Massaging Woody

WOODROW (`WOODY')

Artist

I have frequently shared with people that bookshops and art galleries attract their share of my attention. And my money.

I wouldn't consider myself an art critic, but I know what I like. And what I don't.

And I don't embrace paintings that could have been done by a monkey, or by an elephant with a brush in its trunk or by a two-year old finger-painting `prodigy'. Nor by a Bohemian dropping paint-filled water balloons onto a canvas from a ladder. Nor by artists whose `work' may have been achieved by flicking the excess paint off his assortment of brushes towards his easel. Neither am I enamoured by caricatures that purport to be portraits.

You get the idea!

I lean more towards realism than impressionism and ridiculism.

I was fortunate to catch an exhibition last year by the young artist, William O'Brien-Grant. His masterly paintings of rural scenes and horses were almost photo-quality and his portraits seemed to expose the deepest character traits of his subjects.

In my roaming of the Eastern Suburbs Gallery halls today, I'm surprised to happen upon, newly-displayed and prominent, a WO'B-G portrait of the gallery director. In his eyes she appeared refined, haughty and devious. Superb work.

However, in my pausing, it is the landscape-oriented painting, distantly-adjacent to it, which arrests my attention.

The typical Australian beach scene is vibrant. Azure blue sky above aquamarine water. White foam-topped waves caressing banana-yellow sand. People basking in tan-enhancing sunshine.

It's a study in the utilisation of primary colours, the other one, red, featuring in the two bi-coloured life-saving flags on poles drilled into the sand to indicate the safest zone for swimming. Fire-engine red and canary yellow triangles, joined along their hypotenuses.

I stand in front of it and stare. Concentrating on the fine-brushstroke detail. I'm transported to the beach; my senses are smelling the saltiness of the air, and feeling the heat of the sand, and hearing the squawking of the seagulls and the excited squeals of frolicking youngsters.

That which I determine to be most expertly crafted, is the painting's composition. The lines of waves, flags, birds and a child's spade, all directing my eyes to the triumvirate of lifeguards standing together in the right-side mid ground, portrayed almost life-size on this large rectangle of unframed canvas.

Two, with their backs to me, are scanning the surf and surfers, perchance their professional skills should be needed. The third, back turned to the water, is staring back at me looking at him.

I peer at and scan the three. Intensely. Mesmerised.

It's not only the fact that all are males which holds me. Nor that they appear to be teenagers. Nor that their tanned bodies are sublimely muscled. Nor that their sentry-like stillness is juxtaposed with the activity around them. Nor is it their red Speedo swimwear, per se.

It's all of those, but, primarily, it's the club-branded Speedos, and the gaze of the Adonis who is studying me which hold me transfixed.

His sapphire-blue eyes are set in a welcoming face, grinning at me as if recognising an old friend. Ever maintaining a `Hey, mate!' eye contact.

And, those red swimmers, on him and the other two, have been painted with a cleverness that I cannot recall seeing previously. Ever! How skilful is the artist to be able to portray transparency? An X-ray-like ability is gifted to me to definitely view what the nylon material, at the same time, is essentially concealing!

My eyes drift to the two companions, but then back to him. To the children making a sand castle, but then directed by the pointing spade back to them, to him. To the birds, to the waves, to the flags, but always back to him.

The backside of his taller companion is round without being broad. Each of his glutes in his akimbo stance is portrayed individually and visibly, even the deep cleft between them.

The perceptibly youngest, shortest, of the three is perhaps the best proportioned. The broadness of his upper back and shoulders emphasises the slimness of his hips. Again, the glutes, tighter on this one than the other, and their fine cleft, are clearly discernible.

Leaning a forearm on the young guy's shoulder, staring at me, is the massage therapist's (my) enigmatic and blue-eyed mate. His chest, abdomen and thighs, all probably chiselled by extensive swimming. paddling, and other physical workouts, dare me to focus on his front-on Speedos with their own transparency.

How can an artist, without some wizardry, visibly offer cradled round testicles and a truly handsome penis for public viewing? Or is it just my eyes? Or my hyperactive imagination?

I step forward to, perhaps, better discern the detail. I stare, and study. Who is `Woodrow'? The signature, in the bottom right-hand corner, is new to me, etched below the enigmatic character whose grin declares that he knows me, but his name eludes my memory.

Then I step backwards, maybe four paces, to take in the breadth of the composition and to verify the artist's orchestrated focus. I'm transfixed by his skill. My eyes continually roam, then always re-focus.

"What do you think of it?" a voice beside me asks.

"Compelling," I reply, and launch into attempting to justify my assessment, with the limited artistic vocabulary that inhabits me.

It's possible to have a conversation with some people without actually looking at them. My eyes remain directed to the wall in front of me.

"What do you think that the artist could be attempting to communicate?" the voice asks.

"I'm seeing the beauty of the Australian beach scene," I reply, thinking not only of the environment, but also of Speedo-clad teenage bodies.

"Yes, I can see that," the voice responds. Then it asks, "But it hasn't been given a title. Anything that it suggests to you, and that you might suggest for it?"

I think about it. "I suppose that `Summer Safety' would be too banal. Too common or trite. "Or, `On Duty', considering the focus on the lifeguards."

"I think that you're right," he replies. "That wouldn't quite do it justice, would it?"

"What would you suggest, yourself?" I ask.

It's not uncommon for me to interact in these impersonal exchanges with anonymous gallery dwellers, so I think nothing of answering and asking questions, without fully engaging the person.

"If I knew anything that would do it justice, it would probably already have a title," the voice tells me. Then, after a pause, he adds, "Maybe `Self Portrait'."

"How does that fit?" I ask, turning towards the voice for the first time, to be being met by a grin and the pair of emerald-blue eyes.

I'm not sure what to say. Or do.

He extends his hand, introducing himself. "Woodrow. But to my friends, I'm `Woody'."

I take his hand, while at the same time, indicating with a sweep of my free arm, "This is yours?"

"Yep," he replies.

"And that is you?" I ask, pointing at the figure looking back at me.

"Do you think that there is a likeness?" he asks.

"From the bit that I can see of you," I tell him, looking from his face to the painting and back again, "it's perfectly accurate!"

"Thanks," he replies. Then, grinning, he adds, "So is the rest of it."

It's his baggy trousers, wrinkled T-shirt and ragged sneakers that seem wrong.

"It's an honour to meet you, Woodrow," I say, pumping his still-held hand.

"Woody!" he corrects me and disengages his grip, or is it my grip? "Anyone who studies my work as much as you were just doing, and appreciates it, is definitely a friend!"

Face to face, I guess that he may no longer be a teenager, only just, but the painting probably wasn't finished yesterday!

I ponder what he has just told me. That his body, from the neck down, is exactly as portrayed on canvas! I'm really tempted to comment on that but, instead, ask, "So, where are you from? Where are you staying? And where do you work?"

"The last bit is easy," he says. "I met a lady a few months ago at an exhibition who lets me use the studio at the end of her yard, not too far from here, maybe ten minutes' walk. She said that she no longer paints and is happy for the facility to be used by somebody with more talent than she has herself, and she gave me the key. It has a toilet and a small sink and I can come and go through a gate in the back fence. And it's a place where I can leave my few belongings in safety."

"So, do you live there?" I ask.

"Not supposed to," he tells me. "But sometimes the studio is the only place I have. So, I may work late into the night, and often `fall asleep on the job'. She doesn't give me any shit about it, but she would prefer that I didn't make a habit of staying. `People talk' she told me. And I respect that."

"What about the rest of the time, then?" I ask. "Where do you live?"

"Ah, living is subjective," he replies. "I live where I'm happy and wherever I'm welcome. Sometimes a single night here. Occasionally, a little longer there. I believe that the legal term is `of no fixed address."

"What about food?" I put to him. "Everybody gets hungry. Do you sell your paintings to support yourself?"

"Easier said than done," he replies. "However, I have an agreement with a couple of private galleries, that if they sell any of my work for what they deem an appropriate price, they can keep one third. The remainder they give to me in cash, for food and canvas and paint. And a rare night in any hotel with nice facilities. I know that it's not the usual commission, but the arrangement suits both of us. And, I rely upon their integrity for price and payment."

"So, how is business?" I ask.

"You could call this a `quiet period' in the life of an artist," he comments. Then grins, "And I haven't stayed at the Hilton for quite a while now."

In other words, he doesn't have much money coming in and he could be close to flat broke!

"Sorry, Woody," I say, aware that I haven't introduced myself. "I'm Rob." And I comment, "It appears that we have something in common: a likeness for the male form. You paint their visual perfection and I massage them to keep their muscles functioning perfectly. I'm a massage therapist."

"It's always good to meet a fellow `body worker' of sorts," he smiles. "Never had a massage though. I've often wondered about them, but they're not in my budget."

"So, where are you sleeping tonight?" I put to him, a little out of self-interest more than pure benevolence.

"It's looking like a late night in the studio," he answers matter-of-factly, without a hint of lament or any suggestion that I might offer an alternative.

"Would you think it tactless of me to suggest that I have a spare room, that could benefit from a bit of casual habitation?" I put to him.

"I wasn't soliciting your generosity," he replies. "I'm sorry if anything gave you that idea."

"Not at all," I answer, happy to engage directly with his two stunning emeralds. "I don't often have the privilege of offering my hospitality to gifted people and socialising with them over dinner and afterwards. Besides, I wouldn't be averse to an opportunity to check out your claim that your entire self-portrait is fully accurate," I smile, hoping that it doesn't sound too indecent.

He grins. "Well, whatever you're offering, I accept, but only if I can also check out your skill as a massage therapist," he says. "Maybe we could satisfy both your curiosity and mine, at the same time. What do you reckon?"

"Deal!" We shake hands on it, camaraderie established, and I sense a heightened anticipation, in both of us. "Do you need to collect anything from the studio?" I ask. "I can pick you up there shortly. There's a couple of things that I need to do before heading home."

"Yes. I have a back pack with some personal things in it that I take with me wherever I go," he replies. He gives me the address and explains where to park so that it's next to the gate.

"How much for the Woodrow painting?" I ask the gallery director in her office. "I don't see a price tag."

"I couldn't let it go for anything less than a thousand," she says.

Bearing in mind William O'Brien-Grant's assessment of her character, with her potential to take more for herself by telling Woody that she sold it for a bit less, I determine to ensure satisfaction all round.

"I met the artist out in the gallery," I tell her. "He mentioned your arrangement. So, if I offer $900, that would mean $300 for you and $600 for him. Is that right?"

She looks at me sternly, as though I have circumvented her process.

"However, if you can deliver it to my address, I'll give you an extra hundred and I'll personally hand him his $600 when I meet up with him tomorrow."

I can see her doing the maths in her head. She's making as much as if she had sold it for twelve hundred. The only difference is that Woody would be getting less. Well, that's what she thinks. She'll never know how much more I actually intend to give him.

"Agreed," she says.

I give her my address and phone number and tell her, "I'll be back tomorrow with your $400 and we can arrange delivery. Also, I suggest that you don't tell Woodrow the figures. Only that you `think that the sale price is a good deal'. And may I please have one of those gallery-crested envelopes?"

She nods concurrence and hands me an envelope from her desk. I'll use it for Woody's cash.

I don't need to sound the horn. Woody appears as soon as my car comes to a stop. He pulls the gate closed behind him, then reaches over the top of it to secure something.

He places a medium-sized back pack on the floor at his feet, then buckles his seat belt.

I leave any discussion about the motivation for his self-portrait at the beach until later, and spend the time driving, getting to know about his passion for painting generally, what became of his major art works from high school, his preferences for different media, his family who still live out in the country, and his no-fixed-abode city lifestyle.

He is the one to raise the question of what's in his pack. "I hope you don't mind, Rob, but I've brought my other clothes with me. Would it be all right to throw them into the washing machine at yours while I'm there?"

"Of course, mate," I say. "And I have a clothes dryer, so they'll be ready to wear again before you turn in for the night."

We turn into my drive and I park down past the side entrance.

"Come through, Woody," I say. "This way goes through the ensuite/laundry and my massage room into the kitchen and living area."

"Thank you, Rob," he replies. "Would it be best to put the washing on first?"

"Why don't you let me show you the guest room, then you can organise your washing?"

We walk through the living room and down the short corridor to the bedrooms. I collect a towel from the linen press on the way through and pass it to him.

"This room is yours," I tell him and push the door open. "Bring your washing back when you are ready. Oh, and if you'd like to freshen yourself up before the massage, you can either use the shower in the ensuite or the one in the bathroom, which is that door between your bedroom and mine." And I indicate it.

"Thanks Rob," he says. "This is all very generous of you."

"By the way," I say. "I hope that you like re-heated Chinese food. I have containers of it left over from last night. I buy extra because, sometimes, I think that it is actually tastes better the next day."

He gives me a thumbs-up and retreats to `his' room while I head for the kitchen.

Not many minutes later, food having been transferred from the refrigerator to the bench, I sense his presence, rather than hear his bare feet on the sterile kitchen tiles.

I turn to comment, but am awe-struck with what I see. Surprised, but not shocked.

"Well, what do you think of them?" he grins.

"I think that they look familiar," I smile, entranced by the flash of red nylon adorning his hips. Then I comment, "I recognise those feet from your painting."

We both grin, knowing what he had actually intended me to focus on, and at my dodging of that subject. Camaraderie enhanced.

With his free hand not carrying his kit of washing, he jiggles the waistline of his Speedos, causing the amplenesses inside to bounce about.

"Accurate enough?" he asks.

"Hard to tell," I smile back. Those aren't as transparent as the pair in the painting.

His emeralds engage directly with my hazels. He drops the back pack, then he uses both hands to lower the waistband to mid-thigh height and, in a single movement, he restores it to its previous position. His stare doesn't deviate. Unlike mine. "Well?"

"Hmm," I murmur. "Pretty accurate, I'd say!"

"I thought that I may as well wash the things that I was wearing today," he says, deftly changing the subject and picking up his kit. "I'll put everything into the machine and then shower in the ensuite."

"OK," I say. "You've shown me yours, so I may as well show you mine." I smirk.

He smirks back, raising and lowering his eyebrows.

"One massage coming straight up!" I tell him. "Make it a quick shower."

He grins in mock disappointment of only being given the opportunity to assess what we had previously agreed, rather than something else hinted at. My innuendo was obvious enough!

While I ready the massage table and paraphernalia, I hear the shower running and the washing machine whirring, pausing occasionally to reverse its rotation, as front-loaders do.

The showering stops. The washing machine continues.

Emerging with the towel around his waist Woody says, "Remind me never again to have a shower while a washing machine can't make up its bloody mind whether it wants to commandeer the lion's share of the hot or the cold water. I feel as though I've been treated for some health-threatening injury with alternating cold water to reduce inflammation and hot water to stimulate blood flow!"

"Oh, sorry," I apologise. "I should have thought of that and warned you to shower first!"

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, looking the massage table up and down.

"Face in the hole at this end," I say, "and feet over the bolster at that end. And, for the best experience, you can lose the towel, if you're not shy."

"Shy? As if!" he chuckles, letting the towel drop. "After what I painted?"

One knee at a time, he climbs onto the table then lowers himself, as directed. Having providing me with a momentary, pendulous vision of his abundance, I can tell that he is not overly-stimulated by the hot water, nor overly reduced by the cold either. LOL

I lower the volume of the mood music from 4 to 3 and adjust the dimmer on the light switch.

"The objective is to relax and enjoy," I tell him. "Take a few deep breaths and let it all out."

Placing one palm on his upper back and the other on his lower spine, I sync my breathing with his own and merge my skin with his skin.

I run both palms in tandem down the opposite side of his body to where I'm standing, allowing myself to absorb the sense of his strong muscles, his evident ribs, the dip of his waist and the rise over his glutes before continuing down his firm thighs and calves. I lightly brush the soles of his feet.

He gives not a moan but more of a voiced full exhalation. "Mmm."

I repeat the sliding, top to toe.

I move to the other side of the table and repeat everything.

He has a beautiful body to touch. Strong and firm muscles. Smooth skin, except for the light sea-salt-inured short hairs on his legs.

I warm some oil in my hands and apply it to his back, a second handful to his legs and a final amount to his glutes, spreading it all evenly, up and down.

Then, at his upper back, I begin to provide his muscles with firm yet gentle pressure, alternating from massaging along their length, to across their body, removing any adhesions and dealing with any spots that cause him to twitch in discomfort.

I give equal time to his upper back, lower back, thighs and calves, and a bit of extra attention to his glutes. I jokingly tell him, "This backside is as good or better than the other two in your painting!"

I hear a muffled chuckle from below the table.

After working into each specific area, I run my palms the full length of his body, releasing any build-up of tension, and eliciting more subtly-voiced approvals.

"How are you feeling?" I ask him.

"Relaxed," he replies. "You're really good!"

"OK," I say, "seeing that you are so relaxed, turn over."

He does.

"I see that not all of you is relaxed," I smile at him.

"Hey, `Woody' by name and woody by nature," he grins back.

I repeat the routine that I used on his back. Palms first, with no oil. Chest. Stomach. Legs. And I notice that `little woody' jerks a couple of times.

Woody looks up at me and grins.

"It's all natural," I tell him.

He lays his head back, closes his eyes and keeps smiling.

Using the oil, and working perhaps more sensuously than on his back, I slowly massage his muscles, all of which were excellently portrayed in his painting. Pecs. Abs. Thighs.

"Your painting was very accurate," I tell him.

"Thanks," he replies.

"Except for `little woody' who looks like he's trying to attract my attention, bobbing up and down all of the time," I grin. "Excitable young guy, is he?"

"Frequently," Woody tells me, "And he hates to be ignored, especially when he's in one of these moods."

"So, should I just ignore his mood?" I ask, grinning.

"Best not to," Woody replies, lifting his head and smiling at me.

I lubricate my right hand with oil and then give the little guy a firm greeting. "Pleased to meet you, mate," I tell him.

He shakes my hand throbbingly.

"Friendly!" I tell the big guy, who just grins.

While I massage little woody, up and down, he contributes some oil of his own. And not just `some'. Generous!

When Woody begins to shudder and raise his hips, I immediately back off and turn my attention to his balls, which nicely fill my cupped hand. I hold them, roll them, jiggle them and stretch their sac. I release them and they initially continue to gyrate on their own, before settling.

I revert to working on either end of his body. Firm pec muscles and erect nipples. inside thighs from his knees up to his groin and brushing his balls. Then a passing grip, squeeze and rub of little woody – soft skin stretched around steeliness.

Woody groans, "Oh, mate!"

I continue to work the length of his body. Softly. Firmly. Down. Up. Little woody comes in for increasing attention. The shuddering continues to increase now, and the hip-raising is more pronounced.

"You ready?" I ask.

"Please!" he responds. "Do it!"

I use two hands. One holds little woody firmly upright while the other works its stimulating magic on and around his head. Alternating slow and fast.

"Oh, yes!" Woody calls out. "Oh, yes! Oh...! Aargh!"

Little woody explodes like a shaken bottle of champagne. A fountain. Straight up. Blast after blast until Woody's chest and abdomen look like an abstract artwork in tan and white.

I hand him a small towel and allow him to come down from his high. Eyes closed. Breathing gradually slowing.

The digital tune from my washing machine indicates that its work is done.

"It's safe to have another shower now," I tell him. "The washing machine has had its share of water. If you put your clothes into the dryer, I'll get dinner going."

I close the door and leave him to deal with everything at his own pace. In private.

I put the food containers into the microwave, set the timer and press `Start' then head for my bedroom. Not only to re-adjust my own excitable stiffness but also to fetch a pair of track pants and a sweat shirt for Woody.

"I've left a couple of things on the massage table for you to put on while yours are drying," I call out to him.

The microwave alert sounds at about the same time that Woody emerges.

"Hey," I comment, observing the residual chunkiness in the track pants, "those clothes have never looked as good on me as they do on you!"

"Thanks, Rob," he says, walking towards me. "That was fantastic!"

Then he hugs me, then drops a gentle palm to my groin.

"What about you?" he asks. "I couldn't help noticing!"

"It's OK, thanks, Woody," I tell him. "But it can wait until I'm in bed. Then both of us will probably sleep well, eh?"

After a delicious dinner, with no left-overs and then a new-friend time of chatting over coffee and some of my next-door neighbour's Italian pastries, we clean up and I call it a night.

"Good night, Woody," I tell him. "Sleep well."

He looks at me, returns my wishes and then, knowing what I intend doing, he asks, "Hey, Rob. Would you like a hand with something?"

"If you like," I reply, knowing precisely what he is offering.

We both head to my room, strip off our clothes then, when I turn off the lights, lay our naked bodies next to one another on my bed. Hand towels and massage oil at the ready.

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If you like my 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', `Paulo', `Quade', `Ronnie', `Simon', `Ty' `Ulysses' and `Victor'.
(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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