I’ve always wondered why it feels so good to be massaged by another man.
Is there some quick and rational explanation for this?
Perhaps it’s because that touch means more than just relaxation for my tired muscles — maybe it signifies some relief from the stress of hiding who I really am?
When I strip and lie down on the massage bed, does it not signify my willingness — no, my fervent desire — to be just one naked truth? While there, don’t I really feel that hunger for validation? That I am indeed here, and more importantly, worthy to be here?
When I moan in ecstasy for every touch of my male masseur, is it really about the sensual pleasure? Or perhaps, it is more about the joy of allowing myself to be held, abandoning for even just that moment, my carapace of toughness, exposing in effect my vulnerability, and therefore my sensitivity?
When, after the deed, as the masseur finishes off with a slight bow of gratitude, I smile a secret but infinite smile, does it not really come from that deep satisfaction of opening myself up to the truth most choose not to have the honor to experience, because they are afraid, locked up, and denying the very core of who they really are?