The Masseuse Made Me Come Three Times...and Counting

The Masseuse Made Me Come Three Times...and Counting

Read the completely true story of the night I visited an "orgasm doctor," a master in the art of the female orgasm. No lie: I got up off that table, completely spent, and I was never the same.

Before I get into this, let me say: This is a big secret of mine. Let me also say: I think it's something all women should do if they have a chance. Because honestly? This was a life-changing experience.

A few years ago, I read about this guy in Manhattan whose side hobby is giving erotic massages to women. He has a very special set of skills, so to speak. He's been written up allll over the internet.

Naturally, I was curious. Massages with a surprise ending have always been a huge fantasy of mine—whenever I used to get a normal massage, I'd hope the masseuse's hands would somehow drift toward my warm and pulsing regions. But it never happened.

So I kept thinking about this mysterious man—especially as my long-term relationship was declining rapidly. My ex and I were not compatible in the bedroom. He had a fairly low sex drive; I'm like the energizer bunny. Plus, he didn't give me an orgasm for the first three months we started dating, and after that, was extremely sporadic. It'd come down to me begging for him to put in effort and touch me.

So the idea of having someone put all their attention on me, like this masseuse? That was sexy.

A few weeks after my ex and I broke up, I emailed the guy, along with a photo and a short bio. At the time, I was 24 and adorable, but still worried about whether or not he'd accept me as a client because I'd never done anything like this before. It felt very illicit and also very exciting.

But he accepted me, and we set up a time to meet on a weekday evening. The whole day I was torn between talking myself out of it, and saying, "Hell yes, you gotta do this!" I veered toward "hell yes," luckily.

That evening after work, we met at a coffee shop. He walked me up to his apartment nearby. My inner monologue was bemused: Am I really making small talk with a strange man about the weather, as a prelude to getting naked and having him touch me places I'd only ever touched myself? Guess so.

Part of my comfort, too, was that he struck me as immediately trustworthy. He was a clean-looking middle-aged guy with a New York accent and a friendly demeanor. In his apartment, he laid out all the ground-rules and how the massage would proceed. Also, he was very clear with consent. I knew I could get up and leave at any point. Technically, the service is free but you can leave a tip.

The time had come for me to get on the massage table, completely naked.

I was nervous, taking my work clothes off in his bathroom. I'd read other women's testimonials, but I didn't think it could work for me, like I was defective. Previously, having an orgasm always took a lot of "work" on my behalf. I'd have to rein in my thoughts, and try to concentrate so hard on not losing my concentration (girls know what I'm talking about). But there were other problems. My exes would not, as I like to say, "preheat the oven." Often, I wasn't turned on by the time they started going down on me, or trying to get me off, and so it would take approximately 5 years and make me feel bad.

Well. It worked. This guy was the master of pre-heating the oven. He started with a gentle massage, absolutely relaxing my body. Then, his hands started exploring the places I'd always wanted masseuses to explore. I was laying on my stomach when he started nearing the place I'd been hoping he'd find. His hands first caressed my inner thighs, teasing. I couldn't help but move my body so that his hands would get the message.

By the time he finally touched me, I was on fire. The build-up was exquisite. The build-up did most of the work. I was aching for him, truly throbbing with wanting. Then he got started, zeroing in on exactly the right place with confident, knowing strokes. The man is skilled. Beyond skilled. It was like he spoke the language of bodies. He knew how to read what my movements were saying, and what to keep doing. I'd never been touched from behind like that, with such perfect rhythm. First, he moved his hand in long, broad strokes. Then he adjusted so that one hand worked its magic in all the right places, just how I like it, and my body was moving against him in response. It was measured, almost clinical. Think about it as orgasm "therapy," almost.

I came like there was an entire waterfall going down my body. It was...sublime. Clearly, there was nothing wrong with me. A man could make me come.

But it wasn't over.

He turned me around, and started massaging my breasts. I was suuuper raw after that first orgasm, and felt like putty. But I wanted more. I closed my eyes and waited for his fingers to drift back down to the place that had just brought me so much pleasure. He motioned for me to put my legs in a butterfly pose on the massage table. The other orgasm, when I was laying on my stomach, built up over a while. It was like...simmering near a fireplace. And then suddenly you were on fire. This one, laying on my back, was much rougher. He was relentless with his hands, working me until my hips were lifting off the table on their own. It's hard to think of anything that feels better than a man's hands finding your most sensitive places, inside and out. Reader: I moaned.

There were about 10 minutes left in the session, and he asked what I wanted (another sexy sentence). I asked for another orgasm, with me on my stomach. I felt so exposed on my back; I wanted another cozy orgasm. I came in no time.

And here's the truth: If he kept going, I could've come again. And again. And again. But alas, instead of coming a million more times (or falling asleep on the table), I put on my clothes, thanked him, and caught the train home. [edit: I also obviously TIPPED him the requested amount. as some commenters have been wondering! In fact, I significantly overtipped him. Please overtip everyone when you can.]

The whole time home, I was smiling, in awe of my own naughtiness. Did I really just let a stranger touch me so intimately in his apartment?! Yes, I did—and I fucking loved it! I remember looking at the other commuters and feeling blissfully badass.

Obviously, you may have opinions on my "paying" to have an orgasm. But I hope I conveyed what an empowering, self-affirming experience this was.

**

I also hope the guys reading this have a better perspective on a) what women's bodies are capable of and b) how to treat 'em so that women melt in your hands. Because with time, patience, and ATTENTION, we can be putty. There's nothing sexier than a man who listens to your words and to your body. This experience made me empowered to only seek out partners who "talk" to me, in and out of the bedroom. So far, so good!