I would not categorize myself as a lesbian....yet, like heterosexual men, I totally get the appeal of broads. Women are fucking sexy...all of them. Not just the ones with huge breasts, or tight little bodies, or junk in their trunk. Women, by and large, are inherently sensual and erotic. Their smell, the way they walk, the softness of their skin, the tenderness of their touch, the way they formulate words on their tongues, suck on a straw, carry a bag, run in the rain, apply lip gloss, or glance up at you from beneath their lashes. All those little things drive me wild. There's no denying it---women are goddesses.
I get a massage about once a week by an Asian woman (we'll call her The Geisha Goddess). The Geisha Goddess is not, by most standards, attractive. She's got bad, pimply skin. She's somewhat plain--her boyish body covered by a simple tee-shirt and loose fitting pants, her hair pulled into an unflattering, low pony tail. She's not a girl that would turn heads even on her best day. Still, when I peel off my clothes and am lying naked with her in a bed somewhere on Ventura Blvd, I find myself melting into her touch.
This meek little woman suddenly becomes a Thai Massage Parlour's version of a dominatrix and I fucking like it. I ask for it rough and she gives it to me. She makes men bench-pressing 300 look like weak little pansies. Her hands are tiny, almost like a toddlers, but they possess a strength that demands my body listen. She pushes and prods and yanks...and I am lying face down trying not to drool as this little woman, dwarfed by my 5'9 body, makes me feel like the fragile one. She orders me around, moves me this direction and that, stomps all over my lower back, and wages a war against each knot.
I pay for an hour, but she gives me 90 minutes without charging extra. And although I love it rough, it's those extra 30 minutes that are always my favorite.
After nearly an hour of being savagely beaten and abused by a woman I could easily crush with one hand...she physically nurses me back to health with the most feminine of tenderness. She delivers a physical apology for the torture she's enacted by intertwining her arms and legs around me and pulling me into an almost romantic embrace. My body is encapsulated by her femininity as her hands rub over my breasts deliberately and she whispers things like, "Are you relaxed?" "How do you feel?" "Lean into me." It's a heightened state of closeness with someone I've barely spoken more than a few words to. In the strangest of ways, it's an exploration into the sheer pleasure that can be attained from a physical exploration held at an emotional arm's length.
When it's all said and done, I put on my clothes, move to the front desk to pay, and whip out my credit card as she looks back at me with apathetic, disinterested eyes. She's all business. I'm just a customer. She's just waiting for the 70% tip that I always give her.
I often turn to see some fat slob waiting in the lobby behind me--her next appointment. I wonder if she gives him hand-jobs and how much he tips her for that. I wonder if she prefers me to him. I wonder if he tips more than I do. And if he does tip more, I wonder whether she still likes me better.
But even though her hands are magical and healing and I feel warm and nurtured (even during her violent unleashing of holy terror on my aches and pains), I'll probably never trib with The Geisha Goddess. Because the truth is -- even though I enjoy the safe, beautiful dance of of soft, feminine limbs...I think I'll always prefer the emotionally dangerous, sweaty bump and grind of meaty, male ones.
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