I stand naked in front of him. He’s initially motionless, but then lurches forward for the kill. This time I’m ready for him and I have a hand on his cheek to guide his face. I push back slightly then kiss the edge of his waiting open mouth, delicately brushing my lips against his.
“Isn’t that better?” I say. He says nothing and just stares back at me with his jaw hanging open.
When I first stepped in the door, I recognized that he had some mobility issues. But does he also have limited mental capacity? I’ve had plenty of clients with physical or intellectual disabilities but I normally always know in advance, either because they specify it or because I can just tell from the way they communicate.
His English was certainly broken when we’d talked on the phone to plan the session. But there was nothing to indicate he might have diminished capacity. The whole situation feels off, but I decide to just got with it. In the event things go sour, my bag and my clothes are in a pile right next to the door; an easy grab if I need to dash.
“Do you want to show me the bedroom?” I ask.
“Take shower first,” he barks.
I’m not clear on whether it’s an offer or a request. But since I’m going to be here for a few hours, it’s good to find ways to eat up time. I clock the bathroom just off the hallway near the front door and gesture to it. He nods and I walk towards it, with him trailing behind me.
I’m not sure whether he just wants me to take a shower alone or it’s intended as a communal activity. But when we get into the bathroom he quickly doffs his shirt and begins removing his pants.
As his clothes come off, the reality of his body becomes clear. His torso is twisted, his right shoulder angling across his frame. His left leg seems hyper developed and muscular while the right one is considerably smaller.
Since our session is going to include a massage, it’s important to know what’s going on with his body so I decide to ask. He explains to me that he was born with one leg shorter than the other, something that became more pronounced as he grew into a teenager.
The twist in his torso and the hyper muscularity of his left leg are compensations for his right leg, which always remained abnormally small for the size of his body.
When he goes out, he has custom made shoes to wear; the kind with an extra platform on the short-leg side. But around the house he just wears a pair of Crocs, which leaves him unbalanced.
Naked, we step into the spacious shower together and he turns on the water. There’s one of those plastic chairs attached to the wall that old people use, but he remains standing.
Once the water is warm, he pushes me roughly under it and begins soaping me up with some kind of generic ocean-scented shower gel. As the owner of fairly sensitive skin, I tend to avoid unknown bath products, for fear of allergic reactions. But I don’t bother to protest as it’s too complicated to explain with our limited communication abilities.
As he soaps up my ass, one finger pushes aggressively through to my hole and I can feel the nail, digging in at the edge, causing me to wince with pain. I grab his wrist and pull his hand away, deciding to show a bit more force.
“It hurts when you dig your fingernails in like that,” I say.
He’s unresponsive, but leaves my ass alone. We both rinse off and he steps out, handing me a towel from the shelf next to the sink. He stands, his body turned away from me, drying himself off. The asymmetry of his frame is even more pronounced from behind, like halves of two different bodies stitched together.
Sufficiently dry, he drops the towel on the floor and makes a motion to follow him into the hallway. As we exit the bathroom, I grab two extra towels from the shelf for use during the massage.
I follow him down to a room at the end of a wood-panelled corridor. There’s a single bed with a pink knitted blanket in the centre, a floor to ceiling wall of books behind it. A small desk with a computer sits in one corner in front of the window. Next to the bed there’s a table with stacks of crossword puzzle books and three empty plastic water bottles.
The session he’s requested is supposed to start with a massage and gradually work up to him fucking me. We haven’t decided on the specific ratio of massage to fucking, but I’m figuring two thirds to one third. He’s booked me for a full three hours, which means a lot of time to fill. A glance at the clock next to the bed reveals I’ve been here just over 20 minutes . . .