myPortico

A couple weeks ago, I went out to dinner with some coworkers when of course the conversation turned to sex. It is after all the one constant in everybody’s lives, universally accepted as the one topic that every person can both relate to and offer an opinion on.

Specifically, we (by “we” I mean “they”) talked about the differences between kissing a man and kissing a woman. Now, it should be mentioned here that the collective experiences of this group gave them particular knowledge on the subject, I’ll just leave it at that.

The consensus was that the fundamental difference between male kissing and female kissing are that men kiss aggressively taking the leader role while women tend to take the “receiver” role. In fact, the females admitted that for this reason they could never be gay for they didn’t like the general passivity of the female kiss.

In theory, however, it made perfect senst to me. The subtle balance of give and take is a sacred relationship that works perfectly to provide a certain sense of equilibrium to the expression of the physical relationship. Is it universal? Probably not, but it certainly made sense as I listened to this experienced group.

At any rate, I found it all very interesting at the time, but none more interesting than when I did something I swore I would never do: get a massage from a man.

Who can forget George Costanza’s “it moved” dilemma after he received his massage from a man? I certainly can’t. Of course, like George, I proclaim a staunch record of unfailing heterosexuality, so it is therefore not a fear of discovering any latent manssage tendencies that dissuaded me from receiving this certain type of physical gratification from a man. Quite simply, it has to do with preference. I prefer getting my massages from women. And over the years I’ve gotten nearly two-dozen massages, all from women.

But, this time I had to go for the manssage as there were no women masseuses available. It was with just a hint of consternation that I reluctantly aggreed to make the appointment, but being the team player that I am, M Vanderspanken and I made our way to the salon to indulge in this form of legal physical gratification, albeit knowing that my physical gratification was going to be coming from the hands of a man. I shuddered slightly.

While lying there, I couldn’t help but remember the discussion from before about the difference between male and female kissing. It harkened my mind back to the numerous women who had performed massage services on me. Without fail, I remembered fluid motion that effortlessly worked around my body in a singularly determined offering of self for the relief of tension and restoration of harmony. In every instance it was smooth, relaxing, tranquil, personal. There was grace; poise; pleasure. Even from the rejected German shot putter women who had turned to a life of masseuse as a fall-back career; even they gave me this same feeling.

How different was my experience from this guy. His was a chaotic, herky, jerky motion that made little sense and was incongruous one part from another. There was none of the fluid motion, the sweeping, effortless poise imbued by his female counterparts. It was aggressive, offensive, in my face…or body, as the case happened to be. It was as if he had something to prove and was going to finish at his pace no matter what. He neither listened to nor gave attention to the subtle cues my body gave him as a guide for how best to serve my needs.

I began to wonder if this was the physical manifestation of the discussion that piqued so much interest before. Was this manssage truly a validation of gender sexuality?

Who can say? All I know is that this guy literally man-handled me and I enjoyed it very little. My escape from the turmoil of my hectic life; my attempt at better health and wellness; my sacred massage was violated by a 50-year old man who had the hand grace of a jackhammer operator.

As in life, so in massages, I’ll take a woman everyday.