« Did the Waitress Just Wink at Me?

Today, dear readers, the exploration of my sexual identity continues. As you loyal bloggies — if people who write blogs are bloggers, those who read them must be bloggies, right? — are aware, it's a topic that has been on my mind lately, basically ever since I cast off my third boyfriend in six months. (For the record, the orgasm ratio in those three relationships combined was about 40:1 in their favor.) It got me to thinking that if men don't do it for me, maybe I've been playing for the wrong team. In my memory, I've never been attracted to a woman, per se, but it wasn't a possibility I had actively examined, so in my mind I couldn't be sure.

After last week's innocent flirtation in a coffee shop (see previous post), I decided to ramp it up a few notches. If I was going to put my sexual attraction to the test, I decided to go the full monty (or the full vajayjay, as the case may be). Figuring there was no better way to find out if a woman's touch would arouse me than to get naked and have one rub me all over, I scheduled a massage. I went in person to set up the appointment, because when they asked my preference for a male or female massage therapist, I wanted to be able to give them a sultry look and use my best Melissa Etheridge voice to proclaim my strong desire for a woman. Hell, if they didn't pick up on the vibe I was trying to give off, that in itself would help answer my question.

Two days later, I arrived for my appointment and was delighted to discover my message had been received loud and clear. My masseuse, "Erica," even had a small photo of her and her girlfriend discreetly displayed on the ledge where she kept her massage oils and other supplies. Not only was she lesbian, but she was friendly, polite and quite good looking. If I had a female type she would definitely be it, right down to the winning smile she flashed as we exchanged pleasantries and had a brief introductory interview.

Now for the massage itself. She started on my upper back, and wasn't at all shy about folding the sheet down further than has ever been done at any of my previous massages. Oddly, that extra inch which revealed the cleft of my gluteus maximus left me feeling quite exposed and a bit uncomfortable. Well, I did practically ask for a lesbian masseuse, so why should I be reserved about it now?

First she did my shoulders, working her way down the center of my back to the aforementioned butt cleavage and then out to the sides, spending an inordinate amount of time on my hips (an area no other massage therapist has concentrated on prior to this) before working back up toward my shoulders. Along the way, she got to another area where no masseuse has ever tread and again showed no hesitation as she outlined the swell of my breasts on her way north. She made this particular trip several times, and repeated the actions each time. This was no accidental brush, it was nearly a fondling.

Next up were the backs of my legs. She lifted each in turn and tucked the sheet to provide full access to the entire leg, all the way up to the hip. (There's that hip again. I was beginning to wonder if she had some sort of joint fetish.) After giving each leg thorough attention, she covered me back up and began to give me a light rubdown through the sheet. Then it happened: She touched my ass. No, she didn't just touch it. She kneaded it, she patted it, she caressed it.

Finally she abandoned my bum and announced it was time for me to turn over. The front was much like the back (again with the hips!) with the exception that she didn't venture to the area opposite my butt, although she did come within millimeters — nay, microns — of doing so. She finished up the whole thing by giving me a scalp and facial massage.

At the end of the day, I'd had a beautiful woman feel me up, massage my ass, run her fingers through my hair and stroke my cheeks. And what did I feel during all this? Nothing. Not a damn thing. It didn't turn me on, but it didn't turn me off either. I guess the jury's still out.

Seeing that a more stringent test of my possibly latent lesbianism was in order, I took the next logical step: I scheduled a golf lesson.


The Ultimate Test: My Golf Lesson »