experienced a few very pleasant things over the next few minutes. First, the release of a ton of muscular tension I'd never really known I'd had, was blissful. But then, laying face down on Marc's massage table with my legs spread apart was its own thrill. It felt, well, more naked than just being without clothes. Somehow vulnerable, I guess. And as he kneaded the muscles of my ass into a tension-free pudding, he would almost carelessly touch me in all of those very intimate, sensitive places. Without overtly grabbing my dick and pulling it, he gently guided me to a very heightened arousal so subtly I could have, had I cared to, still claimed that it was, "just a massage."

And apart from all the wonderful things he was doing to my body, the feeling of his heavy balls on the back of my leg where he straddled it was for me another thrill.

And, as he briefly abandoned my gluteals for a few long strokes with his forearm up my back, I could feel that heavy package pressing against the crack of my ass and I have to tell you: it felt GOOD.

But then, I could feel him climbing off the table. "You can turn over now, if you want," he said. In a normal massage, the masseur discreetly covers you with the sheet while you flip your blissful body on over. But not Marc. I was left to lay there, on my back with my cock at full staff and almost visibly throbbing with complete desire.

Instead of putting me out of my misery, Marc again stood at the top of the table and began gently massaging my face. He covered it all, from my scalp to my forehead, to my ears, my cheekbones, all the way to my chin. It was at least as satisfying as any part of this massage had so far been. He first turned my head to the left and worked on my stretched neck muscles. But when he turned my head to the right, I was staring straight at a semi hard, partially shaved. cock.

I hadn't realized he'd taken off his pants, but I was pretty excited that he had. My own erection hadn't gone away despite the relaxing facial and I imagined it probably surged again at such a brazenly sexual move.

He massaged the other side of my neck as I just stared at his cock. There were no tan lines. The same evenly tanned skin I'd first seen on his shoulders extended all the way to the tip of his cut cock which, I thought, might be growing under my fixed stare.

When he again turned my head toward the ceiling I couldn't guess what turn this already unbelievable massage might next take. My curiosity, if not my hard on, was satisfied when he began again on my thighs, this time on the front. As he worked, I would steal glances down at him and at me. As he strongly pressed and kneaded my thigh, my cock would bob and wave on its own. He'd barely touched it, but just flagging there in the open air was incredibly exciting. And of course, so was stealing furtive glances at him and his cock as he worked on me with his hot body and, plainly, large cock.

By the time he worked back to my right side, he was almost erect and placed his dick on the table conveniently next to my hand. He began to massage my pects. Like a lot of insecure gym guys, I probably overworked my chest at the expense of less obvious muscles, like the legs, but I liked big chests and apparently, so did Marc. He got in there very deeply and worked out any vestige of lactic acid. I was feeling the burn but as I did so, I couldn't help but feel Marc. I reached up and held his cock in my hand.

Ever the professional, he didn't let up. As I amateurly cupped his balls and squeezed gently on his cock, he worked my chest until it was free of any vestige of tension, and began on my abs. I suddenly wished I had better abs. But he wasn't fazed and pulled and stretched my abdominal muscles from one side to another and, frankly, through a quirk of physiology I don't understand, got my cock even harder.

By the time he seemed to notice I even had a dick, I was already feeling the effects of a prolonged tease. But he still seemed in no hurry to release me. He expertly grasped my cock at its base, with the edge of his hand pressed sublimely against my balls. But instead of milking it, he just kind of wiggled it from side to side without the firm squeeze for which I was so desperate.

And then he let go of it again and massaged everywhere around it, only grasping it, seemingly, to move it out of the way of his unrelenting massage. Trying not to, I was really beginning to squirm. My arousal was approaching some kind of medical emergency and his teasing some kind of sadistic pursuit.

I had my hands on the edge of the table and was squeezing for all I was worth. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that would help but it didn't I lifted my knees and dug my heels into the table and still no relief. I pressed my cheeks tightly together, rocking my hips up and only then did he touch my cock.

And when he did, my world changed. Finally, he took my aching cockhead in his hand and, with all the intuition he'd demonstrated so far, powerfully stroked it downwards to its very base. With my eyes still shut tight, I felt like I'd been in an elevator that had just free-fallen twenty stories.

And, as he squeezed my cock with both hands at its base, he took the beleaguered head into his mouth and sucked. Really hard.

With so much build-up, and such powerful stimulation, I knew I'd be over in moments. Maybe Marc knew it too, because he backed off before I could blow the back of his head off and resumed the abdominal massage.

"Fuck," I thought. I was right on the cusp of wondering whether this was agony or ecstasy when I felt him again mount the table. I opened my eyes and was thrilled to see him deliberately and expertly place the head of his cock on mine and, with the benefit of more lotion, begin to slide it back and forth, somehow keeping our most sensitive areas firmly mated. As he rocked his hips slowly back and forth, he pressed his hands into my pects and kneaded them still more.

While this was a definite escalation from carrying the internet-friendly, "oral top," label, I was far beyond giving a shit. Feeling his cock sliding against mine was its own reward and, when I thought I'd had as much thrill as I could experience, he pulled a hand off my chest and grasped my balls in it. So, pulling on my scrotum with his cock gnashed against mine, he rode me awhile longer until, just as before, I couldn't take it anymore.

And again, he stopped.

I couldn't handle it. "You're killing me!" I accused, but by then he'd hopped off the table. He didn't say a word but resumed that damn abdominal massage. My cock was leaking badly and only needed a whisper to blast off, but who could know when that would happen?

And then he kissed me just below my navel and I hoped deliverance was at hand. He kissed me all over, actually, but never where I really needed it. He licked and sucked and nibbled at the base of my cock, even stopping to suck up the slippery pre-cum which I couldn't control. He took my balls in his mouth and I could feel my cock resting against his cheek as he sucked them almost, but not, too hard.

Just as I'd begun to really tire of his game, Marc abruptly sucked my cock deep into his throat. Deeper, probably than anyone. With his nose firm against my body, he swallowed once and I shuddered. He did it again and instantly my hand was on his head and I was pumping him vengefully for all the edging he'd put me through. I would've fucked a whole in his skull at that point, but only too quickly, I was cumming. God was I cumming. I bucked and thrust and pushed but never let go of his head. He was making hot grunting noises and finally I realized I had to let go but I kept cumming.

As he backed off my cock, I heard him making gagging noises and felt the strange coolness of my own load as it leaked out around his mouth as he gulped for air. But the bastard had a final trick up his sleeve. For, even as the sensation of my own orgasm had exceeded my capacity for pleasure, he took a big breath of air and impaled himself on my still-orgasming cock, artificially prolonging the experience until I had to sit up to forcibly remove him from my dick.

I had cum so hard my ears were ringing and I wouldn't have tried to stand up. My knees were wobbly and I was grateful for the sturdy table. I hadn't noticed when it had happened, evidently, but when I looked again at Marc's tightly muscled body, his cock had collapsed on itself, the white streamer of his orgasm stretching from my thigh to his dickhead. I couldn't guess whether he'd stroked himself off, or just cum spontaneously and I didn't care.

I flopped back onto the table and just laid there. Marc found his pants and put them quickly on. "Take your time," he said, as though we'd only just shared a massage.

Suddenly, I wanted to go home. I shakily found my clothes and put them on feeling a little greasy from all the lotion. Adjusting myself inside my sweats, I put my shoes back on and walked out the way I'd come in.

I saw Marc looking very composed and professional at the front desk. He was holding a day planner as I handed him his fee and a polite if not conspicuous tip. "So -- how does Wednesday the 8th sound to you?" I blinked a few times to sort out my thinking and said, "tell you what -- make it Friday the 10th and I'll see you at 8:00."

I didn't even look back, really, as I staggered back to my car. Suddenly, the cold rain felt really good and I didn't give a shit about all that traffic on the way home.