Helpful neighbours can be a real nuisance. In our little cul-de-sac it is Vera, a middle-aged, stay-at-home housewife with just a bit too much time on her hands. She was very useful if the postman turned up with an expected parcel that she could take in for you or if a delivery needed to be signed for but her constant presence made it very difficult to have any secrets. I’d just pulled onto the drive when she came across to tell me she had a delivery for me but would need a hand to carry it across. I knew straightaway what it was and quietly prayed they had been discreet. As soon as I saw the large flat box propped inside her garage wall that hope was dashed. There right across it in letters so big they might as well have been written in fire were the words ‘Professional Massage Table’.
“Well, Tom,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “You’re a dark horsy, aren’t you? I never knew you were a masseur.”
I should have laughed it off, made some sort of wisecrack and left it at that. But I didn’t. Instead I started gabbling. “I’m not. Well not really. I don’t have any training or anything. It’s just a hobby. I just do it with friends. At the running club I mean.” The longer I wittered on the more she smiled and the more flustered I became. I explained that people at the club got stiff because of all the training but regular massage was so expensive that we had decided to do it among ourselves and learn how to massage each other. We were not professional but it was better than nothing. With relief I finally stopped blathering.
“So you just do the boys from the club?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
“No, well not often, not the guys. It’s more the women. You know what men are like. We get squeamish if we are asked to rub sun tan cream into each other’s backs at the beach. The idea of your mate oiling your thighs is just too…well you know. So mainly it’s just the women.”
“I used to love a massage,” said Vera. “But you’re right, it is so expensive. I only used to get them as presents, spa days and pampering and all that. So if you need anyone to practise on…well just let me know.”
By now we’d got the box into my garage so I said of course I would, thanked her for taking it in and gratefully escaped into the house. I’d no intention of massaging Vera. She was old enough to be my mum but at least in all my babbling I’d not told her why I’d really got the table. Everything I’d told her was true, just not the whole truth. The fact was that I’d bought the table to get laid. When we’d first talked about massages at the club it had been completely above board but within the few months we’d been doing it I’d found it was also the passport to some casual fun too.
I don’t know how it works, whether the atmosphere of the massage room, the lighting, the nudity, the touching and, what had Vera called it? the pampering, made women horny or whether women looking for a bit of fun gravitated to massage as a way of getting down to business. It was not with everybody and nor every time but I’d had a few hand jobs (and given a few finger jobs) from it, as well as one or two blowjobs and even a couple of surprise fucks, both from married women. It may also have helped to pique their curiosity that I’m not badly hung. Not porn star hung, just an inch or so above average and I’m a shower rather than a grower so when I’m flaccid it looks reasonably impressive, so I’m told. It’s not usually much help in picking up girls because it’s a hidden asset. You can hardly go up to a girl in a bar and say: “Hi. I’ve got a big cock, Fancy a drink?” But when you’re being massaged it is more apparent.