The day after beating my PR in a 5K race in Białystok, my legs were in desperate need of a massage. Curious what a Polish massage would be like, I found a small massage studio on Google run by a Polish lady who looked nice, in a MILF sort of way.
When I entered her studio, she greeted me warmly and offered me tea which I accepted. She was average-looking and sporty, dressed in a black tank top and short shorts, how one might be while lounging at home on lazy Sunday. She barely spoke English, so we exchanged brief pleasantries in Polish. We confirmed the price and massage length of 60 minutes.
She led me to the bathroom and instructed me to take a shower, wear the disposable thong, and wrap a towel around my waist. I joined her in the dimly-lit massage room where she told me to lie on my stomach. The first few minutes were pretty tame and I told her to use more strength. I didn't know how to convey it in Polish, so I flexed my biceps and touched hers. She got the message because the rest of the massage was more to my liking. She worked my back, legs, shoulders. After a while, I started to wonder if she was even going to massage the front or spend the whole hour with me on my stomach. Due to the language barrier and my back being to her, we didn't make much small talk.
She turned me around and said time's up. I got annoyed. What about the front, I asked motioning to my chest and quadriceps. She said that was 60 minutes. Now I must admit, there's no better motivation to practice my Polish than when I have to convince a Polish MILF to massage me for longer.
Me: Masz czas?
Her: Mam.
Me: Ile kosztuje?
She said 120 złoty for 30 more minutes. The price seemed fair, but I felt I needed to regain some authority. I asked her for 45 minutes. She agreed. During the front massage, my erection broke the ice. I sheepishly apologized for it and complimented her. She remained silent and massaged around it, careful to not touch it. I asked her her age and if she has a husband. I was pretty proud of myself for asking these questions in Polish. If the questions were too personal and improper, my broken Polish made them appear innocent. Nonetheless, I could feel a slight tension in the air. She said she's 46 and that she doesn't have a husband, but has a 21 year old daughter. She asked my age, I told her 33. She said playfully that's the age Jesus died. He died of pain, I will die of pleasure, I told her. I'm not sure if she understood me though. I complimented her for looking younger than her age. She attributed it to yoga, Taoism, and other spiritual practices. I teased her for not visiting China and India, the birthplaces of Taoism and yoga. She said she's learned from movies like Shogun and reading books. I told her Shogun is Japan, not China. She flushed and tried to convince me they're the same thing. I figured then that she's probably self-taught, not formally trained at a massage school. But I didn't mind, she was doing a decent job, not to mention helping me practice Polish.
The massage was on pause throughout our brief exchange and I had propped up on my elbows. She told me to lie back down. I closed my eyes. She finally started to address my erection. After giving it a few strokes, she asked me if it's okay. Classic tactic of asking for forgiveness vs. permission, I thought wickedly. She brought me to a generous climax. Whether it was the massage to get the blood flowing beforehand, or my hips being tense from the race and desperately in need of release, or her expertise in this domain, or some combination of the three, her hand job will now be what every future hand job will be compared against.
I've never paid for sexual pleasures nor enjoyed strip clubs because I can't stand the idea of a woman feeling obligated to please me. I live for the chase, the gamble, the unexpected. I'm not sure how many hand jobs this masseuse gives a month, but to me it felt unexpected, and that's what made it so pleasurable. By having to speak Polish, I also felt like I earned it. I just regret not pushing my luck and inviting her into the shower with me.
We had a cup of tea in her kitchen where we talked about Indian deities and the tattoos on her arm. Finally I paid, not a grosz more than we had agreed, and told her to text me if she's ever in Warsaw and wants to grab a coffee. She kissed me goodbye on the cheek.