Massging Hayden

Did you miss `Gino' in the A-Z sequence? You'll find that tale at
Massaging Gino

HAYDEN

I first noticed him while I was cleaning the grass off my golf shoes by the elevated entrance to the club house, to have `clean' shoes before I went in.

I had already used the bolted-down brushes, but the moist grass stubbornly persisted between the soft spikes. Fortunately, chained to an adjacent bench there is a hand brush, much like I would have expected in a kitchen dustpan-and-broom set, except with much tougher bristles.

While I sat on the bench, facing the golf course, `sanitising' my soft-spike shoes, it was probably the movement that caught my eye as he headed towards the club house from the Pro Shop, about 100m away.

And I thought that, as he walked, my discerning eyes could make out an apparent bulge in the front of his black trousers.

However, from that distance, I wasn't sure whether it was just the afternoon light playing through the mature pine trees, or, maybe, the way in which his clothing creased as his legs moved, but my eyes persisted in attempting to distinguish the reality of it.

Anyway, before he got near enough to make eye contact with me and, perhaps, realise what I was looking at, I would have plenty of time to re-focus onto something else.

The closer he got, the more certain I was that this well-built guy was sporting a right-leaning, but confined, erection. Or, at the least, a very healthy and well-packed semi.

I wondered what had caused it; someone else in the shop, or something on his mobile phone? Maybe the memory of a past sexual tryst, or the expectation of one?

Having convinced myself that my initial opinion was correct, I soaked up the moment of visual pleasure, then re-focussed on the brush and my shoes.

It was only when he came close that I looked up, as though noticing him for the first time, nodded to him and said a polite and friendly country-style `hello', which he returned before passing me and going straight inside.

My guess was that he was possibly heading for the toilet, as I knew from experience that there was none in the pro shop.

Having efficiently dealt with any remnant of grass, and needing to relieve myself anyway, I decided that it would not be inappropriate for me to stand up next to him at the urinal while he was `hanging out'.

Then again, if he was sporting a hard-on, he would likely have selected a stall and closed the door.

However, he wasn't at the urinal, and all of the stalls, with their doors open, were empty.

Where had he gone?

Having zipped up and washed my hands, as much from golf-course grime as for hygiene, I entered the club house's lounge area proper. I scrutinised the cake cabinet and ordered coffee and a slice of cheesecake.

I selected a seat at one of the tables which overlooked the undulating 9th green, to observe other people's attempts at making a better fist of putting than I had done.

Unexpectedly, he passed me again, this time from behind, and headed back out through the bistro area.

Where had he been?

If he wasn't a member, maybe he was actually a tradesman or an employee, even though I had never previously seen him in the pro shop which was manned by either the golf professional or his assistant.

From the window I watched him pacing back towards the shop. `Nice glutes' I thought, observing the plump, tight, creaseless backside of his trousers.

Who was he? I needed to know!

It might have raised some concerns if I had asked the barista for the guy's name, so I decided upon a much more `direct' approach.

Having finished my coffee and cake, I headed back towards my car. It was only a slight deviation to take the fork in the path which led down to the pro shop by the first tee.

He saw me coming. With one hand resting on the roof of a golf cart he watched me, probably to see which path I would take: the one to the car park or down to the shop.

My immediate thought? He was probably single-handedly manning the pro shop while also juggling the duty of cleaning and re-charging the golf carts, as I know that the pro and assistant do.

When I avoided the path to the cars and continued straight on, he moved back towards the door of the shop and stood, watching me.

I initiated the conversation. It went like this:

"Hello," I say, smiling while walking directly towards him.

"Hi," he replies, obviously wanting to see what I am after.

I stick out my hand. "I'm Rob," I tell him. "I'm a relatively new member and I haven't seen you before, so I just thought that I'd come and say hello.

"Hayden," he replies, smiling.

His handshake is strong and firm. Face to face, he looks younger than my first impressions of him, maybe late teens or early twenties, but then I hadn't exactly been checking out his face earlier. From his build, he could easily be a rugby player.

His expression appears both one of surprise that somebody would bother to go out of their way just to introduce themselves to him, yet also of gladness, perhaps for the same reason. His eyes and wry smile are engaging.

"Are you new?" I ask. "I haven't seen you in here before."

"I'm just temporary here on Mondays and Tuesdays for a couple of weeks," he replies, "while the pro is on holidays and so that the assistant pro gets his two days off each week."

"That would explain it," I say. "I usually play on Friday or Saturday, but today I thought that I'd get in a bit of extra practice. Oh, and the pro shop was still shut when I started earlier, which is probably why I didn't see you."

He nods. "Yes, I'm not rostered to start until 7 o'clock and I know that some members like to hit off earlier than that."

Not satisfied just to know his name and why he's here today, I ask, "So, what do you do, Hayden, when you're not manning the pro shop?"

"I work either mornings or afternoons in the bar and café," he replies, pointing towards the club house. Then he adds, "It's only casual work at the moment, but they're considering giving me more hours."

I think that this would be another reason why I haven't seen him, because the bar is not yet open when I finish my early-morning nine holes. Also, if we play 18, one of the girls is usually serving when we finish.

Knowing his name, his work hours, his physical stature and the fact that he can sport a healthy chunk of wood, is enough for now, so I decide that I'll leave him to earn his money.

"Nice to meet you, Hayden," I say. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Thanks, Rob," he replies, looking directly into my eyes and smiling. "Nice to meet you too."

I head back towards the fork to the car park. As I turn the corner, I glance over my shoulder. He's still looking in my direction, so I wave. He waves back.

`Bit of a connection,' I convince myself, and I determine to speak with him again.

Today, Friday, is one of those foul-weather days when only the most dedicated or demented of golfers venture out onto the course. I am neither. Despite the fact that the strong winds would give me a credible excuse for a bad score, I generally won't play if it's showery, and definitely not if it is, or has been, raining heavily.

Seeing that I'm not using my driver today, I decide to drop in to the pro shop and ask about having the grip on it replaced. I'm not expecting Hayden to be there.

He isn't.

"Sorry," the assistant pro offers, looking up as I enter. "The course is closed today. Still too much surface water around."

"That's OK," I answer him. "I just want to see about having one of my clubs re-gripped."

We discuss the replacement grip for my driver and he tells me that if I can wait for about half an hour, he'll do it for me straight away. I select the particular grip that I want, then give him my mobile number so that he can phone or text me when the club is ready.

"I'll go and have a coffee and wait in the club house," I tell him. "So, I won't be far away."

"OK," he says. "I'll text you."

"Hayden not working in here today?" I put to him, pretending not to know Hayden's hours, and fishing for any offered information. "I met him the other day. Very friendly and very helpful guy."

I'm not averse to dropping a good word for somebody, especially when I have an ulterior motive.

"No," I hear back. "I think that he's over in the bar today. He was only here filling in for me earlier in the week while I took a couple of days off. Same scenario next week."

I walk the 100m back up to the club house, framing some appropriate words, in the event that Hayden is serving behind the bar.

He isn't.

I'm disappointed, but return the smile of the young lady who takes my order and then asks where I'll be sitting.

I indicate one of the seats near the windows, although she would have no trouble finding me. I seem to be one of only two patrons in here at the moment.

I take one of the local newspapers to peruse while I'm waiting and I sit, facing the gloomy golf course.

I've only turned a half dozen pages when my scones with jam and cream, and my cappuccino are placed in front of me.

"Thank you," I offer mechanically. Then, looking up, I see Hayden doing the serving instead of the anticipated girl who took my order. "Hayden!" I say, brightening. "I hadn't expected to see you. How are you?"

"Great, thanks, Ro..." he replies hesitantly, pointing at me as if to connect face and name.

"Rob," I complete for him.

"I thought it was `Rob'," he smiles, "but `Ron' and `Rod' also crossed my mind when I first saw you."

"Really busy, eh?" I say, tongue-in-cheek, indicating the relative emptiness of the place.

"Run off my feet, as you can see," he replies, buying in on my joke. He adds, "The ladies' bridge club cancelled because of the weather. They were the main reason that I was rostered on, and seeing that the club needs to pay me a minimum of three hours wages if I turn up, I'm basically just making myself useful by tidying, cleaning, serving and being as customer-focussed as however the crowd requires."

"Yes. A crowd like this can be quite demanding," I smile. "You must be exhausted!"

"I'd rather be busy," he replies. "It's actually harder trying to find things to do to fill in time than doing actual work." He looks at his watch. "Anyway, I'll be out of here in about 45 minutes."

"And then what?" I ask. "What's on for the rest of the day?"

"I'll probably go back to my flat and rest," he says. "I think that I did something to my back earlier when I was moving some beer kegs around in the cellar. Pulled a muscle or something."

Aha! That's my cue. "I hope you've reported it to the duty supervisor. Where does it hurt, exactly?"

"Lower back mostly," he says, turning and indicating to me the area across the small of his back and into his glutes.

"Let me guess," I put to him. "You were lifting something heavy and turned sideways at the same time."

"How could you know that?" he asks. "Are you a doctor?"

"Nothing that glamorous," I reply smiling. "Just a massage therapist, who happens to see a lot of people with `crook' backs." Then I add, "Lifting and twisting are the primary reason for many of those problems. Then there's always the gym junkies who think that their pecs and abs are the only part of their bodies that they should exercise so that they look good. Oh, and some footballers who never warm up properly."

"Guilty!" he says. "On all counts." Then as he shifts his body weight, he winces in pain.

"I'm just waiting for my driver to be re-gripped," I tell him. "So, it should be ready in about half an hour. If you like, I'd be happy to look at your back for you, when you're done here."

"Thanks, Rob," he says, "but I can't afford any treatment at the moment. It's difficult making ends meet with only casual wages coming in. Maybe when I get more hours, I'll look you up."

"And if your back gets worse, you may not be able to work at all. That could mean even less money," I suggest. "Even if they do end up paying you some worker's compensation."

"I'm hoping that I can just have a hot shower and rest it," he tells me, putting both hands on the small of his back for support and gritting his teeth.

"Tell you what," I put to him. "What if I trade you some of my skill for some of your muscle?"

"How do you mean?" he asks, looking confused.

I reply, "I've been tidying up my garden. And, working alone, it's starting to get the better of me. I could use some help. What if I work on your back and then, when you have time in the next few weeks, you could give me equal hours of your gym-toned, footballer's muscle in my garden. No cash transacted, but a win-win for both of us."

He smiles at my assessment of his body, I think. And, I can see him weighing up my offer.

"Deal!" he concludes, offering me his hand.

"So, when you finish your shift, do you want to come to my clinic? It's only about five minutes from here. Or will I go and collect my portable massage table and come to your place? Your choice."

"You definitely don't want to see my place!" he is quick to respond. "I'd be embarrassed, or need a couple of hours to tidy it up first."

"Are you OK to drive then?" I put to him.

"I think so," he says. "Besides, I should probably go home and shower first anyway." Then he asks, "What should I wear?"

"Ever had a massage before?" I put to him.

He shakes his head. I know that many guys worry about what to wear and what will happen.

"Come in something comfortable, like trackies with a pair of jocks underneath. That OK?" I ask.

"How about what I wear to the gym?" he asks back.

"Perfect!" I say, giving him my business card, which he scans.

"Hey, I know where you are," he tells me. "You're just around a couple of corners from my place. You know the grey, cement-rendered units in Palmer St? I live in one of those."

I recollect seeing the two-story town houses to which he's referring. Six in a row. Grey, cement-rendered walls. White window and door trims. Light grey plantation shutters. Very neat. But, as I picture them, they are very `compact'; most suitable for a pensioner couple or a single person.

I'm explaining to Hayden about the private side entrance to my clinic when we both hear his name called from the bar.

"Better go," he says. "See you later. And thanks very much."

He turns to leave, then spotting my scones and the now-poor-state of the whipped cream that he delivered, he says, "Let me freshen this up for you." He takes the plate and I start on my coffee.

He returns with "microwaved" scones and replacement cream.

"Thanks," I tell him. "And look after your back for the next half hour."

I'm almost finished my coffee, and am pondering the still-bleakness outside when my phone buzzes.

<Your driver is ready, Rob> It says.

I return my empty coffee mug, plate and knife to the unattended counter of the bar and head back towards the pro shop.

Having changed into my navy track pants and white polo shirt, I check that the room is set up; the air con is set for minimal-clothing comfort, relaxing music is playing, and my arrangement of oils, creams and `implements' are all at hand. A quick burst of eucalyptus-scented air freshener and everything is ready.

Hoping that Hayden hasn't changed his mind, I check my watch multiple times before I hear a car pull into the driveway.

I watch him gingerly remove himself from the car, dressed in gym shorts and one of those loose-fitting singlets, if `fitting' adequately describes how it is hanging off his shoulders. "Hi," I say, greeting him in the doorway. "How's the back feeling?"

"Worse, actually," he tells me, and I lead him through the ensuite to my clinic room.

I ask him to sit, and to fill out some basic details on one of my client sheets. "Insurance reasons," I tell him.

He starts writing, then pauses and says, "Sorry that I took so long. I wasn't joking about the condition of my flat, and I had to search for some clean underwear before I had a shower. I hope that you won't be offended by a jock strap."

"I'm not offended by those, or much else. Or much less," I say, smiling. "But I just have one request. A `House Rule', if you like."

"What's that?" he asks, looking at me, somewhat apprehensively.

"Whatever happens in the room, stays in the room," I tell him. "Everything's strictly confidential. Including any discussions that we might have. About anything."

"Well, I'm glad of that!" he says, exhaling as though some weight has been lifted.

I don't ask why.

I read in detail what he has written, checking that he has included his mobile phone number, then talk him through the procedure that I intend to follow, with him first on his stomach and then on his back.

"Whatever happens in the room..." he begins.

"...stays in the room," I tack onto his upward inflexion. "Anything in particular on your mind?" I ask.

"Not really," he says. Somewhat guardedly, I think. Then he adds, "But, you'll see."

I'm intrigued. "OK. Let's start with losing the top and the shorts and with your face in the hole at this end, and your feet over the bolster at that end."

The singlet comes off quickly to reveal a gym-toned front. "Pecs and abs!" he smiles, reminding me, of my generalisation of gym junkies earlier.

I laugh. "Well, you've certainly done a good job on them!" I remark, then ask, "Have you given your back equal attention, neck to knees?"

"Not really," he says, looking at me as though it's the wrong answer to an exam question or a job interview. He adds, "Except for what we do at footy training."

"That may be the indirect cause of your injury," I explain. "The front's tight; the back muscles are probably stretched and they can't perform when you need them to, like lifting and turning."

The stunned look on his face is one of logical realisation.

He's a little more circumspect in removing his shorts. And I immediately see why.

"House rule!" he reminds me.

"Of course," I reply, observing the rainbow-coloured jock strap. Well packed.

"It's all that I could find which didn't need washing," he almost confesses, adding, "And it's not one that I would ever wear to rugby practice. You can guess why."

"And you thought that I might be offended?" I ask.

"Are you?" he asks.

"Of course not!" I tell him. "Why would I be?"

"Well, you know, the rainbow thing," he answers.

I say, "Well, it's something I would more likely anticipate seeing at a Mardi Gras parade. But, if it doesn't bother you, then it certainly won't bother me. Just try to relax. OK? You look pretty tense."

"So, you don't care that I'm gay?" he asks.

"Makes no difference to me," I answer, "but, then, there is one question, that I should ask you, which wasn't on the Client Form which you filled out."

"I know," he offers. "No, I don't have any diseases or infections, and I've been tested again recently."

I don't want to ask why, but I think that he must lead an `active' life to warrant `recent' testing.

"And, I can tell what's going through your mind," he says, looking at my face. "It's just a precaution thing. I don't have multiple partners. It's just because I'm wary of some of the guys that I sometimes hang out with. I don't really understand exactly how viruses can be transmitted."

I can't help smiling.

"What's so funny?" he asks, seeming perhaps a little miffed at my mirth.

"Sorry," I tell him. "Hearing your words, I suddenly pictured you, with a bunch of guys in jock straps, all `hanging out', instead of staying `tucked in'."

He points at me. "I like you," he says, grinning, then he positions himself, face-down on the table. He lifts his head and adds, "And your House Rule!"

Normally, I would tuck a towel into the waist band of a guy's underpants, to prevent them being soiled by massage oil, then lower them to permit access to his glute muscles.

In Hayden's case, there is only a strap, already providing me access to his glutes! I ponder what to do. I explain the situation to Hayden.

"Just pull the strap down," he tells me.

I do. It sits neatly, underneath his firm cheeks, giving them a bit of extra lift.

I comment, "Well, I can see that you haven't totally neglected the muscles on this side of your body!" And I give his smooth backside a friendly pat.

"That's obviously more coincidental than by intention," he says. "Probably from the running and kicking while training twice a week, as well as playing a full game on the weekend."

"You can probably thank the footy coach, then, for preventing a total melt-down of your back under strain," I respond.

I work, as I normally do in these cases, methodically, taking in all of the supporting muscles from the neck down into the hamstrings.

I note the spots where Hayden flinches or groans, and they receive the extra attention required.

As I work, I explain to him what I am doing, on what muscles, and why. I finish the work on his back with a neck-to-knee Swedish massage, avoiding the straps of his jock, which I manoeuvre around as required.

"That feels really nice!" he tells me. "Too nice, actually!"

I don't comment, but take his words to mean that he either likes the feel of my soft hands on his body, or that he has sprouted an erection. Or both.

The next bit is cruel, but I enjoy watching the various reactions of guys, in this situation.

"Right!" I tell him. "Time to turn over onto your back."

The anticipated pregnant pause occurs.

"I was afraid you were going to say that," he says, timidly. "House rule?" he asks.

"Of course!" I reply.

He closes his eyes tightly as if to block out any adverse expression that I might exhibit, then rolls over.

I see an ample erection protruding beyond the strap of his jock.

"That looks awfully uncomfortable," I say to him.

"It happens a dozen times a day," he replies. "At least."

"Not, the erection," I tell him. "That's normal; maybe fifty or a hundred times a day for a healthy guy of your age. No, what looks uncomfortable is the way that your jock strap is trying to strangle it."

He laughs. Tension relieved.

I adjust the support for his head and his knees.

"You could always take it off completely, if it's uncomfortable," I say, matter-of-factly.

He does, without the slightest hesitation.

"Would you like me to cover everything with a towel?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter, now that you've seen it," he replies.

"You'd probably be surprised if you knew how many erections that I see on this table." I tell him. I repeat my often-told wisdom: "A Chinese therapist once told me, `an erection is merely a compliment to the skill of the masseur'."

"Then, consider yourself complimented," he laughs.

"And thank you," I reply, "for such a large compliment!"

More laughter. The moment of potential embarrassment has gone.

His front, too, is hairless. Everything!

"Wax or shave?" I put to him.

He knows what I mean.

"Both," he tells me. "And a bit of laser work on the chest."

"OK. Let's loosen up some of these tight muscles," I tell him, laying my hand on his abdomen.

I work into his pecs, abs and hip flexors. I discover some `hot spots' that result in his erection jerking upwards, every time that I touch one of them. Every time. Each and every time, LOL.

I work on his quads. More hot spots, especially in his inner thighs.

"I suspect that you are enjoying this," I comment.

"You have no idea how much," he responds. Then he raises his head and directs his focus to the growing pool of dribbled pre-cum on his lower abs. It increases every time that his erection jerks. And it jerks every time that I `hit' one of his known `hot spots'. Every time. LOL.

"I don't suppose..." he begins, but doesn't finish the sentence.

"What?" I put to him.,

He almost stammers, nervously I think, "Is there any way...? Would you ever consider...? What would you think if I asked you to...?"

I know what's on his mind, but he's not getting it this easily!

"I want you to go away happy," I tell him. "Are there any areas that I've missed?"

Momentary silence! "Yes, just one," he replies, swallowing hard.

"I've covered everything that I can see," I say, smirking (inwardly, if not outwardly).

"There is one more," he tells me. He's committed now. He's going to ask me for a hand job!

"Let me think what I could have missed," I smile and press a range of his `hot spots' one at a time.

The reaction of his body is more obvious than his words could be. I work my way from both his top and bottom extremities towards the middle.

"You're getting closer to it," he says, looking at my face.

I yield, and decide to put him out of his misery. I saturate my hand with his now-plentiful pre-cum and wrap it around his erection. It jerks.

"Oh, did you mean this muscle?" I ask. "This tight one?"

"Oooh," he groans. "Yes. That one. Can you do anything for that one?"

"Well, it is quite tense, and rather a handful," I tease him. "But, yes, I reckon that I can relieve the stiffness. However, it'll cost you an extra half hour of gardening," I put to him.

"Agreed!" he responds quickly.

I don't need any additional massage oil on this one!

I start slowly, spreading his wetness down and then up. I vary my grip between tight and more gentle.

He groans.

"Anything wrong?" I ask.

"No. Not at all. Nothing. It feels great," he says, breathily.

I don't rush it, and I incorporate his hairless balls, which elicits another pleasurable groan.

I make it last for as long as possible, until he starts to get antsy.

"I think that I'm just about done," I tell him. "Just say the word."

"Do it!" he almost pleads.

I pull his erection away from his abdomen which stiffens it further, if that is possible. Then I rub and squeeze and tease his head more than previously."

"Gonna cum!" he squeaks.

While holding on, I throw a hand towel over his cock and my hand to prevent him from shooting over his face, in case that's what he is capable of.

His body tenses. Tilting his head backwards, he lifts his hips off the table and pushes into my hand, while I maintain my grip. One more upward thrust and I feel him spurt. Massive jerking and wetness! I'm glad that the towel is there.

With an expletive of satisfaction, his hips relax back onto the table, and I feel, via many shudders, his cock expel the remnants of what was stored inside.

I wipe my very wet and sticky hand with the towel and begin mopping up everything from his body, when he comments on the tent in the front of my track pants. He tentatively moves the back of his nearest hand to it, as if to confirm what his eyes have discovered.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Only if you want to," I tell him. "But you will still owe me 90 minutes in the garden."

He deftly liberates my own erection, already primed with its own issue of pre-cum and his obviously-experienced hand has only to work for a few minutes and the hand towel becomes even wetter.

"I wasn't expecting that," I tell him. "But thanks."

"No, thank you! Best hand job that I can ever remember," he comments, smiling broadly. "And way better than doing it myself!"

"OK," I say, switching back into a more professional mode. "Let's see how your back is. Stand up for me."

I ignore the healthy remnant of his erection as his body transitions from horizontal to vertical. Feet on the floor.

With him facing me, I indicate to him each of the movements that I want him to copy. Carefully. He does, obviously contemplating his ease of movement.

"Well?" I ask.

"You have miracle hands!" he tells me, grinning.

I don't know whether the double entendre is intentional, but I comment, "Now take it easy! OK? I don't want you injure yourself again, or you might have to come back."

He looks at me, grins and asks, "Wouldn't you like me to owe you 180 minutes instead of 90?"

"OK." I tell him. "Let me know when it suits you for a follow-up `treatment', and I'll check my diary."

He gives me a hug of thanks, and I give his firm backside a friendly pat. Both sides.

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.

-----

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' and `Gino'.
I think that `Gino' is one of my best works; however, it's at http://nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/massaging-gino/

-----

Please support the efforts at Nifty. Every little bit helps to ensure that

our stories are posted. Do it here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html