“Let me introduce you to my work,” he said, producing a photocopied brochure from his pocket. “Welcome Home Massage, Grounding Yourself in Your Vacation,” it said on the front cover. We had just met a few hours earlier at a Mayan market in the middle of the Mexican jungle. He was there to entertain—singing and playing his guitar. I joined him in a few songs and he gave me a ride back to Puerto Morelos, the mellow fishing village where I was staying for a few days. Now we were getting to know each other over fresh juices in a café. I couldn’t quite read this man who looked at least twice my age. Was he trying to romance me? Or was he just being friendly and using the opportunity to gain another stressed-out North American client? There was a vague attraction between us, but I wasn’t thinking about having sex with him. I mean, it crossed my mind, naturally, but it wasn’t something I really desired. The massage, however, was tempting. I had slept on enough uncomfortable beds in my travels to make me feel like I needed one. So I made an appointment for the next day.

I neither looked forward to nor dreaded the massage. It loomed in the future as something I could easily throw away along with our kisses in the town plaza and his eager question, “Puedo dormir contigo?” My hotel was half a block away, calling me to its sanctuary. So what if we performed Besame Mucho at a dinner party for retired ex-pats? So what if our spirits were aligned? So what if we had some enlightening conversations? So what if he was treating me like a queen? I wasn’t in the mood for another Mexican hotel fuck. Besides, part of me felt like I was kissing him for charity. I’m indulging the fantasy of a man past his prime. So I played the good nymphet. “No, I’m too tired esta noche … but tomorrow I have a massage …”

Once it was clear that he wanted to sleep with me, I wondered if he would maintain his professionalism during the massage. I’ve had many massage offers from men who seemed sexually interested in me, and what started out as an innocent shoulder rub usually ended in some serious deep tissue manipulation, (the tissues that professional massage therapists are licensed to keep tucked away under a towel). Despite my ambivalence toward Fernando, the idea of his hand inadvertently slipping in between my legs while working on my thigh was a turn-on with a touch of Humbert Humbert perversion. He was already going to give me an hour and a half massage for the price of an hour. Why not throw in an orgasm along with the discount?

The massage was amazing. And there was no slipping of hands into moist crevices. He was a true professional. “You do very good work,” I said, after I got dressed. “So what are your plans for this evening?” “I was hoping you would be my plans,” was his modest reply. “How about dinner?” I suggested, envisioning an old-fashioned romantic evening followed by another peaceful sleep in my sanctuary of a dumpy hotel. But he put on some sexy Brazilian music and I felt compelled to initiate a dance with him. Then we started kissing and soon I was back on the massage table, while he deftly worked out the tension between my legs with his tongue. The initial massage had clearly, yet “inadvertently” prepped my body for pleasure.

Sex is always better when the body and mind are relaxed, but you don’t need a professional masseuse to experience the sexual benefits of therapeutic touch. Offering someone a back rub is a non-threatening way to make a move because a back rub in itself has no sexual agenda. But when attraction is part of the motivation, what often happens is this: the receiver loses physical tension along with any mental resistance, and through the endorphin-inducing releases of her shoulder knots she naturally desires sensations and releases in other parts of her body, regardless of what she thinks she wants or doesn’t want … this is how I felt with Fernando, and during my last night in Mexico, when I accepted a massage from a young Mexican hippie on the beach of Isla Mujeres. 

Fernando wanted me to spend another night with him, but I had to move on. Through my craving for solitary reflection, somehow I sensed another erotic adventure was in store for me before my return to New York.

“Don’t think I do this with all my clients,” Fernando said. “This is the first time.”

Although he was the only professional masseur who brought me to orgasm, the experience reflected a familiar pattern: not believing I would sleep with someone until he gives me a massage, then suddenly I want the person—not because I find him more attractive or desirable, but because I feel more connected to him through the gift of touch. I wasn’t crazy about Fernando, but I fell in love with his hands kneading into my calves, his tongue sliding over my labia …“You do very good work,” I said again, after I came. “Welcome Home,” he said. 

“Welcome home.”