They say that you should be careful what you wish for. And not because you just might get it, but the main reason is because often the reality might not live up to be as good as the fantasy.
I have lost count of the times that I have googled ‘yoni massage Barcelona’. The search process usually occurs on a Sunday. That is the time when masturbation – or the contents of my cell phone contacts list – are not quite enough to satisfy the relentless twitches between my thighs. In those moments, I need real hands working on me; not merely for sex, but for worship.
Those random online Sunday searches invariably ended in disappointment. This was because all I could find were massage parlours where the customer tends to select a masseuse according to their physical charms instead of their professional therapeutic credentials. I wanted a guru, not someone making easy money in the sex industry.
I had almost forgotten about trying to realize this fantasy when an acquaintance told me about a professional G-spot masseur. Seeing as though we had contacts in common who vouched for his professionality, I was inspired to reach out to him via his website. I must confess that when I read his biography and checked out his profile picture, I found him attractive. He was a man in his mid-forties, with a slim build, grey hair, tattoos and a big smile.
After exchanging several messages, we had a Skype meeting. He explained his theories and techniques but I was already sold on the idea. I just nodded as I imagined his expert hands getting to work on me. I must admit that I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to the specific details except for one; he mentioned that he would provide me with five orgasms in two hours. How many men can do that?
He seemed to understand the emotional component vital to truly memorable orgasms; more so than any man I had met previously. When you feel understood, it always encourages you to open up more. He went on to explain that many women he ‘treats’ had problems even reaching orgasm. I reassured him that I had no problem in that department. I didn’t dare mention that all I really wanted to do was to fulfil a fantasy.
When we met at his consultancy, on the day of the G-spot massage, I was nervous. I did not know quite what to expect, apart from the five orgasms that he had promised me. He gave me a hug that felt very familiar and I was at ease straight away.
I went to the bathroom to disrobe. When I reappeared in his studio after, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, I found it filled with relaxing music, incense and warm candle light. He was kneeling, praying and breathing deeply just next to the futon where I was about to lie down. It was as if he was about to take part in a ceremonial ritual. I felt those same twitches that motivated me to search for ‘yoni massage Barcelona’ in the first place. All of a sudden, I forgot about my sense of trepidation. The anticipation I had, of being touched, grew and grew inside me. “All men should perform this ritual before touching a Goddess,” I thought to myself.
I was feeling capricious as I lay down on the futon, face up. My personal pleasure was central to my desires. He was merely a function of the process. After some deep breathing exercises, he opened my dressing gown. He brushed against my clitoris delicately before beginning to finger me. I was already wet.
His expert digits got to work on me. He located my G-spot in record time. I closed my eyes but I did not have to fantasize. I merely reacted to what I was living and feeling in the moment. If he was turned on then he did not show it. His cool formality only turned me on more. This clearly was not a sexual service. It was an emotional therapy which would, no doubt, turn me on even more because it did not seem anywhere near as seedy as hiring a gigolo or regular masseur.
It didn’t take long before my breath quickened and my body squirmed. It was easy for me to come. My pelvis moved against his hand involuntarily in orgasmic bliss. After I got my breath back, I realised that his finger was still inside me, moving frenetically. After a couple more deep breaths, I could feel another orgasmic spasm building up. I exploded again, and again.
Eight orgasms later, I was exhausted and my body could not spasm anymore. He withdrew his fingers and smiled down at me. Then, he went out to wash his hands. When he returned, we exchanged some pleasantries. Then, it was time for me to get dressed.
Shortly after, we said our goodbyes with the same formality as I experienced on my arrival. Even though he had made me come numerous times, and had seen my private parts, his commitment to professional protocol only made the experience seem stranger and hornier.
The reality is never like fantasy, it’s true. But, in this case, the end result far exceeded my expectations. On Sundays, in particular, I no longer have to imagine what I crave. All I have to do is close my eyes and remember.