I've been "...accepting offers..." of late, trying to say yes to new experiences and not letting preconceived notions or the potential difficulties dissuade me.
I used to work with W---. He finally kicked it in the head of his unhappy public service career and is exploring new paths such as sampling uni or doing teacher's aide work. Thanks to staying dedicated to fitness despite his similar age to mine (near forty) he's exploring that as a profession idea and learning to become a masseur. He needs to log hours of treatment giving in order to advance his qualifications and thus it came to be that he offered up a free massage.
I've never had a massage before and the idea of someone willing to engage with me physically was a novelty. Any lingering worries about unwanted erections due to the touch of another man were placed aside and I manned up and nuded up (1). Well, to undies level.
Well, so how was it? It was awesome. W--- was skilled—he had a good strong long fingered touch and when he dug in it was never to the point of agony—and he happily answered questions about what he was doing and what techniques he was using—such as how a towel's placement gives the client a subconscious feeling of security that zones they don't want to be touched won't be touched. When it was done I felt light headed and vaguely greasy but that only twenty or so minutes had passed. I was shocked to find it was an hour and twenty. Wowsers. W--- also showed me some nifty kettle weight things and how they could be a potential adjunct to my daily wrestle with the Nemean lion that is the TPC (2).
Anyway that massage experience was a kewl result of trying to say yes more. And I think it gave me a hint at what it would be to live a pampered life where such things are a scheduled joy.
I hope you literally pampered rich fuckers appreciate it!
(1) Yes, there were stirrings. I have no worries about such things. When you are touched in certain places there is an autonomic response. I liken it to the ears pricking on a dog. It cannot be helped and fortunately I don't compound the issue by flashing up a magic lantern show of erotic imagery to further embolden things.
(2) I'm so scared ... so scared. It ... it can hear me. It can hear me. It of course being The Purgatory Cart, an exercise bike owned by the winsome Cass, who totally rocks out the glasses plus crochet beanie look.