The Fiddleback

fiction by Jon-Michael Brothers

 

I had just gotten a call from Cynthia, and I was telling her what happened. A couple weeks back I had won a game of poker in a friend’s basement, and in the pot were a bunch of different things. Cash, coins, jewelry, bumper stickers, a few blank CDs, and one voucher for a free massage over near MacDougal Street. Some shady alley, apparently, but that didn’t bother me. I’ve experienced my fair share. Anyways, I told Cynthia about how I was more excited about the massage than anything else, because I had never had one before.

“I’ve given you massages,” she said.

“Not a professional one.”

“They’re all the same. You don’t need any skills to be a masseuse. Just hands. All you need is hands and patience.”

“If you say so,” I said.

“And oils,” she added.

I didn’t tell her about the walk over, because that’d be a waste of time. Nothing really happened. I did steal a hot dog, though, but she would be very unimpressed with that. When I got to the place, there was a man sitting behind the counter. I gave him my ticket. “Very nice,” he said. “Is this your first time with us?”

“Yeah, so far.”

“Very nice. Would you like a tour of the place?”

“No, that’s fine. I think I’ll just get the massage.” I looked around, pretending I was impressed with the place.

He smiled. “Right this way,” he said, and I followed him down the hall. We passed about four or five doors as we walked. The place was much bigger than I thought. When we passed each door, I looked in and saw these beautiful women wearing small skirts. They were smiling at me. I am sure they’re told to do that. I didn’t tell Cynthia yet about how beautiful they were, every single one. I left that out at first. I should have left it out altogether.

We arrived at the end of the hall. He stopped at the opening to the door and smiled, nodded. I walked passed and gave him a face, but he didn’t seem to notice. Inside were two women. One blonde stood next to the massage table, and there was a black woman sitting in the corner of the room. The blonde tilted her head.

“My name’s Erica,” she said. She pointed to the black woman. “And this lovely woman is Jen, but we call her Black.”

I must have given her a look.

“That’s her last name, and the color of her skin. So that’s what we call her. It’s perfect. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Hilarious,” I said.

Then she gave me a towel and asked me to remove my clothes, so I did. Erica, the blonde, didn’t take her eyes off me. Jen, the black woman, wandered her eyes now and again.

“She’s new,” said Erica. “I’m showing her the ropes. She’ll be starting here in about a week, and I just want to show her how it’s done.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s important.”

I began to lie face down on the bed.

“What are you doing?” Erica asked. “Not so fast.” She pointed to a chair in a corner of the room.

“But I’m already in a towel,” I said.

“You’re lucky I even gave you the towel.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“I’m not hitting on you, hot shot. I like to get to know my patients.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Cynthia.”

“That’s hot.”

“Hot?”

“That’s a hot name.”

“Name’s aren’t hot.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Differ all you want.”

“I will.”

I smiled. She had this face like she knew something about me. She might have, for all I know.

“Do you do this for most people?” I asked. “Talk like this, I mean.”

“Most.”

“Not all?”

“Nope. Depends on the mood I guess—mainly on the person. People like you, usually.”

“People like you?”

“Good looking men.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“You already said that.”

Jen hadn’t said a word yet, so I decided to talk to her. “So, Jen, how long have you been…studying?”

“This is my first time,” Jen said. “I just got the job yesterday.”

“Well, in that case, I’m honored.”

I did tell Cynthia about the flirting with Erica, but she hasn’t come to expect much less from me. I haven’t exactly been the best boyfriend to her. I flirt with her sister often, but I’m not a bad guy. I’m really not.

“How big is your cock?” Erica asked me.

“What?”

“Your cock.”

“I’m not telling you that. Why would you ask me that?”

“Well, I’m going to see it anyway. Just curious as to whether or not you’d be honest.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You know,” Erica said. “Just a little while ago, for class, I did this project where I asked a bunch of guys what their penis size was, and then I compared it to what size it actually was. Right, Black?”

Jen nodded. “She showed me,” Jen added.

“And what happened?” I asked. I wanted to know.

“81.25% lied. Can you believe that?”

“I can believe it. How’d you find out their penis size?”

She laughed. “I slept with them. I played innocent, asked them the size. They told me, not expecting me to sleep with them, and then I saw for myself.”

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“I got an A. Tell it to my professor.”

“How many guys was it?”

“32 guys over the course of about 6 months. 26 guys lied. 81.25%. I was very surprised, honestly. I’m being honest.”

“I’m not doubting you. Hey, Jen, you ever do anything like this?”

“Nope.” She shook her head.

“That’s good,” I said. “So when do we get to the message?”

“Well, do you want a drink before or after?”

“You serve alcohol?”

“Of course. What’s a massage without alcohol? You want it before or after?”

“Can I have it both?”

She smiled. “I can make an exception, I guess.” She walked over to the cabinet and held up a bottle of gin. I nodded. She put it in a glass on ice and handed it to me. I thanked her. For the next few minutes we continued bullshitting as I sipped my drink. It was cheap gin, but it’s really all the same to me. I don’t like being drunk, but I do like drinking, mainly the feeling and effect it has on my facial expressions.

“You getting more relaxed?” asked Erica.

“Sure,” I said. “The gin helps. I mean, I was never really nervous or anything. What do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, I just need your muscles to feel relaxed. It does almost half of the work for me, and it allows me to perform better.” She opened a bottle of oil and rubbed it on her hands. Then she bent down and rubbed it on her thighs and calves. I still don’t know why she did that.

“I still don’t know your name?” she asked.

“Call me Carter.”

“Carter? That’s a hot name.”

“Names can’t be hot.”

I walked over and poured myself another glass of gin. No one said anything.

“Finish that, and let’s go. It’s time.” Erica continued to oil up.

So I fixed my towel to make sure it was tight around my waist, and I got up on the table. I was on my stomach, my face in that small hole where I could only see the floor below me. I could hear Erica messing with the oil again. Then she started on my back, squirting the oil and rubbing it all around. It felt amazing, and she had barely even touched me yet. She was really getting into it, even grunting and making noises herself. It was very sexual, but I didn’t want to do anything but close my eyes and relax. This is where Cynthia started questioning things, and I hadn’t even gotten to the good parts yet.

“You just let her touch you like that?” Cynthia asked.

“It was a fucking massage.”

Erica kept at it for a while. As she went with it, she was giving instructions to Jen. “Listen, Black,” she said. “You need to transfer all your energy to your fingertips. Breathing is important. Giving a massage is psychological. Your arms will get tired, but if you really focus your thoughts into your hands, you won’t even notice.”

She didn’t seem to know what she was talking about. It’s just a damn massage, really. There’s little thought process that goes into it. Just work the fingers and respond to the sounds and reactions of the patient. I’d think that’s all it really takes. You’d barely need to improvise—just going through the motions. What a terribly boring life.

“That’s what I was saying,” Cynthia chimed in. “It’s easy. Mine are just as good, no?”

I said that hers were better, but I lied, because they really weren’t. I appreciated them enough, though.

Then Erica lowered my towel a bit and began massaging my ass. I was going to say something at first, but it felt very good.

“Now, Black,” she said. “Depending on their body language, feel free to massage the buttocks. It’s a very sensitive muscle, and most people won’t refuse. You could always ask.”

“What about with women?” Jen asked.

“Even better,” Erica said. “And less hairy.”

“My ass is bald,” I said.

“Close enough,” said Erica. “I don’t mind it. I like a hairy ass. That’s just evolution. Not your fault.”

“I think it might be.”

She continued to massage my butt, and I began to feel myself move a bit. I had heard about people getting boners during a massage. It’s only natural to get hard when a woman is touching you, let alone a beautiful woman. Damn. It was to the point where it was painful lying down flat. It was just her fingers. They were incredible, kneading and rubbing. I couldn’t help it. It had a mind of it’s own.

“Okay,” she said. “Turn over.”

There was an initial sense of panic, but after a few seconds, I started to become appreciative of the time we spent talking. So what if she saw my boner? At least she knew my name, right? That was my idea of the whole thing. So I turned over, and right away, Erica showed absolutely no discretion.

“Holy fuck,” she said. “What did I do?” She laughed.

“I don’t know. Sorry.”

“No, it’s not a problem at all. It’s a lot bigger than I thought.”

“It’s not that big. It’s average.”

“Slightly above,” she said.

I glanced at Jen, and saw her staring. Erica fixed the towel to make sure it was completely covering my wood.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Just taking a break.” She smiled and placed her hand on my naked stomach.

“Your arms hurt?” I asked.

Then she grabbed my cock. My face went hot and I felt the guilt rush over me, but I didn’t stop her. I let out a syllable or two of a word to seem hesitant, but it wasn’t convincing. She gripped my cock like she owned it—like she’d done it to me a thousand times before. “You see,” Erica said to Jen, “When you turn them over and they have a hard on, you jerk them off. Just start doing it. The majority of the time, they won’t stop you. Right, Carter?”

“Right.”

Her hand began moving faster, up and down, up and down. Cynthia was gasping for air when I told her this part. I tried to explain what happened, but she didn’t seem to listen.

“What the fuck?” Cynthia screamed. “What the fuck!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“Did you stop her?”

Then I told her I didn’t, which was true. I told her about the hand job, and how I didn’t stop Erica. In fact, I encouraged her. “Faster…slower…little slower…okay, really fast.” That kind of stuff. It was just a hand job, I told her, but it didn’t seem to matter. What’s funny is, no matter who gives you a hand job, you can never come without thinking of fucking someone—someone else. It’s like jerking off, really. It’s all in your head. It just feels a little better because it’s someone else’s hand. But still, it isn’t because of the hand job itself, it’s just the thought process that goes along with it for the most part, no matter whose hand is on your cock.

“Now, Black, you hear those noises he’s making? You’re going to get ready for the climax, now. You’ll feel a few pulses, but you’ll slow down once they start. Really milk it. Not literally. Don’t put too much pressure. You know how to give a hand job, though, who am I kidding?” She laughed. “Why don’t you finish?”

Jen remained seated. She didn’t seem too willing, and I didn’t want to push anyone to do something they didn’t want to. I hadn’t even said a word. Erica kept jerking while talking to Jen, and I tried desperately to come, so Jen wouldn’t have to do anything. She looked young. She looked fragile, but she stood up. She walked over to me and grasped my penis with her left hand.

“Southpaw?” Erica said. “I like it.”

She started going fast, but I could see a twitch in her eyebrow, and she looked a little flustered. “Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.

She kept going.

“Don’t ask questions like that,” Erica added.

“It’s an important question,” I said.

“Yes,” Jen said. “I have a boyfriend.” She continued jerking.

“Then what are you doing?” I asked.

“This is my job,” she said.

“Stop!” I pushed her hand away just before I was about to come, and then Erica chimed in. She motioned to Jen to sit down, but kept moving her hands. I could have told her to stop. It was a free massage, after all. What was the purpose, you know? And I reminded her about my girlfriend.

“I don’t care,” she said.

She switched hands, her right arm becoming tired. Then I thought of Cynthia, the woman I love—her sweet cunt, her full and kissable lips, and her swollen breasts. I imagined fucking her, and then I came. Erica cleaned it up. Apparently I owed her twenty dollars.

“You’re no different than a hooker, in that case,” I said.

“I’m a masseuse,” she said. “I give happy endings. That’s part of my job. But they’ll cost you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“You didn’t stop it, either.”

I smiled and gave two twenties. “Give half to Jen, please. Take care of her. She seems young.”

“She is young,” Erica said.

“I am young,” Jen added. “Don’t worry about me. I like this job. I’m going to enjoy it. This is fun. This is a whole lot of fun.”

“Very well,” I said.

At this point, Cynthia was furious. “She made you come? You didn’t stop her?”

“No, well…I’m sorry. It was a mistake. It was just a massage. I’m sorry.”

“Well, obviously it wasn’t just a massage, you fucking prick. We’re done!”

“I thought of you when I came. I thought of you! I thought of you!”

Erica offered me that post-massage glass of gin, but I politely refused. I said my goodbyes, then walked out the door, down the hall, and into the city street.

“Fuck you,” Cynthia added. “I’m putting your stuff on the porch, you fucking prick.”

And then it began—the inevitable end. Here I was, thinking Cynthia would appreciate the truth. They never seem to appreciate it too much. It just leads to trouble. Well, Cynthia kicked me out after that and I haven’t seen her in weeks. I guess that’s what I get for being too honest. Next time, I’ll either refuse the hand job, or lie about it. Too bad my life consists mainly of guilt. It’s a terrible thing, to feel guilty. I can tell myself each night, over and over—It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. But I don’t do that. It was my fault. I’m not a religious man, but I find myself praying often for the black woman, Jen. Let her future be worthwhile. Things I’ve heard others say. Dear God, let her be safe. Things like that. Dear god: let them see, whatever that means. Dear, dear god, I pray…dear god, et cetera…