I got the haircut three days before the day she usually shows up. It was supposed to look neat and professional. But without my usual mess, I feel off — like I'm wearing someone else's head. Whatever. I just can't wait to see her again.
She's always polite. That's what made me notice her in the first place. The third time she came in, she looked tired — a kind of deep-tired that sits behind the eyes. I wanted to ask if she was okay, but I didn't. Most customers want quiet. The chatty ones will start talking right away. I wait. That time, she only said "thank you" in the end.
I've seen hundreds, maybe thousands of bodies. Male, female, old, strong, petite, fragile. It's just part of the job. I don't get turned on. I don't fantasize. I don't sneak looks or jerk off as in my buddy's fantasy. It's disgusting — to use that kind of vulnerability against someone. I wouldn't want a man treating my sister or my mom that way.
But R is different.
She left "Riley W." on the sign-in sheet, but I always just think of her as R. She feels more like a Rachel — sweet like Rachel from Friends, but steadier, grounded, and not spoiled. I've massaged bodies that could be on magazine covers or Playboy Bunnies, but hers stays with me. Maybe it's her manner — quiet but present. There's a calm and confidence about her that pulls me in.
I wonder what she does for work. She feels like someone who reads a lot — not in a snobby way, just thoughtful. Her skin's got a healthy caramel tone, like she spends time outdoors. There's a scar on the right side of her belly, just above the curve of her hip. A pink birthmark on her right ankle — small, round, like a pressed drop of wine. Her hair's short, shorter than most women I see. She doesn't shave under her arms. Most women do. But she doesn't, and it suits her — she doesn't perform for anyone.
Her ass is… perfect. Not flashy. Just right. It fits her — confident, unbothered. I wouldn't complain if my future wife had a body like that.
She prefers pressure. I can tell by the way she exhales when I dig into her shoulders. She likes it when I sweep my fingers slowly along her spine and lower back — not too light, not too fast. You learn to read the subtle things — a soft gasp, the way her skin responds. Goosebumps raise under my hands. I gave her a few extra strokes just to see it happen again. I told myself it was technical. But the truth? I just wanted more time in that quiet space with her body under my hands.
R is cute. I shouldn't be thinking about her after she leaves, but I do.
I'll be honest—despite what some people assume, I rarely have sexual thoughts about my female clients. Seriously. It's all muscle memory and mindfulness. But I do sometimes wonder: for male gynecologists, do they just… automatically go into exam mode when things get intimate? Like, do they start mentally charting the cervix? Wild thought.
Anyway—back to me.
Sometimes, when I'm working on a particularly lean or well-trained client, I'll catch myself admiring the way the muscle lines flow, or how cleanly their bones show through. It's not lust. It's more like, "Wow, human anatomy is kinda amazing." Most of the time, my mind is running through practical stuff, like: What's the next sequence? Am I going too fast? Should I slow down here? Did I miss a spot? Do they look relaxed? Also—check your posture! Don't wreck your back. Occasionally I zone out, not gonna lie—usually because I'm exhausted… or just really, really hungry.
And then there's Riley.
She's about 5'6", with an average build, but there's something about her that gets under my skin—in a curious, not creepy way. Her face is… unfiltered. Like, it hasn't been overly sculpted by life's expectations yet. There's no pretense, no city-worn sharpness. Just softness. Innocence, almost.
Her butt? Like a ripe peach. Round, juicy, and firm, the kind that makes you pause for half a second as you're adjusting the towel and think: Damn, nature did good work here. And speaking of the towel—it clings just right, tracing curves like a lazy artist's brushstroke. Her breasts are pretty average in size, but when she's lying on her stomach, they kind of flatten out like two gentle soufflés. I don't touch, of course—I never touch there—but if I had to guess, I'd say soft as dreams.
She rarely wears nail polish. I remember just once, she had her toenails painted red. For some reason, that stuck with me.
I figure she's in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. But I've never asked—because rule number one in my book? Never dig into a client's personal life. Ever. No exceptions.
Here's the thing: I don't see massage as erotic. I really don't. But sometimes, with the dim lighting, slow music, the scent of oil in the air, and that barely-there whisper of Riley's body wash clinging to her skin… I'd be lying if I said I didn't have to remind myself to stay professional.
And sometimes, I have to remind myself more times than I can count.