Part 15 - Glandular Fever

In July that year I graduated.  With honours no less.  My education complete in many guises.  In addition to Physical Fusion I was also an expert in Business Studies.  A Bachelor as always.

I was offered a job working in Marketing that started in mid-September.  To fill in the time and to further my education I decided to tour America.  A rucksack and me.  Coast to coast.  The promised land.  The star spangled.  Uncle Sam.  Liberty et all.  

The plan was to travel east to west via Greyhound buses staying south.  Possibly surprisingly, all went well.  Starting in Washington, I sped through Charlotte down into the swamps of Florida, across to jazzy New Orleans, west through the Deep South, the Grand Canyon, deep into Texas and then across the desert to Las Vegas and onwards to San Diego, LA and eventually San Fran.  I had stopovers in all of the main places and devoured the experience.  All passed with wide-eyed intrigue and excitement.  

For the west-east return journey I’d pre-arranged a group camping trip staying north.  I met my fellow-campers in San Fran and headed off for a 3 week tour of America’s northern inland glories.  Many national parks.  Yosemite, Yellowstone, the wonders of Colorado.  Mount Rushmore, the Great Plains, Chicago and onwards through New York state.  Great memories and life-affirming.

I arrived in New York with three days of my holiday left.  I was ready to go home after 8 weeks on the road, but I was in New York for the first time in my life and felt excited.  Somehow I hadn’t spent all of my money.  I still had some dollar notes in my pocket and it seemed a shame not to spend them.   This proved much easier and way more pleasurable than expected.

On my second day I was innocently walking along the sidewalk looking up at buildings towering above me as normal in this intimidating Apple when someone put a piece of paper in my hand.  A routine flyer which would normally have been immediately discarded.  Fate decided differently.  I read it once and then again.  The script was alluringly pleasing with rough drawings of nymphs in each corner.  Apparently I could receive a massage and some ‘relief’ by visiting an establishment that was only a few blocks away.  I was fairly gnarled after weeks of inhospitable hostel beds and nights spent in a sleeping bag on rough terrain inside a tent.  I definitely qualified for some TLC and felt like I deserved some spoiling.  ‘Relief’?  Well any loosening of my tired muscles would be most welcome.

I walked the three blocks.  I was undecided about whether this was a good alternative to a deluxe burger, chips and mountainous desert that had seemed to be my calling ever since arriving in NYC.  It was this or the massage.  It was a toss up.  Literally.  The coin came down heads for massage.  The Gods had decided and wanted me to give me a head.  A heads up?  A head start?  No just head.

The address was a smart apartment block that appeared entirely residential.  Access was gained by ringing on a buzzer and speaking into an intercom.  An extremely feminine and soft American accent that reeked of sensuality invited me inside.  Take the lift to the 8th.  With pleasure.  I was greeted by a reinforced doorway that was opened from the inside once I had been vetted by a secret camera.  Apparently suitable, if a little young.  Once inside I had to acclimatise to the strong, persuasive and seductive smell of aromatherapy oil and the very dim light.  Not exactly a visit to the dentist.  A point reinforced by the receptionist who was certainly not of a dental persuasion.  A curly, curvy brunette who seemed to be wearing as little as possible in order to cover her more than ample charms.  Her smile lit the room as well as my libido.  It was beginning to dawn on me that this establishment possibly didn’t have any formal massage qualifications.  Part of my inexperienced soul made me feel out of my depth; the other, much larger part, was intrigued and suffering from nervous anticipatory arousal.  No going back.

I was asked to hand over what remained of my dollars and given instructions in a deliciously silky American drawl that I should go into the ‘waiting room’ and do as the room suggested.  Apparently ‘therapists’ would walk through the room at intervals and I was to stop any lady that I liked who would gladly administer my massage.  Simple enough.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, given that it was early afternoon, and luckily, bearing in mind my nervous disposition, the waiting room was empty.   Ten minutes later the door opened and the most gorgeous girl I had even seen walked into the waiting room through one door on the left and departed via a door on the right.  I was too in awe to move let alone speak.  I was frozen to the spot.  Headline – “Miss New York visits massage parlour in downtown New York”.  I spent the next ten minutes torturing myself for my ineptitude.  I felt like asking the receptionist to wind back time.  I needn’t have worried.  

The next lady to walk through was, if possible, even more gorgeous.  It was hard to believe that this was happening.  Not so unbelievable was the fact that I was very evidently excited.  This time I managed to stammer some words that were at least audible.  Miss America was amused and showed me her pearly white teeth as well as her yawning cleavage.  Would I like to follow her?  Does a dog like chocolate?  We went into what seemed, to all intents and purposes, to be a fairly normal therapy room apart from the crimson red wallpaper and extravagant drapes.  She introduced herself, paid me some outrageous compliments and was engagingly charming.  It seemed she loved my accent.  This, disarmingly, put pressure on me to speak.  It felt like she was REALLY thrilled to be with me and of service.  I felt like a puppy engaging with its newly trusted owner.  I was wagging my tail a lot. 

She asked me to take off my clothes and lie on what was like a luxurious treatment table, although she made the task much more amenable by suggesting that we should get undressed together.  Apparently massages in America had to be conducted naked.  Don’t you just love American hospitality!  I was young and supple.  She was young and sensational.  I thought I recognised her as one of my most highly treasured and favourite Mayfair girlfriends.  She certainly had all of the curves that used to excite me to an ecstatic finale during my lavatorial indiscretions.  Strangely I felt slightly ashamed that a certain part of my anatomy was determined to show her how badly she was affecting my libido.  I wasn’t used to being naked with beauty queens.  However, she seemed to take this in her stride and found my embarrassment rather ‘cute’.  She enquired if I’d ever had a ‘proper’ massage before.  I nearly said ‘does it look like it’ but settled for ‘no’.  

What followed was a glorious interlude that I have never forgotten.  To this day this woman gave me the most explosive finale that I’ve ever had.  30 years have gone by since and, despite many sexual interludes of the most salacious kind, nothing has matched what happened in the 20 minutes in that massage parlour in New York.  It wasn’t just that she used every part of her extensive curves to massage every part of my trembling and erect anatomy it was her special weapon that caused an earthquake of Richter Scale 10 proportions.

Despite being highly excited I was unable to explode; even when she covered my member in glistening oil and lovingly pumped it using her hand with its carefully manicured, polished and red varnished finger nails.  Normally I would have ejaculated immediately upon such committed stimulation.  But, for some unknown reason, on this momentous occasion, I failed to ignite even under such delicious provocation.  In a move which probably meant my time was up and there was a queue in the waiting room she resorted to extreme measures only known to women who have targets to achieve.  I, however, interpreted this differently.  It seemed to me that this gorgeous American cheerleader had singled me out for special treatment.  This polite, slightly blushing, young (very cocky) English boy with the charming accent deserved a special treat…….

She used her special weapon without warning and with devastating effect.  She inserted one of her deliciously manicured fingers straight into my tightest hole and, without any hesitation, located what I can only describe as a gold mine of pleasure.  I couldn’t help myself.  Within seconds I was engulfed in the most extreme sense of feverish exultation that a Japanese bullet train would have been proud of.  The gland of delirium had been located and I was prostrate.  An unstoppable momentum extracted liquid from my balls at an enormous velocity.  I remember being in awe and staggered by how high my love juice was projected under such fertile provocation.  A veritable fountain of youthful endeavour.  Caused by one simple, and yet devastating, insertion.  Even the young, although clearly experienced, Miss America was impressed at her handiwork and my virility.  It seemed I had made a big impression on her day.  She made a big impression on my life……. 

God bless America!