I Had to Say Something by Mike Jones Page A

obvious.
    â€œLet me massage you,” I told him softly. I then guided him onto the table and began our usual routine. Once again, he tried to perform oral sex but couldn’t quite do it. No matter. I rubbed him down, flipped him over, and helped him ejaculate. That remained a regular part of our routine.
    â€œMan, I like your chest,” he commented as he lay on his back, rubbing my pectoral muscles. “How did you get it so big and hard?”
    I smiled and rubbed his thigh. “Do you want all the details?”
    Art smiled and didn’t say anything more. He didn’t really want the details. Like someone on the first day at school or work, he was just making conversation. Even after a year of monthly visits he was still hesitant. He wanted to do more than touch me, to be sure. He wanted to make a connection. But he still wasn’t sure how.
    As usual, once he had his release, it took less than five minutes for him to get up, get changed, and be on his way. “I feel like I can trust you,” he told me that day as he handed me the
money. I didn’t think much of his comment until the next time he came to visit.
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    Art’s eyes were piercing, so much so that they sometimes felt like a needle sticking in me. His eyebrows told both of his pleasure and of his anticipation of where our adventures would take him. Sometimes his face signaled a heightened sense of pleasure. Sometimes his face showed fear, as though he were in need of being rescued.
    â€œAre there still massage parlors?” Art asked as we played.
    â€œAre you thinking of visiting one?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be mean, I just didn’t know how to respond to what seemed like an odd question.
    â€œAre there any swingers’ hotels around here?”
    Since he was seemingly in the mood to talk, I obliged him. “There’s an interesting one farther down on East Colfax.”
    Two Roman Catholic priests had hired me once for an afternoon of play at this gated establishment, where you were charged by the hour with no questions asked. I met these two men, both in their forties, inside the room, which was adorned in jungle red. There were mirrored ceilings, oversized beds, jungle gyms, harnesses, slings—and all kinds of toiletries in the bathroom to use before going to your next appointment. The two priests and I did little more than get naked and touch each other for mild stimulation. An hour later, it was over. I got paid, and I never saw either of them again.
    â€œI think you’d enjoy it,” I offered. “Anything else you want to know, big boy?”
    Art had a quizzical look on his face. Oh dear , I thought. Was I about to become his sex therapist?
    Before he could speak, I reached down and felt his erection. “Let’s flip you over,” I said, hoping to steer him away from
whatever train of thought he was riding. I jacked him off, gave him a towel, and left him in the massage room by himself. He took a little longer than usual to get to the bathroom to change. Maybe he was thinking of trying other venues besides me.
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    Another time, Art sat on the couch after he arrived, watching my every movement.
    â€œWow!” he sighed, admiring my physique.
    Wearing not a stitch of clothing, I stood in front of him and flexed every muscle. I did the classic bicep flex pose. I also did the “which way to the beach” pose. I clasped my hands together and pumped my arms for him.
    â€œYou look just like Arnold Schwarzenegger!” he said.
    â€œHow ’bout Charles Atlas?” I asked. I never thought Arnold was all that attractive.
    I moved toward him and put my muscles—every muscle—right in his face. As usual, he didn’t remove his clothes or touch himself while we were out in the living room. The most he would do was rub the crotch of his jeans.
    â€œYou like my big muscles, big boy?”
    He smiled and replied, “I think I’m