Page 4 of Connor

Sculpted doesn’t come close to describing the chest that I just saw. Broad muscles, a scattering of hair that almost makes me want to reach out and touch him. He’s an Adonis. My heart thuds. Like it does when I climb too many steps or hold a yoga pose for a long time. Not rushed, just hard, heavy, deep thuds, and I wonder if he can see my chest pulsing.

It’s been a long time since I saw a naked man. It was one night maybe a year ago, when my roommate, Trisha, forced me to go on a double date with her. I didn’t want to go, preferring to do anything else, but it was eighties night, and I love to dance, and I’m nothing if not a supportive friend. So I went, and the blind date I met up with was nice, and we unexpectedly had a good night. The man was gone when I woke, and while I enjoyed it, I’ve never double-dated again. I’d rather dance in my room alone.

“I need you to please put your clothes back on,” I say with some urgency.

I’m a professional, and I need to pull it together. I conduct wellness therapy services on men all the time. But it’s usually Arlo, my mom’s yoga coach, or Soren, the guy Mom buys her crystals from, who comes by every couple of months. But this guy? This guy is so far from the normal man I would even meet, let alone consult, it’s making my brain short-circuit.

Most people who come here know what treatments they’re booking for and know what that requires. Apparently, he doesn’t. We don’t actually do any treatments that require partial nudity outside of cupping and acupuncture. We have such a litigious culture at the moment, so we prefer not to open ourselves up to any issues that may arise from miscommunication. Like today.

“You can look now.” His deep tone is a little sheepish, and I keep my hand where it is, splitting my fingers wider to create a peephole to check before lowering it completely.

“Where shall I put this?” he asks, lifting the teacup, which I notice is empty. I look at the cup in his abnormally large hands as I try to cool my body temperature.

“I can take it.” Grabbing the cup from him, I move to place it on the cupboard. I frown, wondering why my mother gave him tea in her favorite cup. The little white teacup that I made in preschool with daisies painted on it, each petal my child-size fingerprint. I get a whiff of the elixir she made him and inhale the slight aroma of Maca, freezing as I remember the herb concoction she was steeping earlier.I’m going to kill her.She gave him tea to promote sexual arousal. Our aphrodisiac tea. No wonder she was smiling at me weirdly. I clear my throat, putting that to the back of my mind to talk to her about later.

“If you would like to lie down on the bed, we can start,” I tell him, turning my back to him so I can take a few seconds to get my head right. I hear him shuffling around, the bed creaking under his weight, and I look up to the ceiling, praying the old bed holds steady. He’s a big man, and if it doesn’t hold, I’ll be mortified. I had put a proposal forward six months ago to Mom for us to invest in new beds, the ones that I could mechanically raise and lower with a foot pedal so that I didn’t have to lean over so much when doing treatments, but again, she wasn’t interested. So, these old, timber-legged beds remain here, squeaking every time someone lies on them.

I gulp as he settles, hearing him take a deep inhale. My shoulders lower with the sound, my breath following his. I spot my tools for this treatment, grabbing my singing bowls of various sizes and my favorite mallet. I’m now ready.

He’s silent as I walk back to the bed. His hands are joined and rest on his chest, his eyes closed like he’s in a state of relaxation, and I run my eyes from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. He has a full head of hair and is extremely handsome in a rugged, manly kind of way. He has a full beard like he works in the country, but I can already tell he isn’t a lumberjack, although I got a hint of a Southern accent when he spoke. My eyes lower, taking in his thick thighs and sculpted legs, all the way to his feet, him being so tall they hang off the end of the bed.

“Are you just going to look, or is something else going to happen?” he murmurs in a lower, sultry tone that shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does. I blushagainbut roll my shoulders and get started.

“I’m just getting ready,” I say as I take a look at his client form in case there’s anything I’ve missed. He’s fit, healthy, a non-smoker. I notice he’s from a town called Whispers, and his date of birth puts him at thirty-five, just over a decade older than me. I run through any known ailments, and then I’m all set.

“As you lie on the bed, I’ll place various bowls on your body, in alignment with your chakras,” I tell him, my inside meditation voice now apparent.

“My what?” he asks, and I roll my lips so I don’t laugh. This guy is so far out of his element, it’s almost comical.

“Chakras, they are the different energy points in your body,” I say smoothly to try to help him relax. The sound pipes meditation music infiltrates into the room, and we’re quiet as I get into my flow state. I’ve been practicing yoga, meditation, and sound healing for years now, and I love it. I enjoy treating people, having them leave the clinic more energized and aligned than when they arrived. I’m also an herbalist, the tea making Mom and I do my other secret passion.

He hums as I place the bowls onto his body, paying absolutely no attention to his amazing physique.

“The sounds of the bowls, along with the vibrations, will run through your body, creating a sense of wellness and calm.” I tap onto one of the bowls near his feet. “You will experience inner harmony, and it will induce a feeling of very deep relaxation.”

“Whatever you say, Daisy.” He grumbles my name in what appears to be a half-asleep state. His slight Southern accent comes through again, saying theIin Daisy a little higher in his pronunciation, which does something to my insides, and the vibrations around my body start just by the sound of hearing it. I push that to the back of my mind and concentrate.

As I tap the bowls and get into a rhythm, I quietly move from his feet to the lower thighs, near his knees. His legs are more toned and tanned than most of the men we have come in here. I run the mallet around the bowl, trying to concentrate on the vibrations rather than his physique. Then I move to hit a bowl placed on his torso. He’s so toned, the bowl doesn’t move, and I can make out the ridges of muscle that I glimpsed earlier underneath his t-shirt. I find with other clients, the bowl can wobble because the foundation it sits on is usually uneven. Breasts in women, rolls of belly, or just normal stomach curves can make the bowl on the torso one of the harder ones to keep in place.

But not Connor. No, his torso is flat, tight, and the bowl sits completely flush against his body. I take a breath in, feeling my own bloated stomach tighten before I exhale, knowing it’s futile. My stomach is squishy, and I let it go. When I look up to his face briefly, his features are soft, relaxed, half-covered by his beard that’s well-trimmed and suits him. I spot his lips, the perfect shape. That always happens. Men always get long lashes and great lips.

I refocus my mind, giving him my energy, soaking up his stress and worries, and after a while, I hear him dozing. Small tufts of air puff out his lips, and he looks peaceful. It happens sometimes and, clearly, he’s either exhausted, or the sound healing is doing exactly what it’s supposed to. I’m proud to have this effect on him and many of my other clients. It takes a lot for people in this city to truly relax and feel safe enough with me that they sleep with me standing over them. Given that this is Connor's first time here, it’s even more surprising.

I continue on, quietly chanting my own meditative words to him, instilling energy, calm, and resilience into every tap of my mallet and every spoken word until the treatment is complete. Quietly, I remove each bowl and put them back, then turn to look at him, watching his chest rise and fall heavily in slow, rhythmic beats, him now in a full state of sleep and one I’m hesitant to wake him from.

So, I don’t. I pull a light blanket over him and leave him in the room to relax as I tiptoe out. He’ll wake up soon. His body will know when it’s time. On light steps, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water to replenish before I go in search of my mother, who kindly gave him our aphrodisiac tea.

She has some explaining to do.

4

CONNOR

Iwake up feeling like I slept for days, except my throat is dry like I went on a bender last night. I can’t remember the last time I smoked weed, but it’s been a while.

Rubbing my eyes, I roll to my side, then stop, something amiss. The bed feels different, and I open my eyes and get my bearings.

I’m in a large white room. I spot bowls on the floor, the haunting melody of pipes coming through the speaker at the side, and my memory kicks back in.

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