by Louise Voss
I gently untucked the towel covering his back and bottom, deciding that I’d probably finished on both his legs. ‘If you’d like to turn over now, please,’ I said, holding my breath.
Robert rolled over, and I was horrified to realise that I was almost disappointed when the towel I replaced on his torso lay flat on him, as still as a becalmed sea. Perhaps it was all in my imagination, this attraction.
His chest was gorgeous, as I’d expected; taut and smooth, with just one patch of hair between his nipples – not enough to be a proper, gross, hairy chest, but just enough to make a macho sort of point. Gavin only had two hairs on his puny little chest. ‘Quick, tie a knot in them before they slip back in again,’ he used to joke.
Robert and I didn’t speak for the next fifteen minutes or so. He lay there with his eyes closed, which afforded me an ideal opportunity to study him surreptitiously, every inch of his exposed skin, the way his lashes lay spiky on his cheeks, the memory of curls at his slightly - but only very slightly – receding hairline. I really got into the massage, and almost succeeded in forgetting about how much I fancied him.
Until I came to his stomach. By now his whole torso was uncovered, exposing a soft brown belly, endearing in its very faint podginess. It was a relief, actually, that he wasn’t as completely godlike as he’d initially appeared - a six-pack would have been far too intimidating. I wanted to push my face in it, inhale its soft warmth, but instead I poured more oil into my hands and began to rub gentle circles, up to the bottom of his rib cage and down to where a line of dark hair was thickening as it headed south. His stomach rumbled musically, drowning out the CD, and he shifted a little on the couch.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, embarrassed.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s just a sign that you’re relaxing, that’s all.’
As I worked, my right elbow suddenly knocked against something which hadn’t been there before. Surprised, I glanced down – and there it was. He hadn’t been apologising for his stomach at all.
Talk about a tent pole. The entire towel was practically airborne and flapping. On an emotional and physical level, it was nearly too much for me, and I felt so turned on I thought I’d explode. On a practical level, I wasn’t sure what to do. We’d been taught at college, as part of ‘towel technique’, that the correct procedural way to deal with mens’ frequent and usually minor tumescences was to firmly tuck a thickly folded towel over the offending area and then ignore it. But ignoring this one would have been like trying to work around a massive Christmas tree, flashing lights and all, which had appeared from nowhere on my massage couch. It was so mighty-looking that I thought a breeze-block placed on top of it would have been ineffectual, let alone a folded towel. We both groaned involuntarily.
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Robert again, flinging his arm over his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. ‘I can’t believe it. I’ve been willing this not to happen since you started, and I thought I’d cracked it. I feel like a sixteen year old.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I said, beginning to rub his stomach again. ‘I’m actually thirty.’
But Robert didn’t laugh. He was so mortified that he had actually broken out in a sweat, and all the muscles I’d worked so hard to relax were visibly tensing up before me. His erection subsided of its own accord, but rigor mortis appeared to have set in the rest of his body. He fidgeted uncomfortably again on the couch, and then suddenly sat up, not meeting my eyes.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t do this. I’m too embarrassed. I think I should leave.’
‘Oh no,’ I said frantically, clasping his shoulders, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘Please. It’s fine – I promise you; no big deal, it happens all the time.’ Just not with men I really, really fancy, I thought.
He shook his head and swung his legs over the side of the couch. ‘No. I can’t. It feels all wrong – like I came here to take advantage of you, or something.’
‘Well,’ I said ruefully ‘Of course, it’s up to you. I’m not going to force you to let me continue the massage. But please don’t just go. It’s been so nice to see you.‘ We both laughed, sheepishly, at the inference. ‘Why don’t you stay for a cup of tea – herb tea would be best, after a massage - and then see how you feel?’
Robert hesitated.
‘Oh, go on,’ I said, nudging him shyly. ‘It’s like falling off a horse. You really should get straight back on again otherwise you get a phobia about riding.’
I winced, thinking again how suggestive that sounded. ‘No seriously,’ I ploughed on. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed while I put the kettle on. Then if you want me to finish the massage later, just give me the nod and I will. But please, please don’t be embarrassed. What sort of tea would you like?’
‘Camomile, if you’ve got it, please,’ Robert said, reaching for his trousers. I left the room, torn between confusion and an empathic embarrassment at the turn of events, whilst simultaneously being deeply impressed at Robert’s preference in herb teas. You’d have had to put a gun to Gavin’s head to make him voluntarily request a cup of camomile tea.
By the time Robert marched into the kitchen, the kettle was already boiling, and his composure seemed to have returned, buttoned up around him like his pristine white shirt. I was glad that he hadn’t put his jacket and tie back on – perhaps there was a chance we might be able to carry on where we left off.
I admired the way he’d stopped apologising, too – if it was me, I knew I would have continued to do, ad nauseum – and managed to sprawl himself loosely into a chair at the kitchen table as if he had been there a thousand times before.
The tea did us good; restored a further sense of normality. We chatted as easily as we had a couple of nights earlier in Nottingham, and I felt that the massage had somehow increased our sense of intimacy. I would never normally feel that with a client – seeing them naked made absolutely no difference to how I felt, or didn’t feel, about them – but Robert was another matter. I felt a creepingly compelling sensation of ownership of him, and prayed silently that he’d change his mind about finishing the massage, so I could get my hands on that lovely body again. It felt like some kind of test – that I could massage him into belonging to me.
But eventually Robert stood up and emptied the rest of his mug down the sink.
‘I’d better be off,’ he said. ‘How much do I owe you for the massage?’
He turned, saw my hurt face, and relented. ‘You know, you probably won’t believe this, but for a while there I almost forgot you had a boyfriend. ‘
The words splurged out of me. ‘If I didn’t have, would you be interested in the position?’
He came closer and crouched down by my chair, so I was staring into his amber eyes. They were so clear that I half-expected small insects to be suspended inside them.
‘Emma. Any position. Any time. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous and I hate the thought that you’re with someone else.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Are you sure it’s serious between you and him?’
I reached up and ran my fingers through his short hair. The gesture may have been tentative, but my reply was uttered with total conviction:
‘Actually,’ I said. ‘I’ve done a lot of thinking since we met last week; about what – who – I want. I know it sounds, well, convenient, to say this now - but Gavin and I were a habit. He doesn’t want me, and hasn’t for ages. He said we were a habit when we finished, and I never really believed him.’ I hesitated. ‘Not until I met you. It was just bad timing that he and I had had one more fling, right before I came to Nottingham. And now I feel differently.’
‘How differently?’ He bent forward and whispered the words in my ear, so softly that they felt like kisses.
‘Enough to promise you, on my life, that if I ever hear from him again – which I haven’t, since Nottingham – I’ll tell him he’s history.’
‘Excellent. Do you know what?’
‘What?’
‘That was wit
hout question the most fantastic massage I’ve ever had.’ Robert tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my right ear, and moved even closer.
‘I hope you’re not just after me for my massage techniques,’ I replied, feeling bolder by the second, digging my thumbs into pressure points on his skull until he shivered with pleasure.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at all. But I must say, it’s very nice that you’re so talented.’
I stood up, briskly. ‘Right then. Do I take it that you’re ready to continue?’
Robert smiled sheepishly. ‘Yes, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t have the same problem as before.’
‘Good,’ I said, as seductively as I could, marvelling that I wasn’t being shy, nor blushing or blotchy, nor depressed or anxious. But in charge, aroused, comfortable.
Before I could think too much about it, I took my glasses off, leaned forward and kissed him, my ponytail falling around the side of my neck and tickling his nose and cheek. His arms shot out and wrapped themselves around me, and he kissed me back, deep and hungry and scented with camomile, like being kissed in the countryside. His skin smelled of lemongrass.
‘I could probably get struck off for this,’ I said, after a few minutes. ‘We should stop. At least let me finish the massage. I’m being so unprofessional.’ I tried half-heartedly to pull away but he wouldn’t let me.
‘Kiss me again.’
I obliged. I felt close to orgasm already, although at the back of my head my old, cautious-Emma voice was ranting at me, albeit with the volume turned down: OK, so you kissed him, but he could still be taking advantage because he knows you fancy him. He was aroused because of the massage, not because of you, despite what he’s just said.
But somehow I knew, I just knew that he wasn’t going to use me. That this wasn’t a roll in the hay. After all the months of moping, and then Stella’s revelation, I realised that without a doubt I didn’t want Gavin any more. Really, honestly, hand on heart.
Actually, hand on something else. The Christmas tree had reappeared, and I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to touch it….
‘Will you continue the massage?’ Robert was already peeling off his clothes again, dragging me down the hall to the massage room, where he climbed back onto the couch, on his back.
I tried to reclaim some semblance of professionalism, and did the old towel trick across his torso – which, as I’d predicted, had absolutely no effect. I poured a well of oil into my hands and began to move around towards his head to work on his chest, but he reached up and caught my slippery hands and pulled me back towards him.
‘Lie on top of me,’ he whispered, not at all embarrassed anymore.
Without giving it a second thought, I did. I scrambled awkwardly up on to my massage couch and straddled him, whipping away his towel in a movement akin to the men from Buck’s Fizz ripping off Cheryl and Jay‘s skirts during “Making Your Mind Up” – which I, conclusively, was. Robert’s penis was poking out of his boxers, unveiled and looking as magnificent as I’d expected. I manoeuvred myself down on him so that I was rubbing it against me, and the pleasure was almost painful in its intensity as we kissed and kissed.
‘This is awful, but – could we? Do you think we could? I really want you.’ The sound of my voice, hoarse with lust, almost surprised me.
Robert sat up a little, on his elbows, lifting me with him. ‘I’ve got a condom in my wallet,’ he said, and I’d vaulted off the couch and over to his jacket before he changed his mind. I couldn’t believe my wantonness.
‘Do you want to go to into my bedroom?’ I said, handing him his wallet.
‘No. I want to stay here.’ He stripped off his boxers and sat up to roll on the condom before sinking back onto the couch. As his wallet fell to the floor, I saw a photograph of a little coffee-skinned girl, hair in bunches, beaming gap-toothed from a clear plastic display next to his credit cards, and my heart constricted. He was a dad, as well as a divinely attractive man.
Stopping myself before I began to picture us having our own babies, I whipped all my clothes off, far too turned on to feel more than a brief shiver of self-consciousness at exposing my body. In about half a minute flat I had climbed back on top of him, rubbing my hard nipples into his oily chest, feeling him between my legs probing to get into position. He pushed into me in one smooth movement, as I swelled around him with pleasure and gratitude; filling me up so tenderly that tears came to my eyes, and the couch began to rock gently, carrying us, as if we were making love on a boat.
Within minutes, I couldn’t bear it any more. ‘Stop, or I’ll come,’ I gasped, gripping the sides of the massage couch. ‘Me too,’ Robert replied, running his hands frantically up and down my body as he thrust into me again and again. The couch began to rock harder.
‘Steady,’ I squawked, ‘It won’t collapse, but it might - ’
CRASH! The couch’s legs held firm, but the whole thing tipped over sideways and it fell, depositing us both in a very undignified manner onto the floor where we lay, still joined, laughing and coming simultaneously.
‘ – fall over,’ I panted, before losing myself in the waves of orgasm which temporarily distracted me from the pain in my knee, which I’d banged when we toppled over.
‘Are you all right?’ Robert said afterwards. He kissed me again and I felt as if I’d known him for ever; there was none of that awful first-time awkwardness or embarrassment – fairly amazingly, under the somewhat unconventional circumstances.
‘Fine, except for the bruise I’m going to have on my knee,’ I replied, lightheaded and shaky. I stroked his bottom, noticing that it had broken out in oddly endearing post-climax goose-pimples, and snuggled into his arms, as we lay shipwrecked on the carpeted floor, the white towels like torn sails around us. ‘Although I’m never going to be able to look at my massage room in the same light.’
‘I can imagine. Sorry about that. I’ll buy you a new massage bed if it’s broken.’
‘No, it just overbalanced. These things are built to be pretty sturdy, if not perhaps to withstand quite such vigorous activity… Come into the bedroom, and we can chill out in bed for a bit.’
As I spoke, the telephone rang in the hall, and after four rings, the answer-machine picked up. It was Gavin, with his usual impeccable sense of timing.
‘Hiya, babes, sorry I didn’t get back to you before. Something’s come up. Actually, what it is, right: Customs and Excise have raided my flat and impounded all my furniture. Everything. Even my bloody mobile phone. Luckily I wasn’t there at the time - Jim saw them go in and came down the pub to warn me - but apparently they want to interview me about my last little trip to Holland. So it’s best if I lie low for a while; get out of London altogether. I’m really sorry. It might be a few weeks. This is all a real fuckin’ headache, and I promise I’ll be in touch as soon as I can, OK? Take care, darling, lots of love.’
I pulled away from Robert, propping my head up with my elbow so I could look into his face. ‘That,’ I said, ‘in case you hadn’t guessed, was my so-called boyfriend.’
‘He sounds like a lovely boy,’ said Robert, in a mock-jovial camp accent. ‘Very reliable and trustworthy. What exactly was he doing in Holland?’
‘You don’t want to know. Well, I certainly didn’t, anyhow. With Gavin it’s always better not to ask…. Come on.’ I stood up, holding out my hand for him to lead him down the hall into my bedroom; me limping, both of us naked.
On the way past, I pressed the rewind button on the answering machine to erase Gavin’s message.
PART THREE
Chapter 35
‘Did you know that there’s a message on the machine?’ Stella asked me, coming into the room with a fresh jug of margaritas and a bowl of pistachios.
‘No – I didn’t even hear the phone ring. Go and see who it was, would you? I’ll sort everyone out with drinks.’
As I poured a new round of frothy margaritas for everyone present, I had a sudden flashback to the last message Gavin left
me, almost six months ago. It would have been recorded over so many times now; his voice buried beneath new greetings from new friends, or the endearing little messages Robert recorded for me whenever he couldn’t stay over.
‘It was Suzanne, ringing to wish you and Mack luck,’ said Stella, stretching out her hand for her drink. ‘She said she would try to come over after work, although she’s sure we’ll be taping it, and besides, she has serious qualms at attending any party that her parents have also been invited to. It’s just not cool.’
We all laughed, particularly Denise and Greg, the parents in question. Robert and I had had such a good time at the Hiscocks’ dinner party, back in early March, that we’d made every effort to keep in touch. The four of us were even thinking about renting a villa in Portugal together for a week’s holiday.
I caught Mack surreptitiously checking – for the tenth time – that there was a videotape in the machine, and that it was set to record BBC2.
‘Why are you taping it, Mack? Aren’t you awash with VHS’s of it already?’ asked Greg, who’d obviously noticed him checking too.
Katrina answered on Mack’s behalf – something she often did. ‘Yes, of course we are – but it’s not the same as having it on tape with the programme announcer’s comments and everything, is it?’
She and Mack were holding hands so tightly that Mack’s knuckles were white bumps through his skin, even though the documentary didn’t start for another hour. I wasn’t surprised at how nervous he was – Robert had told me how much would be riding on how well received Mack’s first full-length commissioned film was. It could make or break his career, so I was glad that he had Katrina there for him. He adored her, and I knew that if the reviews weren’t good, she’d get him through it.
With adoration on my mind, I turned to look at Robert, struck by the sexy curve of his throat and quick movements of his hands as he shucked pistachio nuts and tossed them into his mouth, head back, in between chatting with Stella’s boyfriend of four months, Zubin.
