What actually happens at an erotic massage? A first-timer’s guide

If you’re reading this with a message to me half-typed in another tab: hello. Nerves at the door are standard issue. Most of the men on my table were exactly where you are the first time: curious, a little giddy and quietly convinced they’d do something wrong. You won’t. Here’s how a first erotic massage with me in Earl’s Court actually goes, from the first text to the last towel.

Before you arrive: booking your first erotic massage

It starts with a message, WhatsApp or text, nothing formal. Tell me how long you’d like and roughly when. If you’ve no idea what you’d like, say so and I’ll point you to the sensual naked massage, sixty minutes. It’s where nearly everyone begins, and the one my regulars still come back to.

I need two hours’ notice and a number that isn’t withheld, and I take bookings from 8am till 10pm, seven days a week. That’s it: no forms, no surname, no interview, no deposit. Ask me anything you’re wondering about. I answer quickly, and I’ve heard every question at least twice, so yours won’t shock me.

Hoping I’ll come to you instead? Not for a massage: my table and my shower don’t fold into a handbag, and from most of West London I’m ten minutes away.

What happens when you arrive at my flat in Earl’s Court

About an hour before, I text you the address. It’s a private flat a couple of minutes’ walk from Earl’s Court station, so the District and Piccadilly lines drop you more or less on my doorstep. No sign on the door, and I’m the only one home. I work alone: no agency, no assistant, no driver waiting downstairs. The woman in the photos is the woman who opens the door.

We say hello properly and settle payment at the start, cash or transfer, so neither of us thinks about it again. Then the shower: hot, as long as you like, clean towels and good soap. It isn’t a hint. Everyone showers, every time, and it does more for nerves than any amount of pacing on the pavement outside.

You come out in a towel and we talk for a minute or two. How your day was. Whether anything aches. Whether there’s anything you’d rather I didn’t do. It’s the easiest small talk in London, because the hard part, walking in, is already behind you.

The massage: warm oil, fresh linen, then the pace changes

You lie face down on fresh linen. The oil has been warming by the bed, so the first touch is warm, not a shock. I start firm across your shoulders and down your back, because everyone arrives with a week knotted between their shoulder blades, and for the first stretch it really is a proper massage: long strokes, real pressure, your breathing slowing down whether you meant it to or not.

Then the pace changes. The strokes get longer and lighter. My hands wander further than any physio’s would. At some point my robe ends up on the floor, and by the second half I’m naked too. You won’t need telling. You’ll notice the moment there’s more of me on you than hands: a forearm, a hip, the warm weight of me leaning in close enough that you can hear me breathe.

If sixty minutes turns out to be nowhere near enough, another half hour is £50, and you can decide without getting up. (If you’re curious about the craft behind all this, I’ve written about what a sensual massage is and why I love giving one.)

Cut to: the sheet somewhere on the floor, the oil bottle a good deal lighter, and nobody watching the clock.

What you don’t need to know (or do)

First-timers worry about rules. There are very few, and most of them are my job, not yours.

• You don’t need any technique. Lying still and enjoying it is a perfectly good contribution.
• You don’t need a gym body. I’ve had every shape of man on my table, and the only one I mind is the one apologising for himself.
• You don’t need to make conversation. Talk if you like; plenty of people go quiet by minute ten.
• You don’t need to bring anything but yourself.

If something isn’t for you, say so and it changes, no sulking on either side. And if nerves get the better of you, nothing is ruined. It happens more often than you’d think, and the hour is still yours.

Afterwards: the shower, no rush, and a word on etiquette

When the hour ends, it ends softly. No timer going off, nobody hurrying you out of the door. There’s another hot shower, as long as you want it, a glass of water and your clothes exactly where you left them. Some people chat; some just grin at the ceiling. Both are correct.

Then you walk back to the station a slightly different shape from the one who came out of it. I never message afterwards unless you want me to.

Etiquette, in one sentence: shower when I offer, be kind, and don’t haggle, because the prices on my rates page are the prices. And if the first hour leaves you curious about more of me and less of my hands, body-to-body is the natural second booking.