Whippoorwill

For an erotic massage, the masseur ending up on the table is a given, in my experience. In my book, and arm's length HE isn't an erotic massage, it's just sensual.

As someone told me when I moved to SF, there is no such thing as being late for work here. You get there when the bus gets you there. That being said, it is the responsibility of the traveler (whether client or provider) to allow for "normal" traffic delays. As a client, I sometimes arrive fifteen minutes early, in which case I walk around the block or find a place to surf the net, until I ring the doorbell at the appointed time. For a purely social date like lunch with a friend, (not a business date where the provider has a schedule and likely multiple clients thoughout the day), fifteen minutes after the appointed tim constitutes "on time." And today it is so easy to text with ETA, it's just common curtesy.

It brings to mind the time I was dating a youth who lived with his parents in council flats in Liverpool, where the walls were at most three inches thick. Happened to be his parents were both deaf, and his bed was against the wall of his parents' bedroom and they were literally inches from us. We fucked like rabbits and screamed like banshees, with not a worry.

Bedding clean; bathroom/shower clean; floor clean; appropriate temperature. That's all it takes. But then that being said, I once tricked with a japanese man at his apartment. The next morning, in the bathroom, he had laid out a beautiful wooden box, like a bento box, with a personal toothbrush, toothpaste, deoderant, comb, face cloth, etc. It made me feel special, until I went to contact him again a few days later and he'd ghosted me. Six months later he tried to contact me, but I decided the statute of limitations had run out.

Unmitigated truth is overrated. I go for truthiness...kind of like monagamish. When Truth Is Overrated: The Advantages of Dishonesty | Psychology Today WWW.PSYCHOLOGYTODAY.COM It’s crucial to consider whether it’s kind to share something that might be too unsettling, scary, or...

Some decades ago I had a long-term affair with a British identical twin...he gay, his twin "straight." He reported that when they were teenagers, his straight brother would go out on a date, and if he didn't get laid, would come back home and fuck his gay brother. I happily stayed in the family home in Britain with him, and fucked his eyeballs out, in his childhood room, separated from his parents by a 3" stud wall, in the council flats (public housing) where they lived. Fortunately, his parents were both deaf and dumb, and did hot hear a thing. But...vibrations, anyone? He haa now been with an American lover I introduced him to for over 30 years. The "straight" brother is on his third wife.

What’s a check?

He has told you everything you need to know. Run. In the opposite direction.

Twice a month, alternating between two regulars; When traveling, twice a week.

I am familiar with a young Asian student in SF on a student visa. His RentMasseur add does not show his face, and says he offers Therapeutic and Sensual massages, but not Erotic. What you do in private is your business, but as Frank R say, better to be a little discrete in your public advertisements.

I just read "Playgirl" for the stories.

Let's hear it for nips. It took a teen-aged me until someone turned me on to nips that I admitted I was indeed gay. Jacking off with the other guys in Boy Scouts and Catholic boys school? Everybody does that. No homo. Eating my jizz? Just keeps the sheets clean. No homo. Sucking off Tony in 8th grade? Not that different from eating my own jizz. No homo. Letting my best buddy corn hole me? Well, none of the girls would do it in those days. Just helping a friend get off. No homo. But then having my nips played with and sucked, and getting an immediate boner. Electric currents flowing between my nips and cock. Jizz all over the place and knowing there is nothing better than having sex with another male. Yep. Me homo.

How about some more stories, guys? I have others to tell, but I don't want this to be the Whippoorwill column. But here's another. When I was living in France, I was driving one Saturday morning for a few days vacation in the Loire River Valley. Leaving Paris, it was sprinkling, and as I passed under an overpass, there was a comely young hitchhiker decked out in jeans, a black leather jacket, and backpack, avoiding the rain. I have always been a sucker for picking up hitchhikers. Now I didn't want to get my hopes up, as every Frenchman, straight or gay, from age 2 to 92, has a black leather jacket. So I stopped and picked up Jean-Hubert, who had just graduated from the lycée (and thus was maybe 17 or 18) and was off to visit his Grand-Mere in Bordeaux for the summer. As we talked, we got warmer and friendlier with each other. I saw him glancing at my crotch (also undoubtedly jeans-clad), and returned the glances. At some point, we both put a hand on the other's thigh at the same instant. The groping and rubbing went on for some time as we were speeding through the French countryside. Eventually the sun came out, and we stopped at a roadside rest stop located on the edge of a cornfield. We went off into the cornfield, which was high enough to hide our waists, but not our torsos. The pants dropped to the ankles, and we blew and jacked each other off. We then went into the (empty) restroom and washed the bits. When the road to Bordeaux split to the southwest, Jean-Hubert and I said our goodbyes with some passionate kissing, and I wished him a hot and slutty summer cruising the parks and beaches and T-rooms of Bordeaux. And I had a new appreciation for cornfields.

I remember back in the early to mid '70s, when things gay were just starting to creep into polite society, there was an interview with a Levi's executive who was asked, "To what do you attribute the success of your product?" (501s). He replied something like, "We say it's because they wear so well, but we know it's really because they show such a good basket."

I have had a couple of hotel staff experiences in Paris. Once, some years ago, I was staying in a 2 star hotel (great location, unremodeled 1900 building - today it's a four-star, unfortunately) and had been out to one of those really sleazy sex clubs Paris was so famous for. I crawled back to the hotel in the wee hours, totally drained, covered in cum and who knows what else, and had to ring for the night attendant for entry. And ring, and ring, and ring. I could see through the front door to the desk, and finally a fine specimen of a young Frenchman stood up behind the counter, with no sign of any clothes. He came to the door, his shirt around his waist, and let me in. When he went back behind the counter to get my room key, his trick for the night, a hot young African immigrant stud, stood up behind the counter next to him. Had I not been totally spent by the evening's prior activities, there would have been a 3-way behind the front counter. On another occasion, I had decided to try a gay hotel. The proprietor was gay, but most of the clientele weren't. After I got settled in my room, the proprietor came up and asked if he could do anything for me. One thing led to another and I ended up fucking him. He said we should do it again, and that I could stay in the hotel anytime I wanted to for free. I didn't take him up on it because he had the stereotypically poor French bathing habits, including dingleberries. We didn't do it again, and I never stayed there again. Not that a gay hotel was necessary to get laid in Paris, at a time when most bars had free sex "caves" and T-rooms were common. I found hotel rooms better suited to recharging my batteries for another day's easily-had debauchery.

In the mid-'80s, I was an aficionado of one of the jack off clubs that were popular in San Francisco at the time, intended to provide safe sex opportunities in the early days of AIDs. In 1984, Drummer magazine did a 7-page photo spread on the club, entitled "The Joys of Self-Abuse." I thoroughly enjoyed showing off my well-lubed meat for the cameras. However, unlike Lycrathong I have never been in great shape, so this was a once-off. If my bod had been better, it would have been a different story.

I have traveled a lot, and sex has always been an important part of my life. So many stories I could tell. Here's an extra special one. One evening, in my early 40s, I was in St Peter's Square, Vatican City, and there was a cute (turned out to be French) 18ish boy hanging around. We chatted, and quickly picked each other up. He was staying in a cheap hotel, and we went back to his. We hopped in bed and immediately were going at it. Soon there was pounding on the door and the Italian grandmother hotel-keeper screaming at the top of her lungs. She had seen us come in, and was irate that there were two people in the single room. She threw us out. He grabbed his backpack and we headed to my place. Through some unusual circumstances I was staying in a convent catering to pilgrims, right on the edge of the Vatican. Through a priest friend of mine who was stationed at the Vatican, I wrangled a front door key out of the nuns who ran the place, so we were able to sneak in late at night. We soon were in my single bed, fucking like bunnies. He stayed three nights with me, fucking our eyeballs out, until he had to return to Nice. Each morning we would leave with the morning crowd of pilgrims, and never got caught, and snuck back in nights when they were all in bed. I can still see him, laying naked on the bed in the morning sun, cock at full mast, in front of a window with St Peter's just beyond. He later came to study in the US, and for a couple of years we would call each other occasionally. Ah sweet youth.

I have found in my normal business life, emails may take weeks to get a response. Or never. Texts often get instant replies, or at least timely. Remember faxes? Or snail mail? Or telegrams? Communications technology has changed. No different with this hobby.

INDIAN MEN

In the Emirates

HIghly scented lotions

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBqhHpEx2tJJG1wyCk9AZe9l_cZZbsi0y9eTpo2iYikLc9lt2TD6_gceZWkYZK4BFFZjYFW4gNWei_Tf_SAAN5Ql1Ao0tgyXdeHEr1-5ddAGrtZyPzT1Vid1FRJL4B4XQzR4XxsGz5YRFFXHqSxXrc5iZGb2xmzybYBgxUb0ob1Mw7pEJfYiZE9UJk22G/s664/GFG-2024-00787.jpg Thanks Whitman. This one reminds me of the good old days when you could get into any office building without going through security, and the world was full of active T-rooms. I remember once checking myself in the mirror as I was leaving, all suited and tied, and saw there was a big stream of cum running down my chin. Always had a rag and can of cleaning fluid in my desk drawer.

Love this thread. I was in Kochi a couple of years ago for the Kochi-Muziris Biennale, where my driver was an absolutely stunning 20-something year old Indian wearing a lungi. Wanting to get friendlier, I asked him "What are you wearing under your lungi?" He was taken aback, and said, "Why my trousers of course", by which I suspect her meant something like boxers. I had an elaborate hotel suite, and he slept in his car, as hotels in India don't allow drivers and other servants to sleep in their "master's" room. Too bad. I would have loved to have had him for some overnighters!

I have a regular provider where we start off talking with each other and catching up on what is going on in our lives...out of genuine interest and caring...all while we are getting undressed. Then we continue standing, arms around each other, naked body against naked body, talking, playing, caressing, doing what we know stimulates the other. And at some point we each know when it is time to get on the table for the massage. The orgasm is something like three-quarters into the 90 minute massage, giving time to wind down, relax and begin the rest of the day totally at peace. Works for me.

Three different experiences with three different masseurs over the years. 1) Excellent masseur who I had been seeing for several years for erotic massages. One time I called up for an appointment, and he said something like: "I have to tell you I am in therapy and my therapist and I have agreed I am not doing erotic massages any more, just therapeutic. If you don't want to see me anymore that is absolutely fine, and I can even recommend someone else who is very good and does erotic massages." I said that was fine, that I was happy to get his excellent therapeutic massages. I got two or three strictly therapeutic massages, and then he was back to full service. He simply needed to know that at least some people valued him for his massage skills, and not just sex...that he was regarded as a professional masseur not an escort. When he saw that was true, he and his therapist were fine with him doing erotic massages. 2) Another excellent regular, who only advertised therapeutic and sensual, not erotic. After my first massage that ended with a HE, I said I would write a review. He said "Please only say sensual, not erotic. I am here on a student visa and have a government scholarship, and I don't want to jeopardize them." He was from a country with different laws and societal expectations. Fair enough. I assume most if not all of his clients got the full service. He just needed to feel safe. 3) Yet another excellent regular from another country, whose every massage was "therapeutic, sensual and erotic" in his own words. One time as I was leaving he got a text from a former client who wanted to stop by for 10 minutes for a BJ. For language-skill reasons, he asked me to check his reply, which was "No I will not do that. I prefer to do massage." Again, he needed to feel that clients are coming to see him for his professional massage skills, not only for sex, even though every massage includes sexual acts. Life is complicated and human beings are complicated. We all rationalize some things that may not be rational on the surface. What is important is for everyone to appreciate that understanding, direct honest communication and empathy go a long way. That being said, at some point this masseur acquired a live-in boyfriend, who was living off the masseur's income, and then complaining about the source of the money. One day I arrived and the masseur said that the bf didn't like him doing massages in the nude, that he was leaving his bikini underwear on. I said that was nuts...that the bf was living off the income from the sexual services, was ok or at least resigned to the erotic massages, but wanted his bf to hide the family jewels? I said, "Just tell him you're leaving the bikini on when you are with a client, and then do what you want. You don't have to tell your bf everything...everyone has secrets." He said, "I can? Oh wow. I didn't know I could do that." Off came the bikini and he happily continues to provide the nude interactive services as before. Ah, an inexperienced youth.