My First Tantric Massage (What a Surprise!)

Warning: This post contains explicit sexual language.

Weary and sore from lugging heavy suitcases and assembling furniture, one of my goals when a free day arrived was to find a Chinese massage therapist like my therapist Wen in Dunedin, who walks on one’s back, a practice called Ashiatsu. After an extensive search online, I finally located a Chinese lady who offers Ashiatsu. I had no idea what quality to expect as the price was €50 for ninety minutes. In contrast, in America, I paid $160.

I had to make my first trip on a public bus to get there. It was easier than I anticipated and an enjoyable experience. The city was beautiful in the bright sunlight, and the bus provided an excellent vantage point to savor the sights. It was a 20-minute journey. 

Walking in, I liked the therapist immediately, but she spoke no English and very little Spanish, only Catalan and Chinese. She was tiny, probably only 90 or 100 lbs, had a touch of acne, was in her thirties, and wore a miniskirt and polo shirt. While I would not call her pretty, she was cute, charismatic, and upbeat. I greeted her in Mandarin, and she lit up. Unfortunately, I only know one phrase and no Catalan yet.

She then informed me that the room with the ceiling poles for Ashiatsu was being used, and I could not get one today. This immediately bummed me out because I specified that when I made the booking. But I thought, what the heck, it’s only €50, so make the best of it.

Like many Barcelona business properties, the place was ancient and tiny but spotlessly clean. We communicated with Google Translate, and she confirmed my appointment, pointed to a door, opened it, motioned for me to remove my clothes, indicated to lie face down, and slipped out. I immediately realized I was not in America any longer. There was no towel on the massage bed. But no going back. It was a cold day in Barcelona, and I wore layers of clothes. As I began removing my clothes, I felt the bed, and it was heated. Yes, a positive! Down to my final t-shirt, the door opened, and in she came. I have been getting massages regularly for over thirty years, and I have never had the therapist enter without knocking.

She was nonplussed and casually watched as I undressed and lay on the bed. Yep, not in America any longer. Immediately, I knew she was well-trained in the Chinese massage technique, which starts at the top of the head and progressively works down the body to the toes to push the stress out at the feet. She was powerful, in broken English, she asked me if the pressure was too much, and I replied “muy bueno, very good.”

She worked down my shoulders, and before I knew it, she spread a tiny towel over my upper thighs and was sitting there; as she worked on my back, her hips rocked back and forth, and knowing she had a miniskirt on suddenly upped the sensuality of the massage considerably. Yet as she progressed, she did not concentrate on my butt nearly as much as Wen in Dunedin.

As she reached my right calf, I somehow managed to communicate it was very sore. She immediately eased up and began to work the muscle professionally. After a while, she uttered a big “whew” and motioned that I have huge muscles. And I said, “si, lo siento! Yes, I’m sorry.” She flashed a huge smile and continued. Before I knew it, it was time to roll over. And I thought she would strategically utilize her tiny towel, but no.

I turned over nude, and as she helped me adjust the pillow, she frankly assessed me, smiled approvingly, and lowered the lights. Rather than begin with my head, which I am accustomed to, she put warm oil on my upper abdomen and started a gentle massage. Oh boy. The response was almost immediate, even though she was not close to my genitals. She smiled again, pointed at my penis, and asked in broken English, “Massage him?”

I gasped. “Do what?” She repeated it. In total shock, I said, “Uh, I don’t know. I don’t know.” She smiled again and asked, “si or no?” My mind was racing:

1. I felt safe there, which is a massive deal for me.

2. I thought it was not against the law in Barcelona; there were tantric massage spas everywhere.

3. Gina and I had thoroughly discussed that I would like to experience a tantric massage someday, and she was totally fine with it; I knew she would not be upset.

4. I intuitively knew that this was the place I should do it for the first time because the tantric websites offer a more explicit experience with the therapist semi-nude or nude and various other erotic offerings.

All of these thoughts whirled through my head in a few seconds.

I sat up a bit and asked her, “Sex? No sex?! She shook her head, “No sex, only hand.” I fell back on the bed and sighed, “Si, si.” She smiled again and asked, “Si?” I nodded and then, for some reason, felt that I should tell her this was my first time. She did not understand, so she got her phone and had me put it in Google Translate. She laughed and wrote back, “Not really your first time, right?” I nodded and said, “My first time.” She gasped and then started tittering, not mocking but in an “I can’t believe it” manner.

The surprises kept coming. She said via Google, “Will cost more money.” I asked, “How much?” She said, “Mi amiga will tell you.” I said, “What?” She repeated it. Again, I mentally decided, I was doing this. So I said, “Okay.” She slipped out the door, and a few seconds later, in walked a beautiful young lady. She quietly locked the door. At first, I had a panicky feeling that she had sent a young girl in. I knew I could not do that under any circumstances, but as she came in and slipped beside the bed, I realized she must be in her late twenties to early thirties. I once again collapsed back on the warm bed.

She was Spanish and had a stunningly beautiful and engaging smile, the most enormous brown eyes, and glossy, long black hair. She said, “Hola,” and gently patted my stomach. She said, “How much will you pay?” I stuttered, “I have no idea.” She asked again. This went on several times, and she could sense my nervousness. She then asked, “€60?” And I said, “Plus €50 for the other therapist?” She nodded, and I thought, I am not missing out on this, I’m doing it, damn it. I sighed, “Si.” As she reached for the massage oil, for some reason, I felt the need to tell her it was my first time. She also did not believe me; I told her again it was true; she said, “¡Oy!”

She gently pushed my shoulders back down on the warm bed, took the oil, and began a gentle circle on my stomach. She could sense my nervousness and began to help me relax by not starting with my penis but my nipples, chest, and abdomen. Her touch was gentle, soothing, and reassuring, and she kept smiling sincerely at me.

She said, “Relax, tranquilo.” After a few minutes, she began to work her way to my groin area and massaged gently. I cannot describe how nervous I was. The back of my neck throbbed with tension, and I could feel myself flushing. Again, she said, “Relax.” She continued to massage, but I was only half erect at best. I stuttered, “Lo siento, lo siento, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Yet she continued, and wow, was it ever pleasant?! It felt so good. A few times, I felt the beginnings of an orgasm only to have it seem to fleet away. This is how it has been for me every time I’ve had one of my three sexual partners attempt to have me orgasm with masturbation. And the few attempts at a blow job have been disasters, mostly because I get so damn “girthy.”

Combine this with a lifetime of religious shame, guilt, and trauma, and my tension was palatable in the tiny room. I do not ever recall being so nervous. Fighting so much shit from my past. 

Again, she urged me to relax, and again, I was on the edge of an orgasm and did not make it. This happened several times, and I finally sat up, thinking if I watched her, it would help, but she again said, “Tranquilo, relax” and gently pushed my shoulders back down. Twenty minutes had elapsed, and I began to feel empathic for her, but then I realized I was paying her more than my first therapist for ninety minutes. This helped some.

It was extremely pleasurable, and I tried doing my meditation mantra to relax. And it did help a bit, we walked the edge a couple more times. She then began to stroke my perineum, and oh my, that felt incredible. I’d never really experienced what she was doing; she said, “Why not relax? This (she waved her hand over my genitals and body) is beautiful; it is beautiful.” She smiled the most sincere smile, and somehow I dared to believe her.

I realized she was not quitting until she made me come. In the past, every time, I had convinced my partners to stop trying because of my empathy and shame. But I knew she was not giving up. And somehow, that helped me relax a bit more, and we got the closest yet. I could feel my penis responding; it had been at about half to three-quarters erect and suddenly began to obtain its full length and girth. She looked at me and nodded approvingly. Then she had a eureka moment.

The music had not been on, and she went to the remote and turned on the theme song from the movie Titanic, My Heart Will Go On, and suddenly we were in business. She then began the tantric practice of elongating (ha) the experience and oh my, oh my, oh my.

She knew she had me in the palm of her hand (ha). And then followed about ten minutes of some of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever experienced and an explosive orgasm. I could barely keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. She had the biggest smile ever. She said, “Si, Bonita, so beautiful, so beautiful.” She gently caressed me a few moments more and then put her hands on my abdomen and beamed. She took a towel and massaged me further as she tidied up. And then she slipped out of the room accompanied by my heartfelt and repeated “Muchas gracias’s”.

To my surprise, my first therapist came back in, me still lying there face up and nude, and she began the remainder of the Chinese method focusing on my neck and head. She asked, “Muy bien?” with a sly smile. I said, “Oh my, oh my, muy bueno, bonito, bonito.” She smiled again and nodded. To her and the young lady whose name I do not know (I did not know if it was correct etiquette to ask) what had happened was perfectly natural and beautiful.

I am still processing the freedom, healing, and sheer relief I felt. It was like what I envisioned true bliss to feel like. I felt ecstatic and on top of the world. As I hopped on the bus, I felt like everyone looked at me happily, somehow knowing what happened. My mind immediately went to the scene in the movie Unfaithful when Diane Lane, after her first wild illicit sexual encounter, was on the bus and just laughing and shaking her head in sheer pleasure. And best of all, my sexual experience outside the bounds of marriage, for the first time, was not illicit. Wow.

And, oh yes, I am going back in two weeks. I have no idea what to expect, but I am requesting the same services and the same therapists, and oh yes, I would like a back walk thrown in for good measure.

Just writing this recounting was a sheer pleasure. When I returned home, Gina asked, “How was it?” And I replied, “Wow! Come on, let’s get a glass of Albarino at Nomo down the street and I’ll tell you all about it.” Telling her was a fantastic experience as she jokingly teased me and then thoughtfully commented on what an essential and beautiful step this was in my progress toward healing. I again urged her to take advantage of the male masseuse who works there on the weekends. She is not ready yet, but one day, perhaps, she will tell me about her experience of freedom. Never in my wildest dreams would I have hoped for a partner like her, one who wishes for all my dreams to come true. 

I’m so grateful. And still processing it all. Yet, I have come to understand that throughout life we choose the lies in which we participate and, in choosing, repress ourselves and our longings for a very long time, perhaps forever—religion demands such participation. Christianity is a burial ground for our sensual appetites. In May I will be sixty-six years old. I have known a great many people (mostly Christians) in that time and few, if any, of them led lives that were satisfactory to them.

No, I’m not American or Christian anymore. Instead of religion, freedom. Instead of repression, expression. Instead of self-denial, pleasure. Instead of asceticism, sensuality. Instead of fear, peace. Instead of shame, joy. Instead of perfection, wholeness. I’m slowly turning into…me.

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