The hands that never touched me
I enter the massage parlour — dim light, soft shadows — her strangely upright posture and discreet smile: please put on the tanga, lie down, yes, you can be naked otherwise.
She covers me in a burrow of cloudy towels, tucking me into myself, and then begins — feet. Gentle, slow, deliberate. She works her way up: calves, knees, thighs. Her hands edge around my pubic area. I remember the explanation about there being an important lymphatic point here, so I’m not surprised. The shame of my unshaven pussy loosens quickly as her touches bury me in their own permission. Precise, circular, soft, molding.
She doesn’t hesitate. She continues, up to the very edge, just above my pubic bone, and then down along the inner thigh. Up, down, return. Yes, very near, very close. Up, down, return.
I feel a rosy heat cover my cheeks as I slowly begin to realise how turned on I am. I wonder if her hands slipped, just a few centimeters right now, towards the centre, how she would notice my wetness covering inches in my tiny massage tanga. How her touches would feel right there; precise, moving, circular, releasing. I’m relieved I am not a man — because in this moment, I would be offering a victorious erection in salute to her expertise.
Her motions never break rhythm. And I begin to drift — a trance-like state, not fully asleep, not awake. Somewhere between wanting to arch into her palm and disappearing into the table.
A lazy thought lingers passing by like a low-hanging cloud — no man has ever touched me like this. Not with precision. Not with reverence. Not simply to feel my skin under his palm. And then sadness hits, sudden and sharp: the last man (if not every man) I have ever claimed to have loved only touched me for his own pleasure, his use. My pleasure was accidental — a bonus, never a destination. Fast, hasty, pushing himself inside in heat, then quick release - I was lucky to have even a hint of an orgasm in between. Sex was always tied to his ending. Never mine.
Somewhere between tears and extreme lust for the hands of my knowledgeable massage therapist,I travel inward: the sound of my own screaming needing to be witnessed, lost and suppressed inside the ravine carrying my expired emotions on its back.
When it is all over, I smile and tip an appraising Google review for Sandrina and all hail to her glorious hands that touched the depth of me, lingering, like no man ever did.
