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My flowers have wilted away but confoundedly I am well up on the massage front. A somewhat bizarre invitation for “a few beers” courtesy of MW#1 turned into an evening happily spent spilling pizza down myself, knocking beverage containers over and generally being a bit of a spazz. I have known him for years but I still get a bit nervous when I go to see him. Duh.
Three glasses of wine, one showing of Tombstone and two episodes of The Sopranos later I am stretched out over MW#1’s knee enjoying what would eventually add up to be in the realm of three hours of back massage.
Oh… Such pleasure! Admittedly I am now sporting a smattering of bruises where he was a little too hard on me but these only add to my post-massage feelings of well-being (as I am warped). I think I have some under my tattoo. I’ve craved a massage for years; MW#1 did a very good job, although I think I would prefer some lube next time so I don’t have to suffer through friction burns. And no that is not a euphemism.
Unfortunately, he still smells far too good to me and I find him of huge tactile appeal… my night of massage has reminded me how I want to say and do all sorts of things but am unable to do so due to my just-a-friend status and the morality of the situation.
I loved every minute of the massage (even the friction burns) and i’d love to be indulged more but dammit.