When anything exceeds your expectations, you remember it as special. This is as valid for a personal rendezvous, (especially one which has been incubated only online) as it is for customer service or for product quality.
As a massage therapist I've worked on a great number of guys - gym junkies, chunky footballers, frustrated husbands, stressed athletes and some just plain ordinary people who, sometimes, beyond their sports injuries or aching backs, would like a bit of `extra service'. I'm careful to differentiate between `professional services' and `personal servicing'.
Without advertising, clientele can only result from personal recommendations. However, on-line, dedicated sites can present additional opportunities. So, it was with Adam and me - one a writer for a `men's literature' site; the other a reader.
In an exchange of emails, we quickly confirmed our mutual appetite for the genre of gay male prose (in many cases the rendering of our own fantasies) as well as our preference for the wearing and watching of Speedos; or, to be more specific, men in Speedos.
Adam and I had discussed our jobs without initially disclosing specifics, also our residential locations (again avoiding exact details), discovering that we lived in `reasonably' close proximity to one another - at least in the same city.
With the current generational denigration of Speedos as `budgie smugglers' that reveal `too much', I was both amused and delighted to receive a waist-up pic from Adam (because I assumed it to be of him) of a guy displaying a T-shirt bearing the text `Real men wear Speedos'. In return, he received a neck-down photo of me `free-balling', as he put it, in a super lightweight pair of grey tights, with the onset of a pending erection in unmistakeable outline - more obvious than it would have been had I been wearing dark or multi-coloured swimwear.
Amongst mutual-admiration messages, conversations turned, inevitably, to the potential for giving and receiving of a massage, dependent upon us finding an appropriate `time and place' - the universal impediment to wishful liaisons. I've found that when somebody declares his inability to `host', it is usually euphemistic for `family' (also known as `parents' or `spouse), 'or `flatmates'. And so it was with us.
We `chatted' about the efficacy of massage and I shared my perception of a man's universal dread of having an erection during the session, especially if asked to `roll over' onto his back. The second, subsequent, fear is whether `it' might be too small.
I had related to Adam what a Chinese masseuse once told me, that an erection is merely a compliment to the skill of the massage therapist. His reply, that he looked forward to paying me a compliment, was a positive inspiration; it was a step up in our hypotheticals towards a potential real-life hook up, and more than hinted at the anticipated result. A tightening in the front of my pants was immediate, imagining seeing and feeling the body of the hunky `Speedo guy' in his expanding nylon briefs or, even better, out of them.
His emails, including `really looking forward to meeting you', prior to the establishment of any proposed time and location, were of great encouragement.
I wondered, without asking (thinking that it would be rude to do so), about Adam's unspoken hesitancy to share a photo of himself showing his beloved Speedos. Was he too big? Too small? Too shy? Too identifiable? But, then, many of us don't relish the thought of our face and `stuff' being spread around on social media by sharing it, especially with someone whom we haven't met.
I could not blame his caution. After all, I hadn't revealed my face to him (despite thinking that he had done freely with me) primarily because I did not want it to adversely influence the possibility of him agreeing to meet me. LOL.
I respected his integrity in not asking for my age or other `personal details'. I reciprocated in kind, having decided that he was genuinely interested in my skill, and then prolonging the time to `have a bit of fun' - simply the sharing of mutual benefits rather than wanting to `get off' over bodily measurements. I was confident that I was dealing with a young gentleman, hoping that he had a similar impression, albeit with no concrete clue to my age. In my mind, he was one of a rare breed, or do I move in the wrong circles?
The story that I had posted on-line, and which had prompted Adam to make initial contact with me, was told from the perspective of a 21-year-old. Is that what he assumed my real-life age to be?
In my mind there was now a definite dilemma. Would I be worthy of his trust? Should I offer the information for which he had not asked? I did not want to deceive him in any way but I really wanted to meet him. By all accounts he was a fine young athlete - an ideal massage recipient who would have good muscle definition, very little body fat and somebody who would appreciate my experienced touch.
He had hinted, subject to his fitness, of his impending participation in one of our premier fun runs in Brisbane - a half marathon event, by which I could tell that he was serious about his health and his body! What surprised me was his revelation that he had booked hotel accommodation in close proximity to the start location where he advised that I could join him for a short time the afternoon prior to the event.
Primary objective: a full body massage that would address any specific muscular issues and to help prepare his body, generally, for the run.
Secondary objective: A `bit of fun', as his body `rose to the occasion' as a compliment to my skill. He had joked that he hoped the fun would last more than 5 minutes. I had to laugh at that. I could, and would, make it last! He even asked me whether he might also be permitted some oil, to try his hand at massaging my body. I instantly swelled at just the thought of it! He was saying things that set him apart from others who had preferred to just `blow and go'.
No pretence! Open and honest! It seemed that he actually wanted to touch me as much as I did him. `So, he likes to touch as well as to be touched, does he?' I thought. Nice!
We agreed to meet at 4:00 pm outside his hotel and he trusted me with his mobile phone number to message him - a further indication of mutual respect. I had already given him mine.
I timed my arrival almost perfectly, even resisting the flirty eye contact from a blond guy, about 25, as we slowly passed each other, walking through the nearby mall. My gaydar was pinging off the scale but my focus was solely on meeting and satisfying Adam.
Being a few minutes early and seeing nobody resembling `Speedo guy', I ambled past the main entrance and the top-hatted doorman. The adjoining building housed three ground-floor shops with a colonnade frontage. I stood, partially concealed so as not to appear too obvious on the street. In retrospect, my `skulking' might have made my presence even more suspicious to an alert observer.
I messaged Adam of my arrival, describing my distinctive body shirt, and I waited, and watched.
And so it begins...
A couple of bodies emerge from the entrance and are ushered into queuing taxis.
Then I see him. He walks confidently in my direction, according to the information that I have given him.
It has to be Adam! However, I am having some difficulty reconciling the person I am watching with the face of `Speedo guy'. Both are good-looking. Both are young. However, I think, seeing Adam, the `Speedo guy' could instantly be relegated to the classification of a big ox by comparison.
Adam is devilishly and enticingly handsome. He is a little shorter than I am, and trim! His eyes sparkle warmth. His smile extends friendliness. His dark, neatly coiffed hair reveals pride in his appearance. His firm handshake joins us together.
I scan his face for any trace of regret in discovering that I am not a guy of his own age. I still wonder whether that is what he had been anticipating. Is he hunting for a boyfriend, or even a life partner? Or is he disappointed, now resigned to having a one-off massage and some companionship then continuing his search elsewhere? I cannot imagine this beauty ever being without a friend! He must have a boyfriend, or two!
Whatever we discuss on the way through the foyer and in the elevator up to his floor and room is a blur. His eyes and his confident, mature and sensual voice hold my attention captive. I don't even check out the front of his pants, which is a most unusual oversight for me!
Smallish room. Tastefully furnished. Comfortably heated. Well-appointed bathroom from what I see as we pass it. He pulls a chair from under the small desk, turns it around and invites me to sit. He positions himself directly opposite me on the edge of the generously-sized bed. Our knees are not touching but we are close.
He reveals that his ankle has been professionally strapped to enable him to run - the result of an earlier sprain. Now, almost fully recovered, he is confident that it will not impede his effort. However, his physiotherapist has advised against swimming, lest the strapping come loose. My thoughts of him cruising up behind me, or me to him in the hotel pool, and Speedo pressing against Speedo, disappear!
The up-side of that is that I can spend more time with him in total privacy. Yes!
I'm not keen to rush, and I enjoy the getting-to-know-you conversation, and the clarification of snippets shared in emails. He is showing no impatience either. It's difficult to break his engaging eye contact. I'm feeling extremely comfortable.
After some minutes of very compelling conversation, I focus on why I am there, and I ask, "Are you ready for your massage?"
"Sure," he replies, standing. He removes all of his clothing except his black-with-white-trim underpants. "Should I leave my undies on or take them off?"" he asks, not wanting to presume anything, but offering both options for my decision.
"Why don't you take them off?" I answer. "It will make it much easier." We both grin. "How would you like me?" I ask. "The same?"
"Sure. Why not?" he replies with a smile, adding, "but first, I just need to relieve myself." Is he nervous or just `well hydrated'? Maybe, certain anticipated fun will be difficult with anything but an empty bladder.
He walks away from me to the bathroom. His narrow hips and the trim, defined muscles of his back and his runner's legs are all complemented by his boy-sized undies with the firm, athletic butt cheeks that they enclose.
I remove my slim-line striped jeans, my shirt and my boots and socks. I want him to glimpse me at my best, so I leave my body-flattering Skins top in place and position them so as to highlight the budgie in my Speedos. Only when he returns do I begin removing both, commenting to him, as he checks me out, that I did come already prepared to take a dip.
Facing me, and without any showiness or reticence, he removes his underwear to reveal his extra piece of flesh - flawless and uncircumcised - not limp, not stiff, but projecting somewhat out from his body. Not big. Not small. Not misshapen. His whole body is just perfectly proportioned. His neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair is intended for something more than personal comfort! It's an attraction for whoever is fortunate enough to see it. I fleetingly think, `Who else? How many?' What a boyish beauty of a man this is! Michelangelo must have used someone just like Adam as a model when painting his naked men and cherubs. His eyes meet mine and he smiles.
To call him `cute' would demean him. Attractive? Yes! Appealing? Definitely!
He puts on some music then spreads a towel across the end of the bed and makes to lie on it with his feet dangling over the edge. I suggest the reverse - head at the edge so that I have easy access to his neck, shoulders and upper back. While he adjusts his position, I retrieve my bottle of oil to which I have added two drops of an aromatic natural antiseptic - an eucalyptus-like preparation - kunzea oil.
As I pump an appropriate amount onto one cupped hand, and then warm it by rubbing both of my hands together, I gaze upon the beautiful form before me - relaxed and waiting. His tan line, almost half-way up his glutes is testimony to a man who likes sunshine in the skimpiest of Speedos or underwear.
Is that his heart that I hear beating? Or mine?
I spread the oil from his shoulders to his backside, delighting in my first touch of his firm cheeks. His body absorbs most of the oil. A second, more-generous, application extends the oiliness down his thighs and calves. I run my hands back up and relish the feeling as they slowly and deliberately surmount his tight, muscular orbs. More long strokes - down and back up.
I concentrate on his upper back, pressing from the spine laterally. I move from standing on the floor to kneeling on the bed, in order to better massage the other side. Leaning my knees against his torso, I can feel his body heat. I absorb and relish it.
I return to the original side and raise his right hand, palm upwards, onto the small of his back. This elevates his shoulder blade and I am able to work more deeply around the scapula.
To relieve any strain for him to hold his arm in that position, I place my own left palm flat onto his right one to hold it in place. His immediate response is to interlock his fingers firmly with mine. He is actually holding my hand, and I, his! I therefore spend much more time utilising my free right hand on his upper back than I normally would. LOL. I give his clasped hand an occasional squeeze, which he reciprocates immediately. Nice!
I release his hand, suggest that he relax that arm back to its original position near his head, and I swap sides, again. (We massage therapists do that a lot.) I kneel next to him on the bed and it seems as though he relaxes his body against me, his left hand, palm upwards, is held in place by my right. Again, his fingers take the initiative and I feel myself being more focussed on holding his hand than ministering to his back. His hand is slightly smaller than mine, but they fit together perfectly.
I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. This is not just a one-way feeling, surely! It seems to be really mutual. Nobody has ever responded this way previously. This not only feels good. It feels totally `natural'! What is happening here? Again, I force myself to release his tender grip and I move to stand at his head.
I love doing this next bit! I press downwards on each side of his spine, leaning forward. I wonder if he, being on the lowered bed, is aware of where my cock and balls are - hovering directly above his head! When my hands reach his butt, I grasp one cheek with each hand and then draw them upwards, forcing them to part slightly. Then I run my hands up the sides of his back, across his shoulders and push firmly down his upper arms as far as I can reach. I know from experience that this feels good!
I repeat this twice. A quiet, exhaling `hmm' of pleasure from Adam invites more. I stand to one side of his head this time, enabling me to reach farther down this side of his body. From here I can stretch to his upper thigh and, as I draw my extremities back, my hand closest to his centre line drops to gently initiate touch with a testicle, then runs up his perineum, dipping slightly as it crosses his hole, then continues upwards. My intention is to repeat this twice more, when he does something which I had not anticipated nor had experienced previously. He leans his head against my thigh! Not just touching - leaning! Why? Comfort? Recognition of pleasure? Affection? Face down, he cannot see my cock stiffen at his simple touch.
I repeat my actions but with more deliberate feeling of his eggs and his hole. Nothing is said, but he continues leaning onto me and, if anything, increasing the pressure. Is it all accidental and is my mind creating an intent that isn't actually there? I determine to find out. I swap sides. Same motions from me. Same leaning from him to the other side, perhaps even more firmly and obvious. Then he nudges his face gently up and down against me, much as my appreciative beloved Labrador might do.
Moving to a new position, I stretch his thigh and calf muscles downwards, and give them a gentle pounding (and, yes, I know that it's called `tapotement'!). Following this, I kneel on the bed, between his legs and massage them in the opposite direction. For each thigh, I grasp the sides and run my hands upwards, continuing with the hand between his legs to cup his relaxed and flattened eggs, then press under his body, through the crease between his thigh and abdomen. Maybe I will encounter a certain firmness. Not discernible. I do the other side and repeat everything. Where is it?
I move to be by his hip and spend considerable time massaging his glutes, separating them and feeling between them. My middle finger locates his hole and I work some oil onto it, pressing gently. It yields slowly and I am able to penetrate to my first knuckle. "Are you OK with this?" I ask him. I really don't want to do anything to hurt or offend him. Maybe he likes it; I don't know!
"Yes," is all that he says. He turns his head to look at me or, more precisely, I think, to look at my groin. He relaxes again. Other side! Same scenario. Same penetration. Same acceptance. Same looking.
At this point, I would love to coat his whole back with oil and lower my body onto his, and slide on him!
Instead, I invite him to turn over. He does so without reluctance, knowing, then displaying, that he has paid me my compliment. The head has escaped its foreskin. Wow.
Now, this way up, he can see me as well as I him. I've massaged a number of naked bodies previously, but none has looked this good, this perfect. I retrieve my oil and spread it from his chest to his feet, avoiding his genitals, which is a bit of a deliberate tease, really.
I massage his chest, abdomen and his legs, but what is in the middle is too damn inviting to ignore any longer! I am about to envelop his whole package when he reaches out and touches mine. Not tentatively, but with gentle purpose. He fondles my balls, holds my plumped cock, rubs my inner thigh and I pause to savour his touch. He is unrushed and very sensual. I squeeze some oil onto his left hand which immediately begins moving to complete my stiffness. I look at his face. He smiles at me and I grin back. No words, but meaningful communication.
I let him continue and I also do that which I intended. I fondle his balls, now liberated from beneath his body. I slide my hand up and down his rod. I reach down and play with his hole. He has full freedom with my body too - doing whatever he likes, within his reach - my back, my butt, between my legs. I'm loving this! I relish his confidence and spontaneous little initiatives!
"Are you right or left handed?" I ask, intending to ensure that I am on his `preferred' side, for his convenience and pleasure.
"Left, but I wank with my right," he replies with stunning openness and self-assurance, as though I had merely asked him the time of day. Left? There is no need for me to move. I reply that I'm the opposite - right handed but like to use my left for that purpose. I tell him that it feels more like somebody else is doing it.
"Yesss," he growls in agreement.
"So, do you live with your parents?" I ask to clarify a previous email comment.
"Yeh!" he replies. "Definitely not sexy, but it helps me to save for my own place." I don't say what I am thinking - `living with family definitely limits opportunities for sexual fun'. There is a pause. "You?" he asks.
Now, my same, recurrent dilemma! This time, put to me directly. My brain doesn't even consider the options to lie - single, separated, divorced. I already respect and enjoy Adam's company too much to tell him anything but the truth! "Would it surprise you to know that I'm married?" I ask, with hoped-for confidence to match his own.
"No," he replies, seemingly accepting of my `situation'. "That's OK."
It's probably not the most ideal time to go into details of our separate sleeping arrangements at home, so I just add, "I didn't realise until afterwards that I really prefer guys."
"It's more common than people realise," he encourages without any hint of condemnation of my being here with him or any apparent thought that I'd intentionally set out to deceive him. He adds with a smile, "I think everyone needs somebody to come home to, not for the sex, but for companionship, even if it is `parents'".
I had feared that I might hear some apprehensive "Oh, no!" response, which would signal the end of any hope of getting to know him better with some future fun as well. Instead, he squeezes my cock again. I take this as a positive sign, make some appreciative noises and move to his feet.
While we are being open and honest with each other, I ask, "Do you have a boyfriend?"
True to the form that I have been seeing, there is no hedging. He answers directly, "Not at the moment."
I don't want him to think that I'm `popping the question' or `applying for the position', so I add, "I'll bet you have a lot of guys chasing you!" while I smile into his movie-star eyes.
"Yeh, when I'm not chasing them!" he smirks back at me, elevating his head off the bed. So, Adam has a sense of humour as well! I was right - he is `Mr Popular'. I'm beginning to understand why.
I massage his right and left foot in turn, lifting each and placing it flat on my chest while I work on his calf. His feet are cold. That means he can feel the warmth of my body. I hope he's enjoying it; enjoying what I can give to him.
I kneel on the bed, between his legs, and work up his thighs. His hairless balls are inviting. I lean down to lick them, and then continue up his shaft to spend time on his frenulum, then down again. I take his right testicle tentatively into my mouth and suck gently. I release it and concentrate on his firmness - licking it and then enveloping the head completely with my mouth. I make no attempt to swallow his whole length. Maybe later! This is just an indication for him of my willingness to please him. Releasing him, I lick up his body - navel, abdomen, nipples - then kiss the side of his neck and nibble on his ear. No gasps. No hints positive or negative. I move on.
His arms are in the `hands up!' position, palms upwards beside his head. I rest my own palms on his. He intertwines his fingers with mine and closes them tightly. It says, `stay!'
I lower my body onto his and our swords cross. He moves his hips from side to side beneath me until our firmnesses are poking each other's stomach. We push and squirm. He reaches down and I feel him grasp both of our cocks together. I raise my hips just sufficiently to allow him better access. He squeezes and rubs both. OMG. I love the `togetherness'.
I roll over and take him with me. The gentle, sensual frotting continues with him, now on top, taking the initiative. He rests his head on my chest and shoulder. I grasp his arse cheeks and enjoy their contractions for many minutes.
"Let me turn face down," I whisper. While I move, he reaches for the oil and lubricates both my back and his front (or a particular part of it). He slides himself onto me, places his hands over mine, palm down, and grips them. For me, this connection, again, has the feeling of uniting us.
He pushes himself, sliding easily up and down my body. His cock gets stuck near my hole. I wiggle at him. He liberates it and slides up between my cheeks to my lower back, then retreats way downwards until his cock is between my thighs. He thrusts and withdraws, gradually moving upwards. Oh, what a simulation of something else! I relish the feel of his abdomen and hips against my cheeks when he reaches that point.
With him on my back, I enjoy the feeling of that stiffness returning frequently to my back door. An unscrupulous person on top could take full advantage, and with one serious thrust, forceful or gentle, would gain entry to my most private of parts. But he doesn't. Even when his body ceases its sliding and rests, the occasional, unmistakeable pulsing throb of his firmness betrays his pleasure and heightens mine.
He comments, "You know, I really like the feel of a person's weight on me." It's a subtle way of asking for him to be on the bottom. Uncertain of what I've just heard, I ask him to repeat it.
I heard correctly!
When we swap places, I respect him in the same way that he did me. He manoeuvres and jiggles his arse tantalisingly close to being penetrated. Feeling him actually line up his hole with the end of my rigidity and just playing with me is far more stimulating than me just `going for it'. I hope my playfulness in backing off a little, then returning, convinces him that I'm not here to take advantage of his body, but to pleasure it.
We show each other a large degree of mutual respect. At the same time, there is a hint of willingness, should there ever be another occasion, having time and adequate protection, to do more. With Adam's consent, I'm happy to take the initiative, top or bottom, if he doesn't.
The mere thought of it pushes my body further than I had intended right now, and I sense the unmistakeable beginning of the end. I roll off him to reduce the stimulation and take rapid breaths in an attempt to forestall the inevitable. I lose the battle and spurt copiously against my raised hand to prevent it from shooting too far. I feel embarrassed that I couldn't last a bit longer.
"All good," he says softly and encouragingly. I lie on my back. He begins to smear my wetness across my abdomen, like a cook icing a cake. He puts one leg over me and I assist him up to rest on me fully, and then delight in the feel of him frotting himself to finality in my enhanced slipperiness.
"I'm going to cum," he says. Then, "I'm cumming".
"Go for it," I encourage him, putting one arm affectionately around his neck and shoulders and the other on one of his contracting butt cheeks. He continues his motion, increasing in tempo and very soon ejaculating between our two bodies. Feeling his pleasure is sheer bliss for me.
He relaxes onto me, searching for one of my hands to grip, and we bask in some silent post-orgasmic euphoria. he rests his head on my shoulder and I lean mine onto his.
The predominance of the communication over the ensuing ten minutes is non-verbal - sometimes rubbing each other's body, sometimes tenderly cupping the other's balls. He mixes both lots of cream together and continues to `ice the cake'. He plays with my pecs and nipples. His touch is tender yet not tentative at all. I love it. Sometimes we just hold the other's semi-flaccid cock appreciatively. Very sensual. Very comfortable. Very repeatable!
OMG. This wasn't having sex. It was making love, even without the unspoken `ultimate compliment'. I have never experienced this same feeling before today. So, this is what it is supposed to be like! Not `in love', but loving each other, nevertheless. I could die very happy and fulfilled right now!
Prior to us meeting, Adam had declined my offer of having dinner after our massage, citing a previous arrangement with friends. This could also have been a `safety mechanism' for him in meeting with a complete stranger, knowing that at 7:00 he had the security that his friends would come to pick him up. But, hey, I respect that.
My in-built body clock tells me that we have spent a lot of time together. I certainly don't want him to be late, although, with more time, I could easily continue to pleasure him. Not for my benefit I ask, "How's the time?"
He checks the digital alarm clock. It's already after 6:30! Time to make a (reluctant) move.
"I think I need a shower," I tell him, laughing.
"Me too," he replies, in the same jovial mood.
"You want to shower with me?" I ask, hopefully.
From anyone else I might have expected a blunt `OK' but Adam doesn't disappoint me. "Yeh! Of course I'd like to shower with you," he says. Ever positive and encouraging! "But, first, I need to pee again."
I allow him that privacy.
There is a darkened glass panel between the bedroom and the bathroom. Through it, and in the reflection of the glass shower enclosure, I can see him standing at the bowl. I'm mesmerised by his beautiful backside. It looks even better with him vertical than when he was horizontal!
I drink in the slimness of his hips, the firmness of his cheeks and his defined musculature. He flushes and brings me a towel. The perfect `V' of his lower abdomen is accentuated by the shape of his trimmed pubes, all pointing to that cluster of pleasure objects below. His foreskin has again claimed dominion over his head. Still semi-erect. Nothing masks his smooth balls. Oh! If only there was more time!
He sets the water temperature and we step in. He is not slow at soaping up his hands and removing all trace of our combined DNA from my chest and abdomen (de-icing the cake). He does my back and arse with his sensual touch. I take some soap to his body, as well, attempting to rub back and front at the same time, `feeling him up' for almost the last time. I hug his body to mine and our cocks wiggle their anticipated farewells to each other. I kiss his neck. Still no reaction. I turn him around and press against his flawless back while reaching around and rubbing his pecs and nipples. I can't resist cupping his whole package.
I no sooner comment about the need to shampoo my hair than he has the container in my hand. He steps back, allowing me to rinse off while he continues to rub his hands up and down my chest and abdomen.
I ask if there's any conditioner. It appears. I squeeze myself a handful then smirk at him when I say, "I've found a new use for this stuff in the shower. Best thing for wanking I've ever tried." Then I take his cock in my hand. He jumps and emits a stifled squeal. I'm not sure whether it the surprise of it, or if he's sensitive. He giggles and I desist.
I rinse my body a final time, step out and I leave him to remove any remaining traces of oil, both bottled and `fresh'. He soon steps out as well. I use the towel to dry myself then dress. He wraps himself in a towel saying that he will return to the shower briefly in a minute.
He fetches me a hair dryer from the wardrobe and I'm soon ready to go - almost.
I check that I have everything and we head to the doorway together. I reach for a hug. He needs no additional prompting. Thanks are exchanged. Should I kiss him? He moves as if to kiss me. Our heads both bob to the left and right at the same time and our lips never meet. In the end, I give him a peck on the cheek, shake his hand appreciatively and head for the elevator. I will email him tonight or tomorrow.
My senses are replete but my heart has a sense of `unfinished business'. My body was primed and could easily have spent another two hours (at least) stimulating him and having him work his magic on me. I wonder whether he is very experienced at what he does, or is he just `a natural'. Does it matter? No!
I reflect, while travelling, that I could kick myself for not asking whether I could take some pics of him - face, body and arse. But, as I had thought at the time, that would have been very tacky, and destroyed the sense of respect and appreciation that had so easily been established with Adam. I reflect on the derivation of `Adam'. It means `the man', and that he is!
So, I have nothing to remember him by, except his emails, a photo of `Speedo guy' and a couple of hours of amazing memories. Memories have a tendency to fade. I have to ask for a photo. After all, he did promise me one, and I have no doubt that he will honour his promise.
What did he think of me? Time will tell. I will live in expectant hope that I will see him, to pleasure him, again and further.
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