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I've massaged for some 40 years now. It
developed ad hoc without schooling, over time, on inspiration and
inner movement. I developed a style which made limbs and backs
and psyches feel great, I removed headaches in a few minutes, I began
with feet and stuck primarily with that for two years, washing and
massaging feet of every kind of person, friend or
detractor, acquaintance or stranger (and some were pretty strange), in
rooms or on the street or in parks, as an act of private discipline
and devotion toward my ideal. Foot-reflexological developed of its own
and became a specialty – the reflex book or two I much later
consulted or owned mostly served to confirm what I had already
intuitively learned through doing. And I'm still at it.
Massage is body work – nothing and no
age-process or ill-health either disturbs or disgusts me. I love the
body as I love my own. I found through massage that this was always
effortless for me, it could not tire me out, as I felt coordinated
with the other body (my back is your back is my back, so I
automatically know what to do) - I always received energy in the
giving, and the person felt great and I felt wonderful. And I'm
still at it.
I have massaged men and women, children
and adults, of all ages, body types and conditions – gorgeous and
hot, ugly and plain, all are beautiful to me, all. In nursing school
here in Berlin I did a 6 or 7 week practical stint on maternity –
as a bonus I gave pressure-relaxation treatments
(Beruhigungsbehandlung) particularly designed for women on maternity
but good for anyone, and it was a huge hit, non-stop; this little
number I did pick up from someone, an alternative fellow-traveler
among my nursing faculty. And I'm still at it.
I have massaged men, gay and hetero,
and with the gays all went well (sometimes amusing because of their
expectations or because of my own residue of clichés) and even if
they had wishes I could not fulfill as a hetero I certainly had no
qualms about massaging them, as comfortably as with any other person
on earth. And nothing has changed.
Now when I massage – anyone, but
let's take women as I am going in this direction in this writing
anyway – I see through the massaging itself, only a woman's beauty.
There was a grade school teacher, 40ish, unattached with no sexlife
(or none currently) and with horrible lifelong acne on her face, she
was a client of mine for awhile many years ago. Nice bod, but that
acne! When I massaged her she became beautiful. First was my
imagination, then the transfer of this recognition into her – not
visualisation because I was just recognising her as she was –
through the touch, and she'd relax in herself, knowing through my
hands that she was loved and even possibly desirable as a woman. No
words about, no talk, all conveyed through the massage. She asked me
once after many sessions, how I would view her from the standpoint of
looks. First what went through my head was, “shit now what –
think fast and be authentic but accurate!“ Then I spoke from the
heart and knew the higher mind was speaking: I heard myself telling
her, when I look at her face I see the beauty behind the exterior.
She got it and was moved, soothed, relieved, satisfied. And it was
true: hearing my own words I got it: that you don't lie about the
acne, you don't give it center place either – you move beyond that
and talk real. People will know it, they're not stupid.
So I see the beauty, massage the
beauty, the beauty is awakened through this, and in the relaxation of
self-loathing, the beauty takes place and is there, it wells up from
within and rounds the body again or it descends from its banishment
back into the body like spirit and finds it place there where it
belongs. No shit. I really really do love bodies and I really
really do love women. And no bodily function or happening or
excretion scares me or inhibits me or disgusts me. That said, I have
no fetish-perversions nor entertain any, so I won't even go there.
Beauty is not in the barbie-look, an
exterior, culture-dictated babe-look isn't beauty, it's an empty shoe
box. Can't dance. Beauty has so many dimensions, and one dimension
which itself is multi-dimensional is the erotic component. I have
known this intimately in women who never would have turned a head by
ordinary standards – I have my own and stick to that - but I sensed
it with a nose for the erotic I could only wish every other guy.
Over the years the massage has also
developed its erotic component, I gave this full expression after
many years not having done so. And the results have far more often
been far more rewarding for both, than the occasional hit-and-miss.
I have had many lovers from many walks of life, and many ages, older
and younger than I. Some in their eighties. Very rewarding, and I
do mean mutually. Each a Sam-Story of its own.
There are - or have been, over my 25
years in this town, bordellos where I was a most welcome
semi-regular, where I arrived to massage and we took it all out in
trade, where I gave instruction in the “Tibetan 5 Rites of
Rejuvination,“ where I was the only male I ever saw being granted
the neighbor-status as I call it, of being welcome to hang out at the
kitchen table of certain said bordellos and yack with the ladies,
proprietess included, whether there was necessarily bed-business or
not sometimes.
My eye for erotic is a wide-lens
camera: I never compare two women ever, and I never judge – I not
only accept “flaws,“ I cherish them, that's sometimes where the
erotic component even is, which is why so many guys miss it – it
requires a mature eye which most altogether lack because they've
bought into the bland dick-tates of cultural status quo and
commercial marketing. I rejoice in bodily hair wherever it is, au
naturelle, and if a woman is herself more cmofortable without, that's
alright. There is not a bodily orifice on a woman I avoid, either in
massage or in tongue-play or cock-ulation, not a single one. Firmly
but gently, with timing everything is possible – and passionately
in-joyed. Nature has given us so and so many digits and so and so
many orifices, who needs toys – or to borrow from Monty Python,
acoutrements. I love mouths, lips, breasts, nipples, vaginas, butts,
anuses, thighs, I absolutely relish armpits, I tend away from
too-slender twd. a robuster fleshy, a healthy amount of it, I don't
consider any woman “overweight“ until she acutally is. I'm not
telling this to be vulgar, it's just a matter of fact and
openness, I don't intend to get graphic here. To recall from an
earlier passage:
…
The wild erotic energy radiating from its female form is
full-fleshed, generously-haired, musky and mature, and not without
subtlety.
By full-fleshed is merely meant, that the entire span of
her corporeal body communicates a hearty welcome to life-radiance at
the erotic level.
By generously-haired is meant, she is not bound
to male dictates of artificial beauty.
By musky and mature are
meant, her own-scented fragrance and earthy experience are her jewels
and likewise independent of controlling-male notions toward
hygienically sterile bodies robbed of their history and wild
heritage.
By subtle is meant, even if the personality were
somewhat crude or asleep, the energy is certainly awake, and for
those who will encounter and acknowledge it with an attitude of
respect and meet it with the proper degree of energy, it is as
benevolent as it is wild. …
And now I'll finally cut to the chase. An
American woman looked me up while here on business, end of summer
'94 Berlin, she got a full, good massage. She was by all accounts,
in her sweats and bike and glasses, “not a looker,“ yet when
she'd disrobed and received the massage, not only was I storngly
aroused by her splendid erotic beauty, I felt it in the air so thick
you could cut it with a knife. Still I exercised caution. She was
leaving town that day to do a 6-week stint in the new-East Europe as
she was with a major news network based in Atlanta, I won't name
names though. We hugged and agreed on a massage when she swings back
through. I left a message on her recorder explaining my impressions,
offering the full monty if she should so wish, and if not then the
best massage and we'd leave it at that. On returning she told me
she'd played my message back six times, so she got a massage and we
spent one long splendifulous night together, followed by a very very
hot correspondence until gentle and loving closure – remember,
there was no internet back then, you licked stamps with that same
tongue you...never mind.
Now here's the kicker: As good as my
hunches are, this one went right under my radar. We went up to her
borrowed flat that second encounter, and we kissed. I noticed she
was a bit unhandy and it didn't matter, it was endearing. When she
told me she'd been out of practice for a long time, I only figured she
meant at all, but she meant with men – then she explained she's
lesbian and in a relationship with her partner back home going on 15
years. I laughed so hard from the belly, I had to explain that the
laugh was on me, one because that had not even occurred to me
although it ought to have, and two because I could now really be the
proverbial “lesbian in a male body.“ She had been harboring a
growing need for the whole past year to feel a man in her again. We
not only loved and in-joyed one another deeply, erotically,
passionately. She said this had healed a wound in her she'd carried
since age 16 – I understood immediately without any elaborations.
A lot of women could relate. I later encouraged her to remain as
lesbian as she wants, whatever came of her partnership, but that she
also could know herself now as bi-sexual, and that this was also
wonderful. What matters is only to know and to cop to it. I've met
lots of lesbians in dail life and the ones I've always really
appreciated are the butch-cut ladies who are so fucking cool and
mature (usually over a certain age) and self-confident and
male-friendly-while-needing-none.
So there it is. By the way,
before I clothes – sorry, close – anybody know the one about the
old wrangler sitting in a bar having his beer, and an attractive
woman takes the stool next to him, has her drink in hand and asks him
sort of off the cuff, “So, are you a real cowboy?“ To which he
replies, wrangler-like, “Well, I get up mornings early, go out to
the horses, tend to them, drive cattle out, brand calves, repair
fences, pick up feed and supplies from town,“ etc. etc. - “...yeah,
I guess you could say I'm a real cowboy.“ She replies, “Well I'm
a lesbian. When I get up mornings I think about women, when I shower
and have breakfast I think about women, when I go to work and go
through my day I think about women, when I come home and watch TV or
read or have dinner I think about women, right up until I go to
sleep, I just think about women women women.“ Then she sets down
her drink and they part witha mutual nod. He sits there and stares
forward, until a nice frinedly middle-aged couple from out of town
join him at the bar. “Saayy, are you a real cowboy?“ the husband
inquires. The cowboy takes another swallow and considers for a
moment, replying reflectively, “Well, up to now I thought I was,
but now I reckon I'm a lesbian.“
Much of my poetry reflects what I've
written here:
You there, with that nose of yours,
that longish, elegantly
erotic nose you hate;
you with your 'not quite symmetrical' face,
don't you know:
that very jawline which shames you delights
me?
Quit feeling 'fat' - define your standard, who told you
that?
Stop chasing warts, leave them;
if your body-tatoos can
be so alluring, why can't a mole?
Are your breasts still
'inadequate' - or overmuch . . . but
look at your thighs, what
form they give you!
Think of Aphrodite, not Claudia or Naomi!
Erotic, not neurotic!
Go neither obese, nor half-starved to
please; shave nothing, smell enticing!
Stop cursing your buttocks,
think classic, not anorexic!
Breathe in your own inner aroma, let
it wend its way in and out unimpeded,
brightening your woman-face,
your sensual sensuous body, restoring health -
or haven't you
suffered enough sickness over false self-image?
When you speak
against your own beauty, when you deny it,
you speak against me,
you deny me - for I,
I am full of your beauty, and cannot get
enough of it.
Come-Union, or: On Be-Coming
(not for
minors, please show a current ID at the door)
Tongue and
lingam should work together,
tongue must lead
and lingam follow, always in tandem,
attaining a
rhythm most naturally arrived at and held
through wakeful
concentration and passion of interest.
And age is no
matter, let us
dispense with
that right now;
where erotic
knowledge is concerned
youth and
advanced experience meet well.
And a wizard or
crone might bring
more energy and
maturity to bear,
having long
struck down the conditioned inhibition,
and unlocked
beauty overlooked by puerile dictates.
Tongue and
lingam should work together;
tongue and lips,
stroking and caressing,
flattering,
fluttering, probing, preparing,
arousing
moisture and goose bumps, bringing flavor.
Entering all the
same places, received with wild care,
creative passion
always considering you, beloved,
where timing and
spontaneity are taken to an art
through
intuition or matured instinct.
Tongue tip on
tongue, on lips, on neck and throat,
tongue washing
armpits, over bitten shoulders,
teasing raised
nipples with crazy circling,
tongue over
belly, navel, thighs and clit.
Yoni and mouth
yielding to swooning but untiring kiss
as tongue sweeps
and caresses without care,
the taste of you
and your luxurient hair,
your
perspiration mingled with rose oil and juices.
Small of back
massaged with hand and with tongue,
so the buttocks,
kneaded; so also between, where cleft and anus
are stimulated
in a manner known since ages
and still
indescribable.
Coming in your
mouth, lingam gliding over your tongue,
I feel myself
entering your very bloodstream,
charging every
cell in your entire body.
That is just one
variation of course.
Gliding lingam
on your neck, over your armpits,
between your
breasts, against your nipples, across your belly,
along your
thighs – and coming anywhere there,
is well spent .
. . but spent.
Coming in your
yoni via whichever of so many positions,
your
gratification is central to my interest,
for by
abandoning the central interest in mine,
my own climax is
assured merely by being in you, serving yours.
But for all
that, I find coming in your ass to be
the
gratification par excellence for both,
bringing forth
unimagined fruit, once discovered
never to be
forgotten nor forsaken.
I will tell you
why I know this.
Deep as the yoni
well is, there is something
primally deeper
still, in a different and healing way,
about entering
that ass gradually with lingam.
The ass is
charged with a negative and a postitive
association
both, a crossing of pleasure and pain,
reward and
punishment, expectation and relief,
tension and
gratification, erotic and banal.
Negatively seen,
the brutality of a sadist finds
in this the very
place to ravage and humiliate,
to abuse and
fuck to death your very soul
in that place of
your most basic security.
Positively seen,
lovingly and consentually entered,
there is deeply
erotic, healing, validating union
in a place so
deep in the psyche as to defy words.
And to come
there in love, respect, appreciation, is ecstasy.
http://titsandsass.com/the-erasure-of-maya-angelou/
