Endermologie. It was a machine developed in France that was like a tight, suction cup with silky rubber-like edges that (once you get nude and then put on a whole thin, see-through, body-stocking) the specialist would take the device (which almost looked a life resuscitating device), and then she’d message the areas you pay for (for the half hour treatment per visit).
The end result of the weeks of treatment (and reason for these treatments) was to get rid of toxins and smooth + tighten your skin. It was awesome.
At first it would be painful, but after a few minutes it’d feel good and the specialist could adjust the suctioning to suit you but…the better you could take the stronger suctioning, the better the results. It wouldn’t bruise the skin either way (which was the purpose of the body stocking).
I paid to treat my hips, butt, and thighs, but eventually, the specialist and me got so cozy in conversation that [quote] “on her” [end quote], eventually, she would do my entire body (front to back).
Yes. It’d look funny (if you think about) because…the do your buttocks, you would lay flat on your stomach. To get the back of your arms done, you’d stretch straight out—while on your stomach.
From there, she’d move down to my back and on to the back of my thighs and calves (and up and down again-slowly, and deeply).
Then to do the front (and inner thighs), you’d have to lay on your back and open yourself the same way (arms straight out)…except in order to get to your inner thighs, you would have to lay there like a frog (leg by leg) while she messages your inner thighs—slowly and deeply.
Into a few weeks of treatment (for which I went 2 sometimes 3x per week), her conversation turned into a slight whisper, and her she’d give me her BEST deep message while we would just chat it up and small talk about how she got the job, and how much doing this treatment was too, exercise it was for her—stuff life like that.
She even knew how to schedule me uninterrupted and rushed in between other patients. I mean, I had totally first class service.
Long story short, into later weeks, the more comfortable we got with one another, the more she’d penetrate me with her eyes and whisper-talk. I think her “job” was to not exactly stare at the nude patient there but a couple of times, she’d bully we (with her eyes) and just do it…and then she’d soften up with a slight turn of her shoulders and bite her lip a little (not too “sexual” like) but just out of swaying and enjoying what she was doing.
Then the day happened. She got up the nerve to say what she wanted to say by throwing out an invitation to me: To take these treatments to her home and at any point and time I wanted to get them I could [quote] “on her” [end quote].
She told me that she had ordered a machine for herself for her own house (from France-where the machines came from-and it had finally come after about a month).
Keep in mind, she wasn’t pushy. And we had gotten cozy enough that yeah, given her job-it was inappropriate, but I’m pretty cool as long as you’re cool and not to insta-creepy-aggressive with me. Alls well-I take you as you are in any situation.
In any situation, I have a very air-tight, iron-clad, clear-cut “way” if I’m not open for “it” whatever “it” may be. I know how to make you not try me-but still keep it cool and friendly without making you feel 40 ways awkward at having missed your shot at greatness, and too, I use that threshold to gauge your “crazy” (should my friendly boundaries be overstepped and passed).
She was good. I was open.
Anyways, knowing how good these treatments felt and considering how tingly this girl would have my body, little did she know (I can’t lie), right there I swear…all those weeks she couldn’t stuck a lab coat in my mouth and had her way with me. I was that lit.
By the time she would be done with my treatment (that into this time, she’d extended for an hour), I would be limp, weak, and quite aroused—especially by the way she would whisper-talk to me while doing the treatments.
Now let’s get this “whisper-talk” out the way: It wasn’t as sensual and flirty as it was-just a way to not be heard outside the door (because I would whisper-talk back to her) but still; the whole hour was like foreplay to me and I heavily considered her invitation. I could feel her intensity and desire-it practically went through me. It had all he right elements for an explosive moment–or two, or three. Thoughts that went through my head of her actually having her way with me and handling me the rag-doll state I’d be in, multiplied by the euphoria of feeling stolen away from home and out of my comfort zone had me masturbating at the thought of it many-a-nights. And for me, if I do that, I’m either going to get over the feeling (and be done with you) or use it to get through to getting what I’m feeling.
I mean…I wanted to take her invitation so bad that I was shaking at the thought of it (but then thoughts of hearing about victims turning 50 locks trying to get away out of Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment wouldn’t give me the green light to hand over to her) so I made sure I handed over some green and tipped her handsomely at the last couple treatments. The struggle is real (let that woman who sat on Oprah’s stage many years ago) who said that if you’re in danger and that person successfully removes you from location A, your chances of survival at being moved to location B is cut in half to none-so fight at point A and where you’re initially held).
Wondering if I was overthinking, I desperately wanted to look her in the eye and make her promise me that if I could get home back in one piece, I’d definitely come. But some part of me knew it was the fear, and the unknowing-the mystery of it all that was turning me on, too. This thing was so subtly hot that even my strictly-d/ckly girlfriend said she’d go for-given this circumstance and situation. I seriously think any heterosexual woman would have felt just like I was feeling about, and throughout this thing. It was quite the moment for that moment in time.
Luckily, she paced her question near those last few treatments because (at the last treatment) she gave me her information on the back of her card and left it up to me to call her and we’d take it from there.
- throws shoulders up
- Kanye shrug
Shame me. So what.
Things just-happen…
Just like that time, at the same clinic (yes, I was getting my yearly pap/exam and that person at the edge of where I lay wi
th my feet up—in the stirrups, was a certified Doula and midwife who would practice at the facility I go to). She gave me the most gentle paps smear I have ever had in my entire life that I was embarrassed (and no, she was not sexual and did not touch me in inappropriate places) her hands were simply BLESSED. I couldn’t believe it.
Things just happen…
Like when at another visit at the facility, there I lay (feet stirrups in, speculums in) and three well-dressed, brief-cased women showed up from a women’s shelter there-to get training [on where] doctor’s look to examine a woman who’s been raped. (There’s a certain way and procedure to do it) and low and behold, I happened to be the “good sport” while my doctor asked if the midwife and the ladies could come in and use me.
There I lay while my gynecologist opened me sesame with these 3 strange women I’ve never seen in my life looking down into me and while I “modeled”-latex
fingers, frolicking and playing around my mountain and tapping about like the hand in the Adams Family.
(This time, I lay on my back in my mind giggling at the thought that I actually allow this to happen).
- throws shoulders up
- Kanye shrug
Shame me. So what.
Sometimes things “just happen” (as we lay)…and we get caught up sometimes (pants down, legs open).
We’re human. Our physiological factors and thoughts and desires take over our body and sometimes “sh/t happens.”
That being the case, obviously [as we lay] with someone we know or loved at one time, during the time we [think we] love them, shaming them for “opening up” to us at mind and body is something they should feel safe in doing (and too, even after the “love” is gone)…
Sh/t happens. I know this, remember?
But seems like ever since Vivica Foxx anal-shamed her ex (rapper 50 Cent) last month, anal-shaming is slowly becoming the newest “shame.”
Since then, Amber Rose (former girlfriend of Kanye West) put it all out there that she was all in…there and now, Kanye’s the butt of social media jokes with the hashtag called #KanyeAnalPlaylist.
You see what had-happened was…out of nowhere (a couple days ago), Kanye dropped a series of tweets that (at first) looked like one of his rants from once upon a time. It drew a lot of attention because (in the form of ranting), we haven’t heard much from Kanye who’s been pretty much laying low on ranting and instead-rising in the world of fashion while raising a new kid named Saint.
All hell broke lose however well it was found out that (yet again), Kanye sneak-dissed ex girlfriend Amber Rose on wax. Although we didn’t pay it much attention, obviously she did-as, according to her, the diss was about her son (with whom she shares with rapper 
Wiz Khalifa).
According to Rose, in the song, Kanye referred to as her meal-ticket but she chose not reply and it fell on deaf ears—including Amber’s (who said she let it slide and chopped it all up to Kanye being a quote-“cornball”-end quote).
That diss (of hers about Kanye being a “cornball”) wasn’t made public until Kanye went at Amber’s ex husband (slash) baby-daddy a couple days ago after thinking a mentioning of the initial’s “K-K” caught his eye via a Tweet (that Kanye assumed was subliminal)/
Although Rose said in an interview (making its rounds today) she was going to stay out of Kanye’s cross-Twitter series of disses at her baby-daddy and just let the boys be boys; it was when Kanye took another jab at her having been a stripper PLUS stated that her child is owned by him (I’m guessing because she wouldn’t have this “meal ticket” kid if it weren’t for him bringing her in to this crazy world of theirs).
That did it-bringing her child into this, brought out her self-proclaimed alter ego “Muva Rose,” baby…
—and up went the stink:.
Awww @kanyewest are u mad I'm not around to play in ur asshole anymore? #FingersInTheBootyAssBitch☝
— Amber Rose (@DaRealAmberRose) January 27, 2016
Awww @kanyewest are u mad I'm not around to play in ur asshole anymore? #FingersInTheBootyAssBitch☝
— Amber Rose (@DaRealAmberRose) January 27, 2016
…and the jokes:
"How Deep Is Your Love" #KanyeAnalPlaylist pic.twitter.com/K0TVYqm2Yv
— TorontoRaveCommunity (@TorontoRC) January 29, 2016
"Now I ain't sayin' she a hole digger" #KanyeAnalPlaylist pic.twitter.com/DzhduBp66e
— Not Will Ferrell (@itsWillyFerrell) January 29, 2016
https://twitter.com/NickBolton13/status/693160910144208896
While the jokes still continue into the night (although they are quite creative and stomach clutching funny), a man’s prostate is an erogenous zone that isn’t really something he should be shamed for (I even wrote about it-and how to do “it” in my book Doing It: Mind-Blowing Sex Tips You’ll Never Forget -(The Fine Art of Intimate Sex)
#12:
Granted, obviously anyone’s mind movie playing of a grown man folded and rolled back like a baby getting a diaper changed can indeed send miles of giggle reel, but the “real” is that despite how mad he makes us, he shouldn’t be shamed for it (anymore than a woman feels she shouldn’t be slut shamed).
When such an act is put in the wrong mouth, hands (or fingers), we women tend to use [such an act] as a weapon when we feel and have been scorned, just like we’ll blurt
Spitfire .
Media Maestro .
Writing Rhinoceros .
