Lying flat on the bed, legs slightly apart and my face buried in a hole, I let out a few melismatic moans, interrupted, intermittently, by the odd guttural grunt. They’ve found that elusive sweet spot between pleasure and pain. Harder? Ooh, yes please. I wonder if I should have disclosed my safe word (supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, in case you’re curious), but there is no need. As our session reaches its too-soon climax, this much is true: I’d love to come again. Not like that, you filthy animals!
During a recent, pre-Omicron getaway to Rhodes, in Greece, I was rubbed up the right way by a bone-cracking, knot-pulverising, limb-twisting, full-body Swedish massage that was pretty darn euphoric. And this is coming from an emotionally repressed gay man (yes, another one) with intimacy issues,…
