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Can I Touch You There? (Part 1)

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When we say, “I was touched”, there are at least two implications. The first is the idea of being moved emotionally and then the second is being physically touched and sometimes against our will. My experience with massage covers both ideas to a degree. I had no desire to ever become a massage therapist. Even going to massage school was not my first choice. For me massage is a divergence of wills.

My earliest experience with massage was when I was a child. My father expected me to massage him any time he wanted, regardless if I felt like it or not. I was not allowed to express any dislike or annoyance at being pulled from the TV or even the severe dislike of touching someone I was aware hated me. I was never more aware of his hate as I was during the times my hands were upon him. One time I asked him if I was his nigger. He almost came out of bed to knock me out. The only thing that seemed to stop him was his nudity. Two other times I felt as if what he really wanted to do to keep me in hand was have me suck him off. I cannot know for sure if he consciously thought that or that he reveled in having power over me. At this stage of life I am deeply offended that an adult, any adult would feel it was his or her right to ask a child, any child to touch their body. Touch is never to be manipulated, forced, or coerced.

My father never had an issue with forced touch. I was conceived on a night when he forced himself on my mother, ripping her dress and causing severe distress to her. She expressed to me that even as she was short of clothing she could not bring herself to repair and launder her dress, she threw it away so she would not be reminded of the event. That was not to be of course because nine months later I was born. To add insult to injury, my father insisted that my mother have an abortion. He was convinced that she had been impregnated by a boyfriend, a boyfriend that did not exist. As you surmised, I was not terminated, although my twin did choose death on some level.

Back to me. It is all about me. That is why I wrote this. I was deeply affected by feeling obligated to massage my father’s back. I wanted to cry, that here was a man who wished for my death, whose words and actions spoke hate. I was touching him. I despised him and having to touch him. Now what hits me like a pan to the forehead is that, here was a man who was convinced I was not his son and yet had no problem violating me. If, in fact, I had not been his son he had zero right to even ask me to touch his nude body, let alone expect it. As a father I am not sure I would allow my son to massage any part of my body. I know I would NEVER ask him to.

My mother was complicit in the abuse. Yes, I said abuse. I would suffer verbal onslaughts by both parents if I raised negative thoughts, words, or body language. I was to feel privileged to show my father appreciation by attending to his every whim. According to my mother, doing things for him was the way we could show him how much we loved him and appreciated all his hard work. I suppose I could say her providing him sexual satisfaction, even by force, was an expression of love and appreciation as well. I could not lie in word or body language. My dislike of being abused this way was normally picked up on. Heaven forbid if both parents were privy to my reactions, for days I would be browbeaten for my offence.

My father is, to this day, sure I am gay. What IS my truth and my choice is my business. I will never accept the label of gay. EVER. He hates gays. I cannot understand why a man who hates gays and is sure I am would demand I touch his body. I guess a couple times he did get agitated because I worked too far down his low back to his glutes. I was and still am intuitive. I followed what the body indicated was a pain issue. I had no thoughts or ideas in the direction of sex. I was in the practice to avoid the topic of sex, even in the case of two people outside of myself. I was molested at age four. Even as an adult and married, I had the belief that I had to have sex with my wife. It never occurred to me that it was permissible to enjoy sex.

Speaking of adding insult to injury, several times a week I had to endure slurs and accusations of homosexuality by my father. I was constantly preoccupied with my gestures, the tonal quality of my voice, the way I moved my body, and the way I walked. It amazed me how many activities that I choose to do or not to do created opportunities to “prove” my gayness.

When my parents first found out that I was going to massage school my father thought that was great. After I talked about working on men I was back to be defined as a faggot. My father told me that it was wrong to give massage to males or females, other than my wife. My response was, “OK I’ll put up my sign indicating that I only work on transvestites”. I hadn’t then considered transgendered as well. It is a good thing too, because I have never had the opportunity to work on either of those populations.

So why the heck did I go to massage school anyway? I had been practicing to be certified in an energy psychology process. I had several friends and associates within that interest group that brought up the idea of massage. Every one that spoke to me about it said that they were sure I would be good at it. I was repulsed by the idea from the very first time it was suggested. I actually had to fight not to tell the person off. After six or seven people suggested the idea, I asked, “Does everybody think I am gay? What the Hell.” That woman asked me if I considered her husband gay. I had no idea what that had to do with anything. I said, “No I don’t think he is gay.” I was informed he had been a massage therapist for fifteen years. I literally said, “Open mouth insert both feet.” After a lengthy pause, where I had to work out my rage and embarrassment, I inquired if it is not due to a supposed orientation issue, what is the reason people kept telling me to check it out. I was already involved in learning and perfecting emotional healing work. How could physically touching another person, anybody, be more useful or advantageous than what I was already working towards?

Even after I got my questions answered I remained unconvinced. I felt I had something I was good at and also interested in doing. Much to my chagrin, those people could not let it go. They could not leave me or it alone. I weakened and gave in. I looked at the possibility that I was being prodded by God. Several of these people were Jehovah’s Witnesses like I was and two of them had husbands that did massage; one of those was not a Witness. I finally promised that I would think about it. I found myself promising then to check it out. I didn’t have the first idea where to make any inquiries. Then I started paying attention to a TV ad for a local school. It took several viewings to get the phone number written down. Several more days pasted and I got another call. The person on the other end asked if I was following through with my promise. I had to truthfully say no. I had gotten the number, but I did not want to make that call.

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