Thatwas her profession, full-body massage, "For pleasure, not for health," isthe way she put it. I know, I know; you're thinking how can anyone be so...aive, but I just was, okay?So I got my massage, and it was divine, just two problems. First, I wasso much more aroused than usual that it was all I could do not to explodeinto the modesty shield Kimberly had thoughtfully used to hide my tinyequipment, not my strongest feature as a man. Second, it was funny thatthere were no women getting. People constantly lie to each other and stab each other in the back; they break their promises and break one another. Their infidelities destroy their “picture perfect” family, and their selfishness eradicates all the noble virtues of love. That’s why I’ve been single for so long. I don’t live my life with my head in the sand. I don’t lie to myself and desire a fictional love story that doesn’t exist. I loved a man once… twice even… But the last experience was enough to sober me up. It was a. ”“Ummm, nope. I’m not seeing anybody.”With that, she stood up and kicked off her shoes, pulled the hem of her shirt out of the waistband of her jeans and sort of sauntered/crept over to me. She leaned down, putting both hands on an armrest and allowing the neck of her white shirt to gap open, leaving me a clean view of her boobs, wrapped up in that lace bra.“You were jealous? Worried? Scared?”I laughed nervously, wanting desperately to force my eyes up to hers but failing miserably.“Mike, I’m. Somehow he manager to take a photo with my leg outside the split of my skirt showing a fair bit of stocking leg while I posed with the wallpaper.I should be fuming mad with Tom for taking pictures of me like that but strangely I am not, maybe’s with reading all these stories I am more tolerant. In fact, seeing myself posing I am feeling a little excited and flattered to think I am worth taking a photo of. In bed that night all I think about is the photos and some of the stories where boys.