Paroxysms of Unbridled Pleasure: Confessions of a Bonger

How to put this delicately... I think I like to hurt boys.

Lemme explain from the very beginning.

Last night was a strange night of massage therapy. It all started with the bongers.

Bongers are these drumstick-esque beating tools you can use on your clients as "a balm for sore muscles," to "put oomph in sluggish blood," and (*getting the giggles again*) to "give your/your partner's body paroxysms of unbridled pleasure." It says that. On the actual sticks. Now I know I sometimes have the mentality of a 15-year old boy, but I couldn't help but giggle at that as I was beating Big Blond Stoner Boy (henceforth referred to as BBSB) with them last night.

No one else found this particularly funny of course.

Bongers feel as though someone is beating you with two dead fish. And if your therapist beats you too long in one place with them, it feels like someone with tiny but ferocious fists is giving you a good, mean pounding. Weirdly though, despite the fact that it's the roughest massage I've had thus far, it's kinda nice. My back sure as shit is loving it today.

So yeah. Bongers. Makes me think of bazongas, which makes me think of boobies, which makes me think of "paroxysms of unbridled pleasure." Tee hee. Ah, paroxysms.

Flash forward to BBSB practicing his massage routine on me last night. The boy has *very large hands*--like hands the size of small snow-shovels. I kid you not. (Later when I had to work at massaging his hands, I actually commented on this because *I COULD NOT REACH THE BOY'S MOTHERF-ING LOWER PALM FROM MY POSITION AT THE TOP OF HIS HAND*--them's big hands, folks.) And it is difficult to work two very large snow shovels around someone's relatively tiny clavicle and shoulder blades with any sort of dexterity, clearly, because most of the massage I received last night felt like someone was awkwardly poking and prodding at me with wooden spoons a la that one Friends episode. It took all my willpower not to get the giggles at points, because I kept thinking, "You are pretty, boy, but goddamn you better be f-ing *fantastic* in the sack because you sure as shit aren't gonna win points with your wo-man by massaging her." *BUT* despite his ineptness at lending a sense of relaxation to his relaxation massages, I must give the boy credit where credit is due--he sure as shit can find and work a knot out of someone's body. His large snow shovel mitts are good for *that* at least, seeing as my body feels like butter this morning.

Flash forward once more, and I am now therapist. This is notably the first time I've massaged a boy in class, so perhaps that will help you to understand my strange little epiphany: I think I like to hurt boys. Not as in set them on fire while slicing each nipple off slowly with a dull and dirty knife blade and then ripping out their eyeballs and pouring acid into the gaping sockets. Oh no. (That's reserved only for the *special* peeps in my life.) As most of you may know, I am a bit of a control freak, and last night I realized that I find it to be much more enjoyable to exert in a very self-assured kind of way that "you're in charge" of a massage when you can go all out and straddle that fine line between pleasant vigorous massage and OW THAT FUCKING HURTS; and it's more fun to massage someone when you feel like you're working the shit out of your *own* body and muscles in doing so. I guess what I'm saying is that I really enjoy working the shit outta the person in front of me until they're screaming for more. (Interpret that as you will.)

You can put an f-ing LOT more elbow-grease into massaging a boy than you can in massaging a woman. Let me rephrase--you can put an f-ing lot more elbow grease into massaging a very tall, lean, muscular boy than you can the slight, petite women that I've massaged in our class thus far.

With the women I've massaged, I always feel like if I put my full energy into the massage, I'd be snapping bones and tendons left and right until they dragged themselves off the table a limping mass of splintered human form akin to the blob.



They are tiny. I don't want to hurt them.

But when you have a big muscular fellow laid out in front of you, well, it's kind of a no-holds-barred situation because it'd take a real fucking lot to hurt them. So you can really lay into them with all the strength and energy your little body has to offer.

(This makes me suspect that somewhere down the road I will probably end up taking a Thai Massage seminar--I clearly enjoy the feeling of a more energizing and rigorous massage routine, and I think the idea of using the whole body to massage another person (and to stretch them and energize them) is awfully attractive as well.)

Anyways, I ripped that boy to shreds. And man alive, was it energizing. I was actually *sweaty* after I was done massaging him. As in damp and starting to smell a bit ripe (which the 75 temperature of the massage room unfortunately does a lot to help exacerbate--I've decided that I'm gonna be the massage therapist who does her massaging in a tank-top and panties, folks, because goddamn if I don't already have an abnormally high body-temp, so when you toss in the abnormally high temperature of a massage room as well, it's hard for me *not* to spring a big sweaty leak).

I massaged the shit out of him. My muscles and (hopefully) his muscles were screaming in joyous unison. And it was good.

I was a bit flushed and slightly embarassed afterwards, it was that invigorating.

Massage is an art. Just like playing guitar in front of a crowd of people is an art. Just like acting on a stage is an art. Just like fucking is an art. So it is logical that, when done well, it can be invigorating as shit.

Clearly, it is difficult to talk about all this without sounding like a huge pervert (especially to folks who aren't actually studying massage and spending time reading all this stuff about the nature of touch and sex and massage and how they're all interwoven), but seriously--I now understand why it is we spend so much time talking about the ethics of sex and massage--not because I want to shag the fellow now that I massaged him or not because I wanted to then, but because there *is* a dimension in that kind of touch (especially when you're expending a ton of energy and force in massaging the person) that is akin to that expended in really good vigorous sex. *Rolling over and lighting up a cigarette* It works your whole body, it exhausts you, and there is a strange exchange of energy between the two people involved. And the way the mind works, I can understand how it conflates and confuses the two things--I can understand why we're constantly being warned that "it's not unusual to feel desire--aka wanna shag--your clients sometimes, simply because of the nature of the work," that it's ok *AS LONG AS YOU DON'T ACT ON IT.

We also spend a lot of time in class discussing the ethics of the power dynamic between client and therapist. This is a power dynamic that's akin to sex as well... In good sex, there's typically someone who's running the show or a bit more in charge at any given time (and perhaps this role is handed off back and forth typically, but there's a certain energy there where the "person in charge" is easily recognizable at any given moment). The same dynamic exists in massaging. You have this person laying there in front of you, naked or half-naked, and YOU COULD DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO THEM REALLY. That's power. Think "tied down to the bedposts and make them beg for more while you tap the tip of your whip against your very large stilettoed boots" and you'll understand the bizarre power-dynamic of professional massage.

I guess what I'm saying, and what I realized last night, is that giving a good vigorous successful massage is empowering. Empowering in the same way that shagging the brains out of someone is as well. Empowering in the way that tying someone up to your bedposts and making them beg for more is too. You are giving them pleasure of some sort, and you are working the shit out of your own body while doing so. Ain't nothing but a good thing.

But rest assured, despite the fact that I've now horrified all of you to the point that you're curled up fetal in the corner, rocking back and forth with a bit of drool dangling from your lower lip, swearing up and down that you are *never* going to let me massage you *ever ever ever*--if you *do* come in for a massage, I promise not to take advantage of you.

Unless you want me to. ; )