Massage Confessions: Massaging a Subscriber

“This is going to sound absolutely insane if I’m wrong, but do you post about your massages on Substack…?”

I’m very lucky in that, as a rule, I tend to be kept very busy. Massage and physical therapies can be exhausting work, but also tremendously satisfying and gratifying. certainly I can’t imagine why anyone who doesn’t genuinely love the job would ever do it. So I’d always rather have a day packed back to back with clients than have to suffer long and tedious quiet spells.

After all, we all know what idle hands make for, and if you’ve read any of my other tales ( HERE or HERE for example) you’ll know that I much prefer to keep my hands very busy indeed.

I split my time between working in a luxury high end spa, in which I have no control over my diary at all and am assigned clients at the behest of my corporate overlords, and freelance carting around my portable massage table to visit clients in their own homes. For the latter I’m blessed with complete ownership, setting my own hours, days of work, and the freedom to accept or turn down clients based on whatever vibe or whim strikes me at the time.

I can’t count the times some poor soul has missed out on a massage because I was quite literally more inclined to wash my hair that particular night.

I’ve been working freelance for many years, so have been able to build up a regular and loyal client base, so it’s relatively rare I’ll find an opening for someone entirely new. Even when such slots do appear, it usually tends to be friends or friends of friends who’ve been eagerly waiting in the wings to jump to the head of the queue.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, after all.

But, once every blue moon, through cancellations or sheer luck of the draw, a slot opens for the taking for someone well outside my own extended circle.

At least, so I thought. Because now, quite by accident, it turns out I’ve extended my reach far wider than I’d ever anticipated.

Because of you, readers.

Because of this.

Hi. I’m Robyn. And this is another confession of a masseuse.

Mark seemed nervous. From the moment he’d answered the door and offered to help lug my enormous portable table into his flat, he’d been notably red in the face in a manner that I could only put down to actively blushing.

This in itself wasn’t all that notable. Lots of people can get a little nervous, awkward or outright embarrassed when they’re being massaged for the first time. Massages are an intimate experience and not everyone is immediately comfortable with the notion of getting half naked in front of a stranger, before actively inviting them to put their hands all over you.

But this felt different from the usual pre-massage anxiety. As I made all the usual polite conversation you make when entering someone’s home, Mark responded in kind, the blushing didn’t abate. He’d make eye contact, then somehow blush even harder, tearing his eyes away like I’d caught him peeking at me in the shower. Even his own contributions to the conversation; the usual ‘had a busy day?’, ‘need any help setting up the table?’ and the essential ‘Can I get you a drink?’ were delivered with something of either a hesitant stammer or at double the audible speed.

The nervousness felt strangely familiar, but it took me a long time to register precisely what it reminded me of. It wasn’t the nervousness of someone about to have their first massage. It felt far more like nervous energy of someone on their first date.

I put it down to Mark just being incredibly shy, a common feature among folk that prefer a massage in their own home. He had all the other hallmarks. His flat had clearly been cleaned and tidied that day to ensure it was presentable, and there was a distinct scent of air freshener lingering suggesting he’d deployed a sizeable squirt immediately before he’d answered the door. He was organised; a space had already been made for me to set up my table, and I’d spotted he’d also already pre-prepared a stack of towels on his sofa should they be needed. I’m also reasonably sure he had two mugs ready, pre-set by the kettle, just in case I’d been in need of libation.

It was all very sweet and thoroughly endearing. So I smiled my warmest smile to put him at ease, and began to talk him through the process.

“Can I ask, is this your first massage?” I said, wondering if this was at the heart of his apparent apprehension.

“No, no.” He said, the words firing out like bullets. “I’ve had a good few, but this is the first one I’ve ever had at home.”

Okay. So maybe it’s just the ‘in his personal space’ aspect that has him feeling extra self conscious. Not to worry, that will disappear as soon as he’s laid down.

Mark enjoys a firm massage and warns me he’s been told he can be a ‘bit of a grunter’, but not to let that put me off.

“I love a grunter. Shows me I’m really putting the work in!”

This simply makes him blush even harder. I make a mental note to lower my levels of innuendo. If my jokes aren’t making him relax then, frankly, they’re part of the problem.

With the essentials covered, I ask him if he has any questions for me. There’s a moment’s micro-pause which makes me think there definitely is something he wants to ask, but instead he smiles, idly scratches his neck and says no.

“Are you sure? You can ask me anything, there’s nothing too weird or too silly that I won’t have been asked at least half a dozen times before…”

Mark’s eyes suddenly tear themselves from me to find anything else in the room to rest upon. His cheeks flare the brightest red they’ve achieved in our ten minute interaction so far. I could’ve warmed my hands on him like an open fire.

“No, no…” he said, clearly lying through his teeth.

Had he been less anxious, I’d have launched immediately into my ‘And don’t worry if you get an erection’ schtick that I’ll sometimes offer to new clients, but given how my earlier light innuendo had landed, I feared the embarrassment might cause him to burst.

From which end, remained to be seen.

“Okay, I’ll nip out of the room for a few minutes while you get yourself ready. Strip your top half off and lay down on the table with your head through the hole. It’s a sixty minute back and shoulder session so I won’t need access to your legs, but if you’d be more comfortable lying down without your jeans on that’s no problem, just pop this towel over your lower half to cover up, and give me a shout when you’re ready.”

An expression crossed Mark’s face as the prospect of him removing his trousers raised its head, that I wasn’t quite able to catch. It was either an even deeper level of embarrassment and mortification the likes of which I hadn’t realised existed or, quite possibly, the tiniest sliver of an excited smile sneaking out.

I wondered whether I perhaps should have shared the erection talk after all, and left him to undress in peace.

During this pause in proceedings I tend to do one of two things. I’ll either get out my phone and check my appointments, emails or, more likely, doom-scroll until I’m given the all clear, or I’ll take the opportunity to glance at the pictures folk put up in their hallways. I’ve always found these to be very telling and a fascinating glimpse into people’s lives.

Mark didn’t have much up in the way of pictures. One wall of the hallway was occupied almost entirely by a series of coathooks and his bike which, unless I was mistaken (and, to clarify, I know nothing at all about such things), looked like quite a fancy and expensive one. This suggested a man who was clearly very into his cycling, and I suddenly felt disappointed I wasn’t going to be touching his undoubtedly well toned legs. The other wall was bare - lacking even the traditional mirror for folk to make thier final grooming checks before leaving the house - while on the sideboard stood a single photo of Mark surrounded by friends on what must’ve have been a relatively recent significant birthday. He looked far more relaxed than anything I’d seen of him so far.

“I’m ready.” came a slightly apprehensive voice from the other room.

Okay. Job time. Here we go!

Re-entering, two things were immediately clear.

First, Mark had clearly decided to go sans-jeans. This was obvious thanks to two facts; they were neatly folder overthe arm of the sofa, clearly having been placed there in such a way so as to inform me ‘I’m not wearing my trousers’ without him needing to suffer the indignity of saying the words himself. And, speaking of indignity, he’d made the deeply tragic error of removing his jeans but leaving his socks on. Two black sock covered feet stuck out from beneath the end of the towel, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to openly snigger, something I know would have ruined the whole experience for him entirely.

“Are your feet cold?” I asked.

“No…”

“Then we can probably do without these,” I said, yanking them off his feet with needlessly elaborate flair. “Sorry, I just find nearly naked men still in their socks weirdly distracting!”

This is, as it happens, entirely true. But I framed it as a joke just to put Mark at ease. However, as I did so he made a strange noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a grunt.

I didn’t take the time to wonder what this might have meant though, as I was distracted by the second of the obvious facts; Mark’s back was a hot mess of tension and tight muscles. He was a man desperately in need of a massage.

So I oiled up my hands, and set to work.

Mark hadn’t been lying. He really was a grunter.

For nearly fourty-five minutes I pummelled his back with a combination of palms, thumbs, forearms and elbows, and Mark took it all like an absolute champ.

Which is to say a champ struggling with a particularly strenuous bowel movement.

Each and every time I rubbed up against a knot or a point of tension, I was met with a distinct and often quite loud;

“Nnnngggghhhhhhh!”

It’s for the best I’d already decided he was likely too shy to attempt mid-massage conversation. I’d not have heard any of his answers over the noise of his relief.

After three quarters of an hour of literal elbow grease and having made incredibly satisfying progress on his back, I told Mark he could actually relax as I’d spend the final fifteen minutes on his neck. This was significantly less tense and, hopefully, he’d find it far more enjoyable.

“Hell, has that really been forty-five minutes already?” he asked, seemingly alarmed.

“Yep! Time flies when you’re having fun. And I really have fun when I’m making a man make that much noise!”

I thought I was being funny, but it was clear Mark had tensed up again. In fact he hadn’t just tensed, he was pushing himself up off the table slightly, bringing his head out of the hole.

Fuck. I’ve gone too far and upset him. Stupid fucking thing to do. I’d already known he’d gone all shy at earlier innuendo, so why try again? I’d have to offer him a discount by means of an apology.

Of course, none of this was the case.

“I’d wanted to say something earlier but I really didn’t want to be weird…” said Mark, turning to face me but still somehow avoiding eye contact, and blushing as strongly as when I’d first arrived.

Ah. He’d got an erection. I should’ve done my speech. Well, better late than never…

“Don’t worry, it happens to lots of…”

I didn’t get any further before he cut me off.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane if I’m wrong, but do you post about your massages on Substack…?”

Oh.

OH.

Oh fuck.

Well, this has never happened before…!

I don’t know why the possibility had never occurred to me. Writing on here feels like spewing words into a void. It’s lovely there are people out there reading it, but you never expect to actually encounter them in your own life.

And even if you did, certainly not half naked in their living room, having spent almost an hour vigorously rubbing them with scented oils!

What the fuck was I going to do now?

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