Massage Tales: Massaging Quade

QUADE

Alumni of my former high school are always sent notices of its upcoming drama and musical productions.

With a large network of ex-students and teachers, there is always the possibility, expectation actually, that, apart from attending, we will invite friends to the shows so that they will be profitable. Not that there are too many overheads for these productions.

Art and industrial arts students do the posters and sets. Drama students comprise the majority of actors, as well as providing back-stage and front-of-house personnel. The head of the English department is the director. The extensive school orchestra of both students and teachers plays any required music, which the head of the music department conducts. And, the computer studies students do all of the on-line promotions.

My preference has always been, even as a student, to ensure that I have front-row seats, either with friends, or just by myself. The grapevine, during rehearsals, is effective in alerting me to shows that are of highest quality and for these I have been known to attend more than one of the usually-planned six performances (the Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights of successive weeks).

The last drama production was `A Midsummer Night's Dream', and the character who played Nick Bottom, the weaver, was hilarious. Some say type-cast. I remember Ralph as a junior-school extrovert and clown, often in trouble, but a lovable rogue! And, because the play was a set text for Year 10 English, the closing night was full of students and their parents. Ralph really hammed it up that night and received the loudest and longest applause from the entire audience at the curtain call. Actually, from memory, it was multiple curtain calls!

I recently received notification that the new production will be a musical, Gilbert and Sullivan's `The Mikado', one of my all-time favourites! I immediately booked front-row seats for me and three friends on opening night, and one for myself for the final Saturday-night performance.

One of the things that I love in this particular show is the creativity of whoever writes the satirical verses for the song `I've got a little list'. I expect that for this production, our musical director and senior English students, will take aim at current politicians, teachers (especially the Headmaster) and social activists.

In that song, anyone who is well-known is fair game!

I remember a recent professional production that included the lines...

        "The politician prancing `round in Speedos tightly packed;
He thought it cool, but really it just showed us what he lacked..."        He, and a lot of others "...never would be missed"!

I look forward to hearing verses about all of those who are targets on our school production's hit list!

Did I mention that I attended a private boys' high school? It is always very funny watching junior-school boys dress up as girls and singing the soprano and alto parts. As usual, I sincerely hope that nobody's adolescent voice breaks during a solo!

The opening night was a spectacular affair. The art department students outdid themselves with the Japanese-styled sets, as did those who designed the costumes, which were so good that I suspect many might have been hired. My focus was totally on the production. I recognised some of the actors / singers. They would have been in Years 9 and 10 when I was in my final year here. Apart from growing a little taller and `filling out', most hadn't changed much.

I was really looking forward to closing night and to seeing again the outstanding actors who played the characters Nanki-Poo and Pooh-Bah! I didn't recognise either of these boys, even after referring to the programme. They most probably transferred into the school after I had left.

Tonight is the final performance. Second Saturday.

The bells ring in the foyer. It's time to go in.

I don't need assistance to `find' my seat. It's right in the front row, same as last week, which is approximately two metres distant from the railed-off section for the orchestra.

Unlike commercial theatres, where orchestras are in a pit and not usually seen, the school orchestra is seated in a section that is lowered by no more than a metre from the normal floor level.

The benefits of this design are that we can still see the musicians without their heads impeding our view of the stage, and the railing prevents any accidental tumbles by unwary members of the audience.

The `house lights' are dimmed. The only lights still on are those above the orchestra's music stands; the lights being angled so as not to shine into the eyes of the audience.

The whole set-up in this only-three-year old auditorium is of outstanding design.

Dr Bernstein, the conductor and head of the music department, was my music teacher all of the way through school. He is brilliant and I admire and respect his encouragement of all musicians, from the rawest of novices to the most highly proficient ones. From what I saw during my six years here, I reckon that there is not an instrument which he cannot play or advise players on.

Having enjoyed the production last week, I also allow myself some time tonight to consciously appreciate the musicians. That is, without missing any of Nanki-Poo's and Pooh-Bah's antics and expressions.

I can't tell whether these two are drama majors who can sing, or music majors who can act. One, a tenor and the other a bass baritone. I think that they both have very bright futures in Australian theatre. Perhaps even internationally.

During both the musical and spoken parts, I make a point of scanning the individual faces of each orchestra member, highlighted by their lamps. Some I recognise. Many I don't. Their love of what they are doing is obvious, and I can tell from the grins on their faces when they are being encouraged by Dr Bernstein, as I have seen him do with a grin or a wink on many occasions, not just tonight.

We come to a part in the show when the jilted Katisha declares that she is pursuing the Mikado's son, Nanki-Poo, who, having run away from her, is rumoured to be hiding out in this village, in the guise of a second-trombone player.

There is sudden silence. All of the actors and musicians freeze, and a lone spotlight is directed at the two trombonists in the orchestra. Each boy pretends to be shocked and points an accusing finger at the other. The audience erupts into spontaneous laughter. They didn't do this last week, and it is a brilliant inclusion.

I clap and cheer.

One of the trombonists, a mere four metres away, looks directly at me, perhaps alerted by my enthusiasm.

There appears to be mutual recognition. He smiles and nods to me. I grin in response. His face is familiar, but I can't bring his name to memory. What is his name? It's not coming to me!

Most of the musicians are school students. He looks to be a senior, so probably seventeen. That means he would have been in Year 10, possibly even Year 9, when I was in Year 12.

During the remainder of the performance, he glances at me and smiles, when he's not concentrating on the music. Why? How does he know me when I can't recall his name?

After another brilliant show, with encores and appropriate accolades and presentations, the curtains close, the `house lights' come up and the audience begins to disperse.

The orchestra remains seated. Members are collectively and individually applauded by Dr Bernstein, and then all are addressed and congratulated by the Headmaster.

With the possible identity of the second trombonist still rattling around in my mind, I head to the foyer for finger food and drinks, supplied by the school. I mingle with those who have remained, catch up with some teachers and chat about the brilliance of the performance. From my perspective it is the equal of any `Mikado' which I've seen performed semi-professionally, allowing for boy sopranos playing the female roles.

I eat, drink and mingle. Many of the actors in full costume and a large number of orchestra members attired in their black and white, join us. I congratulate anyone in black trousers, white shirt and black bow-tie. The actors likewise. And I ensure that the boys dressed for the female roles are also thanked and encouraged.

I make a point of zooming in on Nanki-Poo and Pooh-Bah, ask them to autograph my programme and congratulate them on their performances. I discover that even though both plan on professional careers, one in law and the other in medicine, they are members of the same local amateur musical society and express a desire to continue singing and acting `on the side'.

I pay my respects to Dr Bernstein and the Headmaster and am gratified that they still remember me.

The crowd thins considerably, with actors and musicians mostly having gone, and after three or four glasses of punch in half an hour, I feel the need to relieve my bladder prior to driving home.

I'm standing at one of the porcelain urinals, concentrating, when my peripheral vision detects a person in black and white stand up alongside me.

He begins to relieve himself and I hear, "You're Rob Armstrong, aren't you?"

I turn and look at his face, ignoring the forceful stream of urine emanating from his trousers.

"And you are...," I begin, "Nanki-Poo disguised as a second trombonist!"

Grinning, he can tell that I don't recall his name.

"Quade Ormsby," he enlightens me.

Now I remember him!

Normally, I would shake his hand, but that's a little impractical right now!

"Quade," I begin. "It's been a long time. Do you have time to catch up for a while?"

"Sure," he replies. "Wait for me. I shouldn't be much longer."

His stream doesn't seem to have diminished by too much.

I wash my hands and dry them and wait for Quade to join me.

After washing his hands, we shake, and joke about the delayed formalities of our greeting.

As we walk towards the now-sparsely-populated foyer, Quade is the first to recall the nature of our knowing each other.

"I need to apologise to you, Rob," he starts.

"What for?" I ask, unable to recall anything that would necessitate such a confession.

He grins. "My name has replaced yours in some of the school swimming records. I've even taken out two of Gino Napolitano's."

It all comes back to me! Quade was the up-and-coming swim star from the junior school. He was already setting age records when I was still finding my water wings, as it were, under Gino's tuition. I was a late bloomer in the pool.

"Which ones have you left me?" I put to him, mocking shock and pain.

"I have two of your breaststroke records in my sights," he grins, "but time is running out. I'll graduate in a few months."

"Maybe you should concentrate on your final exams," I smile at him, "and leave my remaining achievements intact!"

"They challenge and inspire me," Quade replies, "just as you did when you were here. You were my hero."

"Really?" I say, totally surprised. "I never knew that."

I realise that we are the last two in the foyer, apart from those cleaning and packing up.

Quade says, "I used to watch you all of the time. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to be you."

"Why?" I ask. "You were outstanding yourself, in the pool, on the athletic field, and academically."

"That was largely because of your impact on me," he replies.

"I don't believe it," I tell him. "You're having me on!"

"Not at all," he says. "I still have photos of you on my bedroom wall."

"What photos?" I ask.

"Mostly of you in Speedos," he replies. "But, my favourite, is one where you had just jumped out of the pool, and your Speedos were still clinging to your body, you were so happy at having just won the race. I had that one enlarged to poster size and put it on the back of my door, so I can see you grinning at me when I'm in bed every night."

"Who took that photo?" I ask.

"I took it myself," he tells me. "I was also into photography back then. It's amazing what my telephoto lens can capture. Would you like to see it?"

Without waiting for my answer, he takes out his phone and begins to scroll through his pics. "Here it is."

I look at it and immediately recall how Gino influenced me to leave our wet Speedos clinging to our bodies, showing off our `assets' to anyone who wanted to look. If this wasn't one of me, I would definitely add it to my collection of hot bodies that I use for stimulation when I'm alone and horny.

"You appear to have caught me at my best!" I share with Quade, grinning.

"I hope you don't mind," he says. "I think it's really sexy, and I promise that it will never appear on social media."

"I'm flattered," I say. "Any chance that you can send me a copy?"

"I'd be happy to," he replies.

I give him my number and a minute later, my mobile beeps.

Out of courtesy, and not just as a reflex action, I check it out. There are two pics. The one of me, and another one. A handsome body, in quite revealing underwear.

"And who is this beauty? It's not me," I put to him.

He looks at me and grins. "Look at the face," he says, obviously suspecting that I was focussing on the lower part where there are eye-catching bulges, clearly outlined through near-transparent material.

I check out the grin.

"This is you?" I ask, scanning it again, feeling somewhat embarrassed at already having disclosed my opinion of his `beauty'.

"Guilty!" he laughs. "What do you think?"

"I think that you've grown a lot, since the last time that I saw you in your Speedos," I chuckle back.

He looks around us. "I think that they are wanting to close up the auditorium."

"Do you drink coffee?" I ask. "We could keep talking."

"Sure," Quade replies. "Know any good places? I'm over the fast-food, drive-through variety."

"Best coffee in town," I say. "Want to follow me?"

"Lead on!" he tells me and we walk together to the underground car park where only five cars remain.

The security guard opens the gate and we both exit.

I continually check my rear-vision mirror to ensure that the red P-plate is still with me.

I pull into my driveway and drive to the rear, with Quade behind me.

"Where are we?" he asks, closing his car door.

"Best coffee joint in town," tell him, smiling.

I reckon that he knows it's my place as soon as I put the key into the door. Maybe earlier.

I flick the lights on, wait for Quade to follow me inside, then close and lock the door.

He follows me via the ensuite and my massage room into the kitchen.

"Massage bed?" he asks, indicating it as we pass.

"That's what I do," I reply. Remedial massage, sports massage and Swedish massage."

I put on the coffee machine.

"I've often wondered what became of you," Quade comments. Most students from our school go into some professional career."

"I had a friend who taught me massage techniques from the time I was in Year 9," I tell him, without any hint of a reference to Gino. "He encouraged me to formalise my skill by completing all of the relevant qualifications. And here I am!"

"Nice!" he comments, rubbing his neck.

That's a common response from people who suddenly want to share about their stiff necks or lower back problems when I tell them what I do!

However, before the discussion goes any further, I ask him, "What about you, Quade? You seem to have so many talents, what are you planning?"

"I'm not sure exactly," he says, "I have pretty high exam marks, but I'm really leaning towards something in visual or performing arts."

"So, give me a short list of what you are into," I tell him as I hand him his coffee, and offer milk and sugar.

"Well," he starts, "apart from swimming and athletics, both of which keep me fit, there is dancing which keeps me even fitter, photography, painting and acting. And, oh," he smiles, "second trombone."

"So, what's on the horizon for next year?" I ask. "Have you applied for anything?"

"There's a number of universities that offer Performing Arts courses. I've applied for one in Newcastle and two in Sydney. My preference is to do the `Bachelor of Arts and Business in Theatre and Performance Studies'. I think that it gives me multiple avenues to pursue. And, it's government subsidised."

"That sounds very wise," I tell him. "And if you come across any people who need their aching necks massaged, you now know someone to refer them to!"

"I don't suppose that you'd consider giving me a sample of what you do?" he asks, then takes another sip of his coffee. "You know, try before you buy. Or recommend to others that they should buy."

He grins.

I grin. "No problem. What do you have planned for the rest of the night?"

"Nothing really," he says. "The boys all knew that I had commitments tonight at the school auditorium, so they went out without me."

"Looks like it's just you and me and the massage table then, if that suits you." I tell him.

"I'd better take all of my good gear off, then, if you are going to use massage oil," he grins.

"That'll do, if you need an excuse to get your gear off," I say. "And yes, I do use massage oil."

"Can you massage anyone with your designer-label clothes on?" Quade asks.

"I have other clothes that I wear when I'm massaging," I explain. "The trackies and polo shirt wash easily if they get oil on them."

"Or you could wear Speedos," he jokes.

"Yes, I could do that," I tell him.

"Do you still have the light blue pair that you were wearing when I took that photo of you?" he puts to me. "I'd find that rather exciting."

"Just how exciting are you planning on getting?" I ask.

"I'll leave that up to you," he replies, grinning.

I can tell where this is heading, and I ask, "So you want to see a real-life version of what's on the back of your bedroom door, do you?"

"What a great idea," he grins. "I wish that I'd thought of that!" Then he adds, "To be truthful, Rob, I've had that very thought on hundreds of occasions."

"All right," I say. "Why don't you finish your coffee, then strip down to your underpants in the massage room, while I go and find those blue Speedos?"

He stands, and I can almost gauge his excitement by the tent in his black trousers.

He sees me looking, so I make light of it, point and comment, "Just don't start without me, OK?"

"Part of me has already started!" he says. "But you already noticed that, didn't you?"

I smile and head for my bedroom to fish out the Speedos from my top drawer. I strip off, pull the Speedos up and make sure that everything is hanging loose.

When I get back to the massage room, he is placing the last of his clothing onto the chair.

To help re-create my image in his bedroom, I head for the ensuite, turn the water to tepid and step in. Warm enough to be bearable but cool enough to prevent any rapid expansion down below.

I ensure that I'm totally saturated and that the Speedos are clinging. I dry my upper body and legs but leave the middle as is.

"Is this close enough?" I ask him, stepping back into the massage room and dropping the towel onto the floor to stand on. I try to strike the same pose as in the photograph.

He takes out his phone, hopefully just to check the previous photo and compare it with my current stance.

"Shit! That's absolutely perfect!" he exclaims.

He jiggles the front of his slick, orange Calvin Kleins and I see further expansion happening.

For the first time tonight, I perceive the fully-grown-up version of the beauty that used to be the 14-year old junior school swimming champion. The curly brown hair, the grey-blue eyes, the strong jaw. His chin is either shaved or still hairless. And, he still has a remnant of those youthful freckles across his nose. His broad shoulders support arms that seem a trifle too long for the rest of his body, apart from his legs and large feet. Surely, a great combination for a swimmer. The only real change that I can see is his enhanced musculature – chest, arms, thighs and abdominals. And he has an Adam's apple! Plus, there is that other part of him which has `filled out' as well, from that which I recall. Mind you, back then it was always obvious, and already promising to be big when his hormones had fully kicked in.

"Wow!" is all that I can say for the moment.

"Pretty much similar to you, aren't I?" he grins.

"A much better version of me, I'd say," I reply.

We are standing and ogling each other's body when he asks, "Rob, may I ask a favour? You can say `no' if you think that it's too weird. It's just something that I've dreamed of for the past couple of years."

"What's that, Quade?" I ask him.

"Well," he starts slowly. "I told you that I look at your picture on the back of my bedroom door every night, and sometimes too during the afternoon when I take a break from homework or study."

He takes a few steps towards me, to within an arm's length.

"I often walk over to the door and put my hand on your body. But I never imagined that I would see you for real," he says nervously. He adds, "Rob, would it be OK, if I could touch your real body instead of just a photograph of it? Just so I can remember what it actually feels like, instead of me just dreaming about it."

"I guess that would be OK, Quade," I tell him. "But I have two house rules!"

He looks suddenly apprehensive. "What are they?"

I tell him, "Rule number one: what happens in the room stays in the room – I don't tell; you don't tell! OK?"

"Absolutely!" he replies, appearing relieved.

"And rule number two: whatever you do to me, I get to do to you. Fair?" I ask.

I just made up that second one!

"Fuck, yeah!" he shoots back.

"Anything except that!" I tell him.

"OK," he grins, exhaling, perhaps thankfully. "Agreed."

He takes another step closer and, while staring into my eyes, his hand extends to enfold the front of my wet Speedos.

"OMG," he half-whispers. "I'm actually holding the cock and balls of Rob Armstrong!" as if making a diary note to himself for later reference.

I allow him the freedom to do a little more than just `hold' me. Then after he's had a good feel, jiggle and stroking of my `gear', I remind him of rule number two.

It's obvious that we are both enjoying the mutual fondling. Rigidly obvious. At some point the Speedos and the CKs end up on the floor.

And it's obvious now why he was peeing like a garden hose!

"Is that enough for your memory bank?" I put to him jokingly, giving his silky stiffness another squeeze.

"More than enough," he replies. "But I was starting to really enjoy it. You playing with mine while I was playing with yours is way better than doing it to myself and just looking at you on my bedroom door."

I have to ask! "So, Quade, how often do you...?"

"Every night!" he cuts me off mid-question. "Sometimes twice."

"OK," I say. "Do you want to keep going, or do you still want a try-before-you-buy massage? Same result in the end for you!"

"Would you really let me jack you off?" he asks, his eyes pleading hopefully with mine.

"Rule number two!" is all that I say.

I feel his cock jerk with anticipation. Twice.

"Could you give me the massage next Saturday, or one day after school this week, but keep going now?" he asks.

"I'm sure that we can manage that," I reply. "So, why don't you lie down on the massage table, face up, and we can add some massage oil to what we are both doing now."

It's not a question.

"Thank you, Rob," he tells me, releasing his grip and giving me a hug instead, pulling our naked bodies together. Then he lays himself down and says, as if thinking aloud, "I'm gonna be jerked off by Rob Armstrong and he's gonna let me do him!"

I think, but without voicing it, `That young Quade Ormsby is going to let me jerk him off, and he wants to do me too!'

And I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't the first time that I'd thought about it, all the way through Year 12.

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If you like these stories, please take a couple of minutes to email me at
rob.zz@hotmail.com

I do try to reply to everyone. Please be patient.

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It is my intention to write a `massaging' story for each letter of the alphabet.
Nifty has already posted `Adam', `Brock', `Callum', `Dylan', `Evan', `Flynn', `Gino' `Hayden', `Isaac', `Josh', `Karl', `Liam', `Marco', `Nate', `Oliver' and `Paulo'.
I think that `Gino' is one of my better works; however, it's in a different location: http://nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/massaging-gino/

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