Tiny confession

When I was 11 or 12, I had a friend who invited me to join the Terry Fox Run on a cool September morning. We took our bikes downtown, and the route was an unremarkable three kilometres that had us expecting an exciting deviation or hill or dramatic curve in the road--there never was. However, at the end of the event, a tent had been set up for runners and cyclists to have back or leg massages, so we went there.

My friend got a back massage, and I figured I'd get my legs done.

Since I'd thought the route would be longer and I might work up a sweat, I'd worn a scrap of a tank top and embarrassingly short shorts. The masseuse didn't seem to mind.

I lay myself down, face first into the massage table, and she began on my ankles, working herself deliberately up my calves and backs of my knees. She moved both hands to my right leg then, where the thighs join the knee. I remember my 12 year-old self thinking how pleasant and personal--perhaps too personal--this felt--but, I reassured myself, she's a professional.

She worked her way up my thigh, slowly, right up to the bottom lip of my shorts, and by then I was getting hot and bothered. But, no no, I said again, she knows what she's doing; and so she remained working on the muscles just below where my shorts ended.

Then, slowly, she slipped under the fabric.

This caught me off guard and I was in an immediate panic, thinking OH MY GOD IS THIS OKAY TO DO? But progress was slow, careful and at every stroke prepared to cease at my refusal. But no refusal came. So she slid up again, working deeper into the tissue and provoking my senses further.

It got to the point where I had to clench to stop myself from gyring at her touch. I remember wanting to grind my hips into the table for release from all that pressure building up. And, all at once, I was over the edge--not by much, but just far enough--and for an instant, I was hefted up, suspended just high enough my feet caught air--my hips seized, some muscles contracted, and I crashed down as lightly as I'd been lifted. It was a tiny orgasm, and if I'm honest with myself, that was my first.

The masseuse then worked on my left leg, with no such repetition.



Why?!

I'm not entirely sure why I recalled this just now. A few things are on my mind:
1. I'm bisexual--at least, and at most, transgendered;
2. I've only been with men, never with women, even since coming out;
3. a co-worker of mine is terribly nervous, but "Oh god, he melts like chocolate in your hands" when I gave him a shoulder rub once;
4. I'm going for a massage in two hours; and
5. I would dearly love to get drunk and have unplanned make-outs with girls.

I guess that's enough to bring up memories...

Yeah... I wonder how much significance that event had on my life... my first ever orgasm was while getting a massage... from a lady... Huh...

--Charlie