Poetry

I don't normally go to massage parlours, as I think it's nicer to see an independent escort - someone I can get to know a little, build up a rapport with, swap text messages with, look forward to seeing. It's more of what's known as a girlfriend experience (GFE), or at least secret mistress/fuck buddy experience. I wonder if those really exist. Anyway, there is a massage parlour in my local high street, five minutes' walk from my home. It's been there for years, a blank-fronted shop at the end of the high street, after a takeaway pizza place, a picture framers' and a newsagent, opposte Waitrose. The sign outside says "Massage". I was scared to go in there for years because I was afraid it was an actual massage parlour. I read that they were busted on vice charges some years ago but they must have reopened under new management, because my little gentrified suburb still has its high street brothel.

You push open the blank street door and enter a lobby with a locked door ahead of you and a reception window on one side, like a post office. There is a suspicious looking woman at it, and behind her half a dozen young women in tight white labcoats and high heels sitting around on armchairs doing their nails, watching TV. One is just finishing her lunch. You pay a small fee to get in, and the receptionist takes your name (first names seem to be enough) and enters it elaborately in a book. The girls all look at you cutely. You have to pick one. It should be a dream come true but it's mostly embarrassing and weird. I look for a curvy one but they are all skinny. I choose the one in the middle of the sofa because I like the way she smiles at me. She gets up and she is the skinniest one there. She picks up a neatly folded towel and leads me upstairs. I ask her name. She tells me 'Susanna', in an Eastern European accent, maybe Polish. She asks me my name, she must have missed it downstairs. Oh, like the poet? That's right. You write poetry? Well, not yet. I may do one day.

A dingy room contains a bath and a massage table, on which Susanna spreads the towel. I pull a curtain aside to take a peek outside. Waitrose in the rain. I suppose at this point a council inspector could still be convinced this was a therapeutic massage service. She asks what I'd like to do and once again it's a bit awkward as we establish that I want the regular, you know, normal, straight, full service for about half an hour, and this will cost £60, which I hand over. I should have put it more poetically. She steps out of her white labcoat to reveal a delicate, slender body in glamour underwear.

She undresses me sweetly. Nice jeans. Thanks. My jeans seem to be a hit with prostitutes. I'm going to call them my fucking jeans from now on. Her touch is warm and gentle, and feels good. I check where I'm allowed to touch. Anywhere, she says coyly. Not inside. I can kiss her on the cheek. It's all beautiful. After a little while, I check whether I can kiss this, my fingers between her legs. Sure, she says, sitting back on the massage table and gracefully opening her legs to let me suck her.

I spend five minutes or so enjoying licking her delicate pussy. She seems to like it, though she doesn't cum. She does moan softly and fondle my ears. You have nice ears. Thanks. Always I look for boyfriend with nice ears. Are you into ears? I am now.

I work my way back up, we switch positions, she wanks me with lotion for a while, intensely pleasurable (I have to stop her a couple of times - sometimes I think handjobs are the best bit) then slips on a condom and sucks me. I can never feel enough through the damn condom, the real downside of this relationship I guess, but nice all the same. Then she checks if I want to be inside her. Yes, a lot. She gets up on the massage table with me and demurely assumes the position. She guides me in. I love holding a buttock in each hand and gazing at her cute bumhole (I didn't check if that was available) while I work my cock into her. We start off awkwardly at different paces - Susanna faster, me slower, like a poet - before merging into one.

After we've dressed and had a little hug and one more kiss on the cheek, and she's led me downstairs and let me out of the door, I'm still trying to think of a poem. I finally piece something together in the gym later, and I think about stopping off at the massage parlour on the way home to deliver it. I wonder if she is back in her spot on the sofa. Do the girls talk about they guys they've been with? I guess they must do. "So did he smell?" "Not too bad. He had nice jeans. Is Countdown on yet?" I look at cards in the minimart, the only place still open, but am I really going to get her a "Just To Say..." card with roses or a teddy bear on it and write a stupid poem and hand it to the suspicious receptionist? The moment has passed. I'll just write it here. Susanna, you are a sweetheart.

Susanna, your lips are like honey
and your smile makes a rainy day sunny.
I wish you were mine
to kiss all the time
but your handjobs are well worth the money.