Scott Dixon

In addition to all everyone else has said, I suggest the following (which I practice, with good results):
 
1. If you want a massage THAT DAY, start as early as possible in the day with your inquiry(ies).
2. I've seen a picture or pictures of my masseur, so I think it's only fair that he see a picture of me before I arrive at his door. So I text a very tasteful picture of myself, shirtless, in compression shorts (not to brag about my body, but so he can gauge my height, weight, musculature, etc.), with a note saying, "I always like to know who's coming to my door, so I figure you might, too."
3. If I'm paying cash, I take only that cash inside the studio with me. I leave everything else in my car. If I'm paying with a credit card, I take only that card in with me. I leave all other jewelry in the car. I do take my phone with me. When I take off my clothes, I silence my phone and put it inside one of my shoes.
4. If, after I arrive, something doesn't look, feel, smell, or otherwise seem right to me, I tell him I'm not going to be able to stay and hand him a $20 bill for the inconvenience. Then I block him on my phone/email.
5. If all goes well and I intend to return and/or refer him to others, I ask him for a business card.

Disclaimer: The experience I'm about to describe never resulted in a massage!
 
I was new to Houston, didn't know about this forum, had had only one massage from a guy on MF, and woke up one morning determined to have a massage that day. VERY early, I started scanning Craigslist. There was an enticing photograph of a young, slim, muscular guy, face excluded, with an equally enticing, albeit brief, description of his services. The price was right (a dollar a minute) and he wasn't far away. He listed his hours as "anytime," so I texted him. He responded quickly, identified himself as Matthew, and we landed on 10:30 a.m. for our appointment at his studio. I asked for an hour, with the option to extend the time if all was going well (which I typically do for a first visit, if the masseur is amenable). He texted his address. All this occurred about 7:00 a.m.
 
I arrived at his very nice mid-rise apartment complex and there was a gate, which he had not mentioned. As I was about to text him for the code, up pulled a FedEx truck, so I just followed it through. Found his building, climbed to the top floor (there might've been an elevator, but I didn't see it), and at precisely 10:25, I knocked on the door. No answer. No footsteps. I texted him. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. Texted again. Nothing. I know, I know: I should've just left, but after this long, I was curious. Knocked one more time, LOUDLY, and soon heard footsteps and the door hardware rattling from the inside.
 
He opened the door, YAWNING and rubbing his eyes, foul breath emanating from his wide-open mouth. "Aw, man, what time is it?" "It's after 10:30," I replied. "Aw, man, I'm sorry, I musta fell asleep on the couch. I had a rough night. Come on in." His hair was a mess and he was wearing only long gym pants; his upper body was totally ripped, though, which, along with the positively ELEGANT apartment, was the only reason I stepped farther into his home. "Right this way," he said, leading me into a small room that contained a massage table with no sheets, a futon made up as a bed, and a computer desk, on which sat an open laptop.
 
Matthew sat down at the desk and began noodling on the laptop. He said, "Let me find us some music. What kinda music you like, man?" "Oh, anything like you might here in a spa, or jazz, or classical. Something instrumental." More noodling. He eventually landed on something okay and I said that would be fine. Then he moved over to the futon and stretched out. "Man, I've got the WORST breath! I had garlic last night. I ain't even had time to brush my teeth this morning. You need the bathroom?" I said no, and then he went across the hall to brush his teeth, thank God! "Go ahead and get undressed and we'll start out face down," he said through a mouth full of toothpaste.
 
When he emerged, he was wearing short gym pants, and his nice hairy legs showed. He sat at the computer and watched me as I finished undressing and laid on the table. I laid there on the bare leather massage table with my face in the cradle for what seemed like 10 minutes while I heard him typing on the computer. Just as I raised my head to say something, he got up and came around behind me. He put one hand on each heel and put my feet together. "Well, you're symmetrical," he said. I replied, "And that's a good thing, I take it?" No response. He moved each hand up to the backs of my calves and squeezed them. Then he abruptly came up to my right shoulder, rubbed it a little bit, and said, "Man, I'm sorry, but we're all out of time."
 
I jumped up from there and got dressed faster than I ever have during a backstage costume change as he said, "Next time, it'll be $20 off. Just text me. My name's Matthew." I said, "Okay, well that's nice of you, but I asked for an hour today and I've been here less than 30 minutes, so here's a 20." I handed him the $20 and he grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Aw, thanks, man." He laid back down on the futon and I showed myself out.
 
Worst massage ever? Actually, there was no massage. Definitely in my top five weirdest experiences.

Disclaimer: The experience I'm about to describe never resulted in a massage!
 
I was new to Houston, didn't know about this forum, had had only one massage from a guy on MF, and woke up one morning determined to have a massage that day. VERY early, I started scanning Craigslist. There was an enticing photograph of a young, slim, muscular guy, face excluded, with an equally enticing, albeit brief, description of his services. The price was right (a dollar a minute) and he wasn't far away. He listed his hours as "anytime," so I texted him. He responded quickly, identified himself as Matthew, and we landed on 10:30 a.m. for our appointment at his studio. I asked for an hour, with the option to extend the time if all was going well (which I typically do for a first visit, if the masseur is amenable). He texted his address. All this occurred about 7:00 a.m.
 
I arrived at his very nice mid-rise apartment complex and there was a gate, which he had not mentioned. As I was about to text him for the code, up pulled a FedEx truck, so I just followed it through. Found his building, climbed to the top floor (there might've been an elevator, but I didn't see it), and at precisely 10:25, I knocked on the door. No answer. No footsteps. I texted him. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. Texted again. Nothing. I know, I know: I should've just left, but after this long, I was curious. Knocked one more time, LOUDLY, and soon heard footsteps and the door hardware rattling from the inside.
 
He opened the door, YAWNING and rubbing his eyes, foul breath emanating from his wide-open mouth. "Aw, man, what time is it?" "It's after 10:30," I replied. "Aw, man, I'm sorry, I musta fell asleep on the couch. I had a rough night. Come on in." His hair was a mess and he was wearing only long gym pants; his upper body was totally ripped, though, which, along with the positively ELEGANT apartment, was the only reason I stepped farther into his home. "Right this way," he said, leading me into a small room that contained a massage table with no sheets, a futon made up as a bed, and a computer desk, on which sat an open laptop.
 
Matthew sat down at the desk and began noodling on the laptop. He said, "Let me find us some music. What kinda music you like, man?" "Oh, anything like you might here in a spa, or jazz, or classical. Something instrumental." More noodling. He eventually landed on something okay and I said that would be fine. Then he moved over to the futon and stretched out. "Man, I've got the WORST breath! I had garlic last night. I ain't even had time to brush my teeth this morning. You need the bathroom?" I said no, and then he went across the hall to brush his teeth, thank God! "Go ahead and get undressed and we'll start out face down," he said through a mouth full of toothpaste.
 
When he emerged, he was wearing short gym pants, and his nice hairy legs showed. He sat at the computer and watched me as I finished undressing and laid on the table. I laid there on the bare leather massage table with my face in the cradle for what seemed like 10 minutes while I heard him typing on the computer. Just as I raised my head to say something, he got up and came around behind me. He put one hand on each heel and put my feet together. "Well, you're symmetrical," he said. I replied, "And that's a good thing, I take it?" No response. He moved each hand up to the backs of my calves and squeezed them. Then he abruptly came up to my right shoulder, rubbed it a little bit, and said, "Man, I'm sorry, but we're all out of time."
 
I jumped up from there and got dressed faster than I ever have during a backstage costume change as he said, "Next time, it'll be $20 off. Just text me. My name's Matthew." I said, "Okay, well that's nice of you, but I asked for an hour today and I've been here less than 30 minutes, so here's a 20." I handed him the $20 and he grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Aw, thanks, man." He laid back down on the futon and I showed myself out.
 
Worst massage ever? Actually, there was no massage. Definitely in my top five weirdest experiences.

I've used two masseurs who asked me if I would be interested in receiving testicular massage. Of course, I said yes! The first one, with whom nothing overtly sensual or erotic had ever happened while giving me a massage (short of a little leakage), seemed shocked when I erupted in less than a minute after he started beautifully massaging my testicles as if he were polishing Faberge eggs! I thought to myself, "WTF did you think was going to happen?!" He has since performed this service two or three other times and has seemed less surprised by my quick and voluminous results. FYI, he does not touch my shaft AT ALL. This is quite special. He lives in another city several hundred miles away and has no online information.
 
The other one, whom I see more often, does nearly as good a job as they above, with a bit of shaft involvement toward the end.

I've used two masseurs who asked me if I would be interested in receiving testicular massage. Of course, I said yes! The first one, with whom nothing overtly sensual or erotic had ever happened while giving me a massage (short of a little leakage), seemed shocked when I erupted in less than a minute after he started beautifully massaging my testicles as if he were polishing Faberge eggs! I thought to myself, "WTF did you think was going to happen?!" He has since performed this service two or three other times and has seemed less surprised by my quick and voluminous results. FYI, he does not touch my shaft AT ALL. This is quite special. He lives in another city several hundred miles away and has no online information.
 
The other one, whom I see more often, does nearly as good a job as they above, with a bit of shaft involvement toward the end.