Massage Tales: Massaging Yuri

YURI

I prefer to think that, in my case, the more recent need for reading glasses is the onset of something genetic, rather than the old wives' tale of being caused by too much adolescent self-gratification! You know what I mean! And, despite the volume of `water under the bridge', I haven't gone blind yet!

My existing glasses have become a bit tired, with a year's worth of superficial scratches rendering them more of a frustration than being totally useless. It's time for a new pair.

And, it's incredible that an optometrist could charge me $400 for a pair of glasses, just for reading, while I can pick up a $10 pair at the markets that will do the same job just as well.

Besides, I enjoy browsing at the markets to see what clothes and gadgets are on offer. You know, the things which I don't know that I need until I actually see them!

The extensive, indoor market is crowded today, and it appears that stallholder spaces have been re-allocated since my last visit! I browse progressively up, down and across the multiple aisles/rows to ensure that I miss nothing, looking for the glasses.

At the end of one row, my attention becomes fastened upon an attractive display of kites. Various sizes, shapes, styles, colours, and motifs. Fascinating!

Here comes unintended purchase number one!

I don't normally buy things for my younger sister, but she will love this. A good-sized kite, realistically designed as an owl, her favourite animal. I haggle and get the $25 kite for $20, which is probably what the stall-keeper was happy to sell it for anyway, perhaps less. Even wrapped, the one and a half metre long struts, protruding at one end, are awkward to manage in the jostling crowd, OK. So, it's actually more of a giant owl!

Then, another eye-catcher! A jumper, made from various thicknesses of fibre, that appear to be from surplus balls of wool in various dye lots from light pink through to dark purple. Absolutely awful! It wouldn't be out of place in my sister's bedroom, and just the sort of thing that she would wear to university! Ugh!

I'm tossing up whether to buy it and keep it for her as a `Secret Santa' present, when I spot the small stand, with the spectacles, the reason for me being here in the first place.

I've long since forgotten the strength of lenses that I need, but it only takes two tries to find the correct ones. The style doesn't matter too much, but I select a pair with conservative thin, black frames. $12? Inflation or profit maximisation? Anyway, I manage to get them for $10.

Instead of heading straight for the exit, without the hideous jumper, I decide to check out the fresh produce area. I'm low on some fruit and vegs. Seedless grapes pass the taste test, and I buy half a kilo of them. Plus, some bananas. And oranges. I'm glad that I've brought a couple of carry bags with me. They were for any `just in case' purchases. As usual. LOL.

In a good mood, I'm having second thoughts about the `Secret Santa' thing, I decide to go back. Unfortunately, as I turn in the crowd, the kite struts catch one poor guy's ultra-thin plastic bag full of fruit, rip it apart, and his purchases spill and roll in multiple directions.

I apologise profusely, offer him one of my empty bags and, assisted by a couple of shoppers, we manage to quickly gather his purchases before they are trampled. In the confusion, some of my own goods tip out and mingle with his. With everything hurriedly collected, and stashed into the two bags, we stand and face each other.

"I'm really sorry about that!" I tell him.

"No problem," his youngish, handsome face replies, not at all angry as I would have expected. "I am sure that we can find somewhere to sort out everything."

Interesting accent!

"What about upstairs in the food court?" I suggest. "If you'd like a coffee or a fruit juice, we can work out, in peace, whatever's yours and what's mine, away from this mob. My treat."

"Thank you," he replies and leads the way.

It strikes me that he has an amazing body. What I first thought to be blue jeans are, in fact, denim-print exercise tights. Body hugging, thigh-muscle highlighting, glute-flaunting tights. It's easy to follow him, with my eyes focussed on the muscle contractions of his lower body, below his slim hips.

With him a few steps ahead of me on the escalator, it's impossible to ignore what is virtually at eye level.

Unless I'm wrong, influenced by the taut seam which runs up the back of his tights, separating his strong, rounded glutes, he is wearing no underwear. No obvious edges.

Hmm. I feel the beginning of an involuntary stirring between my legs. I'm glad that I'm wearing cargo pants and not my tighter chinos today!

"Let's find a place to sit first," I suggest as we reach the top, "and then I'll get us something to drink."

"There is a spot!" he says, pointing.

I see the two, square, cafe-sized tables pushed together, but with only two chairs. Social distancing!

We place our bags of mingled produce onto the tables, and I lay the offending kite where it won't cause any further strife. He adds his over-the-shoulder man bag. Exercise tights don't have pockets!

"Before, we talk drinks," I say, "let me introduce myself. I'm Rob."

"Yuri," he replies, extending a closed fist for me to bump.

I have my thoughts about his accent. And the name, Yuri, fits!

"Let me say again," I reiterate to him, "how sorry I am for causing you this inconvenience."

"It's not a problem, I assure you," he replies, graciously. "Besides, I am getting a free juice, aren't I?"

He grins.

Our bags on the table are obscuring any view of the front of his tights. However, his upper body is in full view, in a plain white T-shirt, just concealing the top of his tights, stretched taut to disclose discernibly firm, but not oversized, pecs and a flat (apart from abs) stomach.

I've never met a Russian ballet dancer but, so far, he fits the criteria, gained solely from my viewing of YouTube clips.

"And what may I get you to drink, Yuri?" I ask.

"I'll have an apple, carrot and ginger please," he replies, pointing to the fresh juice bar.

I inquire, "Would they make that combination over there?"

"Oh, yes. I've had one many times," he replies. "I come here at least once each week, and they make excellent juices."

Without further comment and foregoing my favourite chai late, I head for the juice bar. I'm uncertain about also trying his combination so, I decide on orange and passionfruit.

I return to the table and he is seated, already laying out produce from the two carry bags.

"Here you go," I say, placing the glass in front of him. "Apple, carrot and ginger."

"Thank you," he replies. Maybe he detects a question on my face, and he smiles, "This is very good for digestion, good health and muscle tone, you know."

Now, he's talking my language!

"Muscle tone? "I ask. "Don't tell me that this juice is some magic formula for why your body looks in such good shape?"

He smiles. "Maybe it helps. But also, it has taken a lot of work. Why do you ask?"

Aargh! I think that he is the first person to ever question me about a comment on the `good shape' of their body. My answer will need to avoid the words `attraction', `attractive' and `attracted'!

"Well, as a massage therapist," I reply, "my eyes are trained to appreciate good muscle tone." Then I add, cheekily, "Besides, it's hard not to notice, with those `look-at-my-body' clothes that you are wearing!"

There is no immediate response from him. Yuri fixes his gaze on me. Eye to eye.

I feel my cheeks and neck redden.

His blank stare slowly morphs into a grin. "I'm not offended," he says, in response to my evident embarrassment at my own words. "And you are right. I do tend to show off my assets. I think that I might have become an exhibitionist."

In an attempt to rescue some decorum by agreeing with him, I declare, "Well, you know what they say, `if you've got it, flaunt it'."

I suddenly feel that I might have just dug myself into a deeper hole, because I feel that I've turned a deeper shade of red.

He lets me off the hook. "I was taught the value of an attractive body at a very young age," he tells me. "But, that's a long story."

"Well, I don't have to rush off," I reply. "Besides, now you have me intrigued to hear all about your attractive body."

Oops! I just used `attractive'. Can I avoid `attracted'? Because I definitely am!

"Firstly, as background," he begins, "I should tell you that my father worked as a translator for the government in the Ukraine, and, apart from Ukrainian, I also learned from him the basics of English, French, German, Italian and Spanish. By the age of 10, I could hold a conversation with him in any of those languages. He thought that one day I might get a job like his. He used to talk to me about it, frequently, because the Ukraine was a very poor country and good jobs were hard to find. Even a government one.

"On the other hand, my mother, who was a teacher with the Kiev dance company, thought that I had the perfect build for a dancer and so I was sent to a boys-only school for ballet when I was about 8. I used to live at the school Monday to Thursday nights and then I would come home for the other three.

"With my mother giving me `private lessons' in poise, movement and correct hand, head and feet positions, and with my father extending my vocabulary in multiple languages, I became a favourite of my teachers.

"One dance mistress, who was from France, used to speak with me in French and appeared delighted with me being able to converse with her in her own language. My increased fluency in that language also pleased my father.

"At school, all of the boys wore tights and, in rooms lined with mirrors, it was easy to see which of us were doing the work in the gymnasium as muscles started to become evident. It wasn't only the gym masters who took an interest in my developing body, but also some of the older boys. I thrived on popularity and the praise, and it spurred me to work harder at everything.

"There were times when my father had to travel to different countries and from about the age of 12, he sometimes used to take me with him for short trips of about a week, assuring my teachers that I would not neglect any of my studies and physical work. It provided me with the perfect opportunity to hear languages by native speakers and to practice my communication with them.

"I especially liked going to Spain and, in Seville, I was thrilled to see Flamenco dancing for the first time. It was so different to classical ballet! Whenever we had holidays, I insisted that my mother take me there. She organised, through a friend, for me to not only have some private Flamenco lessons but also to go to clubs and watch the performances. I even got to know many of the dancers who helped me to learn. During one bitterly cold Ukrainian winter, we stayed there for three months, for which I think that the teachers at my school in Kiev were envious. Pleasantly so, without appearing jealous (that I could tell).

"Flamenco was totally different to what I had been trained in, and I learned new body positions, movements, foot stamping and hand clapping. I took to it like the proverbial duck to water. Because I was slim and with strong leg and upper body muscles, the Spanish teachers loved me and wanted me to stay longer and even to take part in their shows. They said that I looked terrific, all dressed up. But when my mother said that I couldn't, they jokingly offered to kidnap me. I thought that they were joking, but I sensed that my mother wasn't so sure!

"However, whenever we visited, I was always made to feel welcome, and I enjoyed having them dress me up and dance with me. In private, not in a show."

"When I turned 17, I also spent four terms at Eton, in England, majoring in language studies."

"However, as I recall, it was about the age of 15, maybe even 14, when I became aware of how attractive my body was to other people, mainly to other boys and my male teachers. My ballet tights and the high-waisted Flamenco pants left nothing to the imagination! Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean," I tell him. "After all, I was behind you on the escalator. Absolutely nothing left to the imagination! You have an amazing body!"

"And you've only seen the bad side of me!" he says, grinning.

I try to recall the word for someone in love with his own body. Narcissus? Narcissism. I wonder whether he has full-length mirrors at home, like the ones that I see in dance studios on TV and in movies. Maybe even one on the ceiling? Let's not go there!

Without any comment from me, Yuri stands, steps out from behind the table, and strikes a simple pose to display the `good side' of him.

From his comments about people being interested in the development of his physical features during his adolescent years, I'm expecting to see more: I do see an unmistakeable bulge, but there is no actual definition of anything.

"Well," he comments, following my lowered, searching eyes. "You can't expect me to wear these tights in public without my dance belt! I could be arrested for causing a scene, or for indecent exposure."

"Dance belt?" I ask.

"It's like a thong or a G-string with a special pouch up front to hold everything in the right place," he answers, grinning, then sitting down again.

"How often do you wear it?" I ask.

He replies, "Usually when I go out, but especially when I'm with the ballet group. That's the real reason for having it. Nobody wants to see that part of your body bouncing around or, especially, if you get `excited' in the middle of an exercise routine or a performance." Then he adds, "Well, some of my teachers in Kiev might have wanted to. One of our gymnasium instructors encouraged all of us boys not wear them in his class, but the dance teachers insisted that we always did in theirs."

"I need to ask, are they uncomfortable?" I put to him.

"It took a while to get used to the tight string between my legs," he answers, "but, when it's properly adjusted so that there is no movement, it's OK. Besides, I was introduced to it from the time that I started, so, since the first week, it has never been a problem."

"What about in your gymnasium class?" I ask. "And when you are dancing Flamenco?"

"Gymnasium was mostly about strengthening," he replies, "so there wasn't much movement to be contained. And, to be honest, most of us enjoyed the freedom from not wearing one."

He looks around, as if to ensure that nobody else can hear what he is about to say.

"And, despite being initially embarrassed, it became fun to see which of us, in gym class, became `stirred up' first for whatever reason. Our excitements were difficult to hide, and we came to know exactly how `big' everyone else in the class grew to. And, I could tell from the gym instructor's eyes, that he enjoyed looking at us all, too."

"Did he ever want to touch you?" I ask, curious.

"No. But he did ask me, a couple of times, whether I wanted a lesson in private," Yuri replies. "I mentioned it to some of the older boys and asked their advice. When they told me some of the things that he actually did with boys, I declined. He wasn't annoyed because there were so many others who accepted."

"Didn't those boys get angry, or complain about him?" I ask.

"Nobody complained," Yuri says. "If anybody dared, then they would mysteriously become `absent' from classes after that, like one boy that I knew who had told me that he was going to report him." Besides, the instructor used to pay those who were willing and, in Kiev, everybody was poor, and the boys appreciated the money. Some even said that they enjoyed what he did. And, from one of the older boys, I even learned to do pleasurable things with my right hand."

"OK," I say. "I didn't mean to pry into your private life. But what about Flamenco? Do you wear a belt when you are doing that style of dance?"

"Haha, no." Yuri laughs. "The men told me that it was very masculine to have my trousers pulled all of the way up, so that everything became obvious on one side. Even as a young teenager, I knew exactly what they meant, because I also enjoyed looking at their bodies in their tight pants."

"I don't know why you are telling me all of this," I say, finishing off my juice, "but, thank you."

"Well, we seem to have all of the fruit sorted," he says. "May I please use your Aldi bag?"

"Of course," I reply. "I did bring it as a spare."

After putting all of his produce into the bag, Yuri hesitates and then asks, "Would you like to watch me dance? Tomorrow night at the Spanish Club?"

"Yes, actually," I reply, somewhat excited. "Thank you. Where is it, and what time?"

"Give me your mobile number," he says, "and I'll message you all of the details."

He extracts his phone from his man bag and enters my number and name.

"Thank you, Rob," he says, standing. "It has been a pleasure to meet you. I hope that you enjoy the performance tomorrow night."

I stand and shake his hand.

He comments, "Looks like you could use a dance belt, sometimes, too." He laughs, pointing, and then he leaves.

I watch his taught gluteal muscles head for the down-escalator, and, after a quick adjustment for comfort, I am again glad that my loose pants don't betray too much.

Yuri's directions are perfect and I have no trouble locating the Spanish Club. I sign in and tell the doorman that Yuri invited me.

"Please come this way, señor, he says. "Yuri asked me to set aside a table for you."

The club appears to be `chock-a-block' with customers already. I follow him towards the left side, to a small table right at the front, adjoining the dance floor. Its two chairs are, perhaps, the only ones in the whole of the small auditorium that remain unoccupied.

As I take my seat, a waiter appears with a tray.

"Tapas, sangria, sweet sherry and chorizo to lay across the sherry glass, señor," he says. "Compliments of the Spanish Club."

"Gracias," I tell him, in my best Spanish accent.

I stir the sangria in the ceramic jug and pour myself some, watching the various fruit pieces as they slide into the glass.

I listen to the chatter of Spanish around me, recognising a few words now and again.

Soon the lights dim above the dining tables, and those above the dance floor brighten. As two guitars start to play, everyone begins to clap and stomp in time with the rhythm. A pair of female dancers swirl onto the middle of the floor, spinning, stomping, shouting and clicking their castanets. They twirl and then, as the music abruptly stops, they freeze, their red and black dresses continuing to coil around them.

A male dancer appears, accompanied only by the rhythm of his own hand clapping and foot stomping. At first, with his makeup, I fail to recognise him. I'm entranced by his short, red jacket, heavily embroidered in gold, over his brilliant-white, ruffled shirt with black trim. Tightly attached to his head by a thin strap is a flat-brimmed hat, also with gold trim, above which his arms form an arch, fingers clicking. His heel movements remind me of rapid gun-fire. His movements are graceful. At various positions on the dance floor, he freezes and the women dance around him, sometimes with guitar accompaniment, sometimes without. At one point his backside stops not far from my table. I immediately realise who it is! He artistically turns 180 degrees and stomps, his back arched. When I look from the front of his tightly pulled-up trousers to his face, he winks at me to the side of his haughtily-elevated nose.

For the remainder of the almost-seductive performance, my eyes constantly switch between Yuri's face and his pants, as he swivels around and flirts with the two women and, I think, with me. He is not wearing a dance belt! Not tonight the amorphous bulge, but a discernible tube of male flesh and the roundness of two ample balls, all held in place on his slim frame by the tightness of his high-waisted trousers.

OMG. He is handsome! I am unashamedly attracted!

Striking single hand-raised poses, all three performers finish with a loud "Olé!" which is echoed loudly by the patrons, followed by raucous acclamation.

The dance-floor lights go out and then, as the dancers scurry away, all of the house lights slowly revert to their previous intensity, and the multiple conversations around me resume, perhaps more excited now, roused by the dancing.

As I enjoy the food and drink, a body slips into the seat alongside me. Black trousers. White shirt. No jacket. "Hi Rob," he says. "Glad that you could make it! What did you think of my last show for the night?"

"You were absolutely fantastic!" I tell him. "Congratulations on a spectacular performance!"

"Thank you so much," he replies. "Did you notice any difference without the dance belt?"

"Notice it?" I reply. "How could I not? It was difficult not to take my eyes off what I was seeing! No wonder you were popular with the other boys at school!"

"Especially in the dormitory at night!" he adds, laughing. "What began with us massaging each other's aching leg muscles, usually ended in something much more pleasurable, higher up. We all took turns at helping each other, but I had a few favourites. Some for their hands and some for their bodies."

"And why do I need to know that, Yuri?" I ask, smiling at his frankness.

"Well, Rob," he starts. "I was just wondering how wonderful it could be like to be massaged by professional hands, such as yours."

"It would be my pleasure to give you a stress-relieving, full-body massage," I tell him. "When would you like me to do that for you?"

"Well, I did put a lot of effort into the show tonight," he replies, "and my body would really appreciate some expert relief. And, perhaps I could amateurly return the favour."

I know exactly what he is suggesting. "Tonight?" I ask, not knowing exactly when Yuri and I tuned into each other's wavelength, but thankful and excited that we have!

"Is that possible, Rob?" he answers.

I take a business card from my wallet and give it to him. "In about an hour?" I ask.

He reads it and nods.

"I'll go home and get my room ready for you," I tell him. "But I can't stand up just at the moment. I'm not wearing a dance belt."

He laughs, stands, and rubs my upper back. "Thanks, Rob. See you in an hour."

As I drive, I have good reason to believe that I could be forever grateful for my sister's love of owls and kites!

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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', `Paulo', `Quade', `Ronnie', `Simon', `Ty' `Ulysses', `Victor', `Woody' and `Xavier'
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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