It had been months without a meaningful break, so I finally decided to take a day off and see no clients and do no work and make no plans. Okay, I lied. I made one plan. I booked a massage at a hotel spa I knew to be fabulous.

80 minutes. Male therapist. Deep tissue. $200 plus tip. Worth every penny and then some. I was ready to melt into the table and be on the receiving end for once. Okay, not once. I lied again. I do get massages but it's always a trade out with another massage therapist so it's not as relaxing when you have to do the rubbin', too!

I arrived a bit early, put on my robe and fun little slippers, enjoyed their amenities, quickly took a piece of an edible I'd brought with me, and closed my eyes to begin my decompression. It was glorious.

Eventually it was massage time and I met my savior, err massage therapist, Darren. Probably mid 30s, best guess. Handsome guy that likely can deadlift an Acura. Exactly the sort of massage therapist you want doing deep tissue!

He showed me to the comically dark treatment room. (Or maybe I'm getting old and cannot see in the dark as well!) I tossed my robe aside, climbed under the sheet face down, told him I was ready, and he quickly got started. We had a great, friendly banter straight away (probably because I was rather high!) and while I was originally intending to remain quiet and simply enjoy my time, I was more than happy for the conversation. I liked Darren immediately. I revealed that I too am a massage therapist, which spurred the usual questions that any two massage therapists ask one another.

"How long have you been doing it? ... How many massages a week are you doing? ... Do you like where you're working? ... Do you think you'll keep doing this many more years?" All the standard stuff.

Apparently my responses signaling that I truly love what I do, that I mostly work in my own suite now, that I have a lot of fabulous and generous regular clients, and that I have more male clients than female clients left him with lingering questions. I could tell he wasn't quite sure where to take our conversation. His curiosity aroused me. There was a noticeable pause. Darren was doing incredible work on my lower back, my shoulder blades, my traps. I was quickly becoming one with his cozy table when I broke the pause, offering something no doubt inspired by the THC coursing through me: "How many other lines of work allow you to mix work and pleasure?" He said nothing but let out a deep sigh.

He continued his work, giving great attention everywhere it was needed. The conversation stopped for probably 30 or 40 minutes. Maybe more. I relaxed. He did his thing. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Not a word was said.

As it was clear it was nearly time to roll to my back, he spoke up again, "I... I... know I really shouldn't ask what I'm about to ask, but you said you've been doing massage like ten years. Have you ever crossed the line with a client? Like, just for fun? And if you don't want to answer, please forget I even was stupid enough to ask. And what about guys who are, like, seriously just looking to score a happy ending? How do you deal with those guys?"

I rolled to my back while he held the drape up to keep me covered. I took my time answering. I bit my lip in amusement at his boldness. Looked at his silhouette, created by a little salt lamp, in the dimly lit room. I'm sure I was smiling softly when I said, "You wouldn't believe 1% of my stories if I told you about the fun I've had. And I don't indulge men who expect it from me or think I like being propositioned. That's not fun for me."

I went on to explain that of course I would never offer sexual favors for money and that I was simply open to intimate moments with those I felt an attraction to. I offered my opinion that what happens behind closed doors between two adults is their damn business. And that I had a lengthy record of falling quickly in lust with those I found myself with behind closed doors, coincidentally.

As he stood behind me, slowly working on my neck giving the most glorious bit of traction with his hands, he asked if I ever feared getting into trouble potentially initiating with the wrong client.

"Darren, this is where it's good to be a woman. I can get away with murder. You are going to get away with nothing." I shared as I sat up partway, leaning on my right elbow and turning a bit towards him.

He stopped massaging me and took a step around the corner of the table so our eyes could connect.

It became clear that in his quiet moments, Darren's mind was racing, producing fleeting and filthy little daydreams about me. Suddenly I was a bit more aroused.

(To be concluded in part 2.)