Monday, January 14, 2013

Today I Was Turned On


As you know, I get asked often, mid-session, to be specific, usually while my hands are wrapped around a client’s penis, to be even more specific, “Do you get turned on?” or “You must get sooo turned on.”

The interrogator is usually breathless, erect, and occasionally sweaty. The truth could cause a flatline. And a flatline generally extends a session ten minutes due to futile resuscitation until someone calls it. Deceased. Time and Date. Put the hand paddles away.

So I LIE to prevent a penile cadaver. I want my clients to leave happy, stress-free and fully satisfied and overcooked-linguine dicks make everyone sad. So, what’s the harm in a tiny fib? Nothing, I say, but sometimes, I am shocked to realize that, in fact, my lady juices are flowing and I am turned on.

Today was one just day.

It’s worth repeating: I am always floored when a client can turn me on. Talk about a cadaver...that’s me. But every once in a while, a guy will bring me back from the dead. And his name was Ethan.

I was in a poor-me mood this morning as a result of some disturbing medical-related news. And as a tiny tangent—since when have hospital secretaries been left with the task of telling a woman, a young woman, a woman who makes her living off her tits, that she needs to come back for diagnostic breast screening because her last mammogram revealed a potential “mass.”

Mass is never a good word, not when it refers to church, and not when it refers to something in your right breast. And particularly not when it comes from the lips of a secretary eating a rather juicy-sounding apple over the phone when this news is delivered. Apparently being a secretary has its benefits, because if the woman on the other end of the phone (i.e. me) goes into a tailspin at the possibility of losing her tits and therefore livelihood, the secretary can simply dismiss the conversation, saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t answer those questions, because I’m just the secretary.”

But I digress. Back to Ethan. Understandably this news left me wondering: What good are breasts, really? When was the last time my breasts made me feel good? And with the exception of eight months of breast-feeding Analise and the accompanying insane calorie-burning of this breastfeeding, my breasts seem like nothing more than a hindrance, body-rub income notwithstanding. A hindrance, indeed, particularly when one has a family history of breast cancer. At a Very Young Age.

I had seen Ethan before, but due to an iPhone/iCloud mishap, many of my phone numbers were lost and therefore I didn’t realize it was Ethan The Hot Client that called to schedule. He indicated that he had seen me in November and wanted to see me today. Sure, how about 2? He agreed.

It was a silver lining when I went to the waiting room and realized my 2 o’clock was The Ethan.

Part of Ethan’s charm is what we have in common: skiing, migraines, elementary-school aged children, and custody issues. He’s a classically good-looking guy: brunette, toned, neatly shaved, and within a decade of my age.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, as he is face up with me on the massage table rubbing his thighs—with me positioned in between his thighs.

Please do!

“Of course,” I say.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.
 
Not a chance.

For my well-behaved clients, I do a front body slide, allowing my breasts to touch their stomach, penis—whatever sticks up.

At this point, I was thinking the things I normally ponder while my tits are tickling a man’s naked body: When will the cold snap break? Will I have time to go to the bank before I pick up Ana from school? Will the bank have those cookies and should I snag a couple for my daughter? Like I said, I’m a corpse.

I was enjoying Ethan’s touches though; he was lightly putting his hands on my hips as I moved over him. Nothing too grabby.

“Can you touch your nipples with mine?” he asks. I can’t say that I get this request often. Nipple-touching is a very individual thing for men, I have discovered in my empirical research. Some men love it and others find it highly annoying. I would’ve guessed Ethan to be a non-nipple guy due to his highly sensitive foot arches, which I mistakenly massaged without warning and nearly received a knee to the nose.

“Sure,” I say, as he opens his thighs a little more so that I have room to slide up without wetting my panties.

We were a good nipple-to-nipple match. And that is exactly when the thaw occurred. His arms embraced me a little closer and eventually my arm muscles gave out and I collapsed on his chest. His breathing deepened and I sensed he also wasn’t too concerned about time. He smelled like a campfire and his arms felt solid and protective. On a day like today, it’s everything I wanted.

This all leads me to the conclusion that my breasts do still provide me with immense pleasure.

I hope I get to keep them.