The Last Erotic Massage

I had many, many questions. Beginning with the kilt. “It’s a Utili-Kilt. They’re manufactured in Seattle. Utili-Kilt is the world’s largest producer of kilts.” He reached down and demonstrated the ample toolbelt-style pockets. “After you wear one of these for a week, pants feel constricting. I can’t wear them anymore.”

He told me that his path to becoming Kilt Man began as a 19-year-old, when he was jokingly thrown into a river by his father and brother, landed on a rock, and left unable to walk. (His limp was consistent with this.) He spent 10 years recovering, then two years in Nepal learning body manipulation from monks—and an appreciation for non-pants. Back in America, he began giving massage recreationally, and was doing so at a club one night when he was spotted by a tantra teacher who offered to train him for six months.

He now advertises on Craigslist. “For each ad I put up, I get two legitimate responses—you’re No. 2. And 80 or so spam. Lots and lots of spam. I limit myself to two massages per week. Otherwise I get too drained. I now have women I’ve worked with for four or five years.”

I asked more about his training. He put my hands into a prayer position and, using them as a stand-in for the yoni, stroked them, demonstrating exactly what he was going to do. Clearly he’d done this hands move many, many times.

Sufficiently convinced that he might know what he was doing, I set my boundaries: hands only, external only, no reciprocation. This was what he was planning anyway.

I handed him a box of gloves. “Look, 50 pairs to choose from!” he said.

He pulled on the gloves and led me to a mat in the back room, which he clearly shared with a woman—women’s clothes in the closet, women’s shoes on the floor. His partner of four years.

I pulled off my robe, and we began with breathing exercises and a very relaxing 15-minute back rub. Then I rolled over.

My friends all ask the same question: Was I attracted to him? It’s irrelevant. That’s like asking whether you’re attracted to your masseuse. I was first tipped off that this might be the case a few years ago by Betty Dodson, Ph.D., the sexpert and author of Sex for One and Orgasms for Two, who once told me about her first sex party. She was in her early 30s and scared shitless. A large, hairy man in his 50s to whom she was not attracted came over and proceeded to perform the best oral sex she’d ever experienced. This was how she learned to broaden her horizons.

I learned with Kilt Man. On my front side, he repeated the same sorts of massage strokes he’d used on my back, but this time getting the ever-ignored pectorals and stomach. He then headed south, stroking up and down my legs and abdomen.

Now, this wasn’t sex. It was completely different from sex. Not only do the motions have nothing in common with typical bedroom maneuvers—it’s a sort of massage that forces you to focus energy flow and balance into the body, quite different from direct stimulation—there was also never any hint that sexual activities would ensue, or of intimacy.