Page 4 of All I Wank for Christmas

I shake my head, not understanding. “I haven’t.”

“Are you here because your friends dared you to check in, grab my boob, and then run out?”

“People do that?” I ask.

“It happens more often than I’d like to admit. We have some fraternities a few towns over, and I’d hate to be one of their pledges.”

“That seems a tad disrespectful.”

“You know that we’re a rub and tug, right?” she asks.

I tilt my head to the side, smiling. “What’s that? Is that a special kind of massage?”

“I don’t know why I don’t just wear a sandwich sign over my torso.” She bites her lip and looks away from me. I want her eyes back on mine. I don’t like it when she looks away. “My job is to jerk you off.” She enunciates the words, and it takes a second for me to understand.

I spin around in a circle, hands on hips like I’m looking at an old house I’m going to purchase. “This isn’t a regular massage place?”

“No. You’re in a special massage facility. We only massage dicks here.”

The penny drops and things make sense. Her unbuttoned blouse. The women only named Linda. All the cars around back but none in the front lot. I didn’t see any female clients in the waiting area.

She taps her foot and looks at the floor. “If you want to go, I’ll have Linda One refund your money. There seems to be a rash of misunderstandings today.”

No! I can’t leave. I like her. I want her hands on me. So what if I thought I was going to get the stress massaged from my shoulders. If she wants to massage that stress straight out of my dick, that’s even better, right? I can’t leave now. I won’t get to talk to her. I won’t find out her favorite color.

I silently get on the table and squeeze my eyes shut. “I’ve never done this before.”

“You don’t say?” she laughs. “I thought it was a little weird that you were here.”

I open one eye to find her pulling purple rubber gloves over her hands. My dentist uses something similar. “Why is it weird?”

She laughs and covers her mouth with her forearm like she’s trying to hide it. “You’re not our usual clientele. We get older men and a lot of younger men without girlfriends or wives for whatever reason. You don’t strike me as someone who has a problem getting a girlfriend or even getting someone to give you a hand job.”

This is news to me. I can’t get a girlfriend to save my life, especially not where I live. There’s not exactly a lot of selection in rural Canada. If I travel for a date, the woman usually doesn’t like me or the date is terrible. How would I even explain my family and my job to a woman? I’d sound like a lunatic. It’s probably my fault that I shut down on dates, not wanting to give away too much information.

Now that I’m relaxed and on a massage table with a moment to think about it, I probably come across as a serial killer on dates. Their radar goes up as soon as I hem and haw over details of my life. Hell, I can’t even come up with believable hobbies when they ask what I do in my spare time. What am I going to say? Would any woman believe I help train reindeer?

“No girlfriend,” I whisper as the woman’s hands hover near the drawstring of my pants.

She frowns and pats my chest. “Are you comfortable with me undoing your pants or would you like to do it?”

The idea of her fingers untying the drawstring, even if they’re gloved in latex, makes me harden. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been touched by a woman. Months? Years? How did I let it go that long?

I know how it happened. Dad got sick. I had to take over most of the operation except for the yearly big night delivery. This is my first year taking care of that, hence the stress. Unfortunately, our family business isn’t conducive to getting hot babes to give you a hand job.

I clear my throat. “I’d like you to do everything that’s allowed, now that I know what’s involved here.”

“The works, huh?” She smiles, and I could stare at it all night. Her teeth are perfectly white and straight except for one of her front teeth that tilts slightly to the side, causing a small gap that’s unnoticeable unless you’re looking.

And Ireallycan’t stop looking at her.

Where did she come from? How did this beautiful creature that could be a model or movie star end up giving hand jobs to old men in the middle of bumfuck Pennsylvania?

“Would you like music?” she asks, pulling me out of my thoughts of whisking her away and buying her the condo she deserves somewhere near a beach.

“Uh, do other clients do music?”

She smiles and looks at the ceiling like she’s thinking. “Actually, only the former band teacher ever asked for music. That’s odd, huh?”

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