The Truck Driver Who Turned Me Into a Gay Masseur

I’m thirty-four years old and, as far back as I can remember, I’ve always known there was a promiscuous gay man living inside me, waiting for someone to open the door. It’s not something I feel guilty or ashamed about. It’s more a part of me I learned to tame through routine: the gym twice a day, five hours at a marketing consultancy, tidy rent payments, discreet nights. Money isn’t something I lack. What I was missing, until not long ago, was a clean, elegant way to touch other people’s bodies without having to ask permission for anything.

I started studying massage as a pure pretext. I took the standard course, then one in sports decontracting massage, later ayurveda, and finally a tantric massage specialization that ended up convincing me I’d found my calling. The truth is I wasn’t interested in healing or deep relaxation. I was interested in laying my hands on an unfamiliar back and feeling the muscles give in. The power turned me on. It turned me on that a man lying face down would trust me enough to close his eyes.

I rented a bright studio apartment three blocks from my place. I decorated it carefully: dark wood, cream-colored walls, a diffuser with bergamot and sandalwood essence, a professional massage table, always-spotless white sheets. I wanted it modern and sensual at the same time, without falling into the obvious. I posted ads on a well-known site in the trade and waited. The first message came in on a Tuesday night.

—Hi, how much do you charge for a massage?

—Hi, what are you looking for? Decontracting, relaxing, tantric?

—Decontracting. I’m a long-haul truck driver, my back’s all fucked up. I suppose tantric includes a handjob. I’ll decide that on the spot, okay?

I sent him the rate, we set it for Thursday at four in the afternoon, and I spent several nights imagining what he’d be like. I knew nothing about him: not his face, not his age, not his voice. Only that he drove a truck and that he was direct. That honesty had already won me over.

On Thursday I opened the office door myself, after spending twenty minutes switching on the diffuser, tidying the towels, and checking that nothing was out of place. When he came up the stairs and appeared in the doorway, I knew the wait had been worth it. Ramiro was about forty-seven, with a generous smile and eyes narrowed by the wrinkles of someone who laughed often. He was big, the kind of man who fills an entire doorway without meaning to. He held out his hand with the measured strength of someone used to not breaking what he touches.

—Come in, make yourself comfortable. I’ll leave a white towel on the table. Take off your clothes, lie face down, and let me know when you’re ready.

I stepped out of the room like professionals do, closed the bathroom door behind me, and forced myself to breathe deeply. When I came back, I found him face down, the towel barely covering the lower half of him. I had looked just long enough. He had a broad back, shoulders shaped by years of handling heavy steering wheels, a still-firm waist, and a warm, round, beautiful belly. The hair grew exactly where it should: a little on the chest, a dark line down the abdomen, bare shoulders. On his back, not a single hair. As if nature had decided to give me a present.

—I’m going to start with the feet and work my way up. If anything bothers you at any point, or you want the pressure changed, let me know.

—Sure, you lead.

I held his right ankle with both hands and started. His calves were solid, the muscles dense and resilient. I worked his thighs up to the edge of the towel and noticed his skin was warm, as if he’d just come out of the shower. He probably had. I imagined him soaping himself up while thinking about this moment and my mouth went dry. I moved up his lower back, kneaded the lumbar muscles, found the knots in his lats, and worked them loose with the weight of my body. Ramiro breathed deeper and deeper. He didn’t moan. He sighed, which is something else, more intimate.

—Do you mind if I work the glutes? It’s a key area for loosening a truck driver’s hips.

—Whatever you say. I’m yours.

I removed the towel with a clean motion, no drama. His ass was firm, with that soft drop big men have when they take care of their legs. I rubbed a little more oil into my hands and began with circular movements. Every time my palms opened in a circle, his cheeks spread just slightly and I could catch sight of the neat, dark hole, waiting. I started brushing it with the pad of my thumb, as if by accident, once, then again. The third time was intentional and he didn’t move. The fourth made him inhale sharply and let out a very low, rough moan that shoved my cock hard against my pants.

I kept going. I went back up his back, because I didn’t want him to think I was only going for the obvious. I worked his traps, his rhomboids, his neck. But the air in the room had already changed. It smelled of warm oil and something else. When I started massaging his neck, Ramiro let one arm fall off the table and, with his open hand, brushed my leg over my pants. I was wearing loose white linen, with nothing underneath. I usually don’t wear underwear when I work. That night, even less so.

—Can I? —he asked, without lifting his head.

—You can.

I slowly turned his head so he’d be looking toward where I was standing and slid my linen down to my thighs. My cock came out already hard, the tip gleaming. Ramiro took it in his left hand and started stroking me with a technique that betrayed experience: the base squeezed tight, the head caressed with his thumb, the rhythm building gradually. I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, he had brought his hips close enough to rest them at mouth level.

I ran the tip over his lips, slowly, not going in, as if painting them. He kept them closed for the first ten seconds, just to make himself desired. Then he opened and sucked the head with a softness I hadn’t seen coming. It wasn’t hungry. It was focused. He held me with his left hand and worked the tip with his tongue while staring into my eyes, measuring every reaction.

I had to pull away. If I kept going, I’d finish in thirty seconds, and that wasn’t what I wanted to give him. I helped him turn over on the table and, when I had him on his back, I saw for the first time what he was hiding between his legs. He was thick, not too long, with a broad head and two heavy balls settled against his thighs. He was half-mast, waiting. I wrapped my fist around the base and started jerking him slowly, looking at his face, reading what he liked. When I sped up, he narrowed his eyes. When I eased off, he opened them and smiled.

—Suck it —he asked.

He said it with such formal politeness that I almost laughed. But I obeyed. I bent over the table, gripped the base with one hand, and took him into my mouth. Salty, with the taste of white soap and man heat. I started with the head, then worked my way down, gauging how far I could take him without gagging. He had taken my cock again and was jerking me off at the same rhythm I was blowing him. He was coordinating better than any lover I’d had before.

I could feel I wasn’t going to last. I let go of his cock, stepped away to collect myself, and came back with another strategy. While I kept jerking him with my right hand, I dipped my left into the oil jar and slid one finger between his cheeks. I found the hole, already a little open from the earlier circular motions, and pushed. It went in without resistance up to the first knuckle. Ramiro arched his back against the table and let out a deep groan that vibrated through the whole room.

—Like that, like that, yeah —he whispered.

I slipped in a second finger. I searched inside, slowly, until I touched something soft that made him flinch. I massaged from there, patiently, while my right hand kept the pace on his cock. Twenty seconds later he warned me, his voice broken, that he was about to come. I told him I was too. I said it because it was true: he hadn’t stopped jerking me off with his other hand for a single second.

My plan was to dodge his mouth and spill over his belly, leaving him a warm mark between his navel and his chest. His was different. When I tried to shift my hips away, he squeezed my waist with his free hand, held me in place, and opened his mouth. He started sucking me with a hunger he hadn’t shown before and I realized, too late, that he wasn’t going to let me decide anything. I came down his throat with a cry that even surprised me. I felt every pulse unloading there, against his tongue, while he swallowed without letting go.

At the same time, his cock exploded in my fist. His cum splashed in thick jets over his belly, over the hair on his abdomen, over my wrist. I slowly pulled my fingers out of his hole and stayed there watching him breathe, flushed, smiling, eyes closed.

—Holy shit —he said when he caught his breath—. It’s been years since I came like that.

***

I offered him a shower. He accepted. While he got under the water, I changed the sheets, aired out the room, and washed my hands up to the elbows. When he came out, dressed again in his jeans and worn cotton T-shirt, he paid me double what we’d agreed on and asked if I was available the following Tuesday.

—And also, if you want me to let anyone else know, I can bring a coworker from the company who’s even worse off than me in the back.

I smiled. I said yes to everything.

That night, after dinner, I sat in the kitchen with a glass of wine and understood that my studies had borne fruit in a direction none of my teachers had imagined. Ramiro was the first. He was followed by many others: businessmen passing through, gymnasts with injuries who needed more than physical therapy, married men who allowed themselves one Thursday a month, traveling salesmen who crossed the city and looked for an hour of peace with extras. Over time I stopped taking general clients. Today I only see people with specific interests, concrete fantasies, desires bold enough to be asked for in a short, direct message.

I keep a story from each of them. Some of those I’ll keep telling. Ramiro’s I’m keeping entirely to myself, because he was the first and because, even today, every time he walks into the office I feel like that thirty-four-year-old kid opening the door to his own desire for the very first time.