Earlier this week, I was on a little vacation, getting a massage, and something clicked into place. I’ve often wondered if I have a kink around receiving massage—but I’m starting to think it’s not a kink so much as a preference born of wisdom.

The truth is, I prefer being touched by men who are massage therapists. Not because of a fetish, but because they’ve been trained—trained to touch with intention, sensitivity, and care. And that’s rare. So many men don’t know how to touch my body in a way that actually feels good to me. So of course it makes sense: if I’m going to be touched for my pleasure, it’s going to be by someone who has studied the art of touch.

Even then, even with training, a lot of male massage therapists still don’t know how to touch my body in the way that feels truly good. But it’s a start. At the very least, they’re aware there’s a line—a boundary between therapeutic touch and erotic touch—and that awareness creates a container. There are ethics. Guidelines. Some semblance of structure.

And honestly, that’s part of what draws me to massage. I’m fascinated by the line between what feels good and what turns me on. That edge is alive for me. I’ve explored it intentionally, inviting massage from men I was curious about. Sometimes in professional settings, sometimes not.

What I’ve noticed is this: it’s a completely different experience when a man says, “This is for you,” versus when he quietly—or blatantly—claims, “This is for me.”

I remember the first day I met A. He offered me a massage almost immediately. I could feel him angling for it, angling to touch my body. And at one point, he actually said, out loud, “This is for me.” That moment stayed with me. In a professional setting, the touch is supposed to be for the client. But this was different. He was admitting what I’ve sensed so many times—that the desire to touch me, while possibly generous, often carries a thread of entitlement.

It’s the same thread I’ve felt with men I’ve met online, men who offered to give me sensual massages. Almost every time, there’s a moment where their touch changes—where it shifts into something they want for themselves. I can feel it in my body, the change in intention. There’s a kind of silent declaration: I deserve to touch you like this.

That’s where discomfort arises.

Because sometimes, that touch does feel good. Sometimes, their desire turns me on. But if I don’t like their energy—if I don’t feel safe, or seen, or sovereign—it becomes a violation, even if I never said the word no. And that’s the nuance I wish more men understood: being physically aroused doesn’t mean I want sex. Being open to touch doesn’t mean I want you close, or inside, or even kissing me.

I can enjoy the way your hands feel on my body and still not want anything more than that. I can be deeply turned on and still not want to fuck. And yes, I’ve let things happen because it felt good in the moment—but then wanted nothing to do with that person afterward. Not because of shame, but because of dissonance. Because the act wasn’t anchored in connection.

That’s what makes my experiences with S different. There’s a dance between us—a delicious, slow edging toward something more. He tracks my cues. He respects my boundaries but nudges them gently. He doesn’t rush. He lets the sexual tension simmer.

And I love that. That’s the kind of intimacy I crave. Not goal-oriented. Not performance-based. Just present, and responsive, and alive.

In contrast, so many men fixate. Once they start touching my pussy, that’s all they want to touch. It becomes a mission to make me orgasm. And often, even professional massage therapists don’t know how to touch me in a way that feels right. It’s too fast, too rough, too mechanical. It’s not attuned.

Sometimes I wonder—are they learning? Are they curious? Or are they just chasing a script?

I’ve had men assume that because I’m wet, because I’m moaning, I must want sex. That they’ve earned it. That I’m now theirs to enter. But that’s not how it works. My body’s arousal is not consent. My desire does not negate my boundaries.

And yet, I’m curious about my own patterns, too. I notice that I often want the experience of being touched just for my pleasure. I don’t want to reciprocate. I don’t want to switch roles. I want to receive, fully. And still, somewhere in me, there’s a voice that says I’m asking for too much.

When S puts his mouth on me, or touches my breasts, or lingers at the edges of what’s “allowed,” it feels exquisite. But when he asks to do something for his pleasure—like sliding his cock between my breasts—I often feel annoyed. Even if I say yes, it doesn’t always feel aligned. Maybe because in that moment, I didn’t feel like it was about me anymore.

Maybe what I’m discovering is that I like being the one in control. That what turns me on most is being able to fully surrender, because I know the space is held for me. That the tension I crave isn’t just erotic—it’s about being desired, but not demanded. About being touched, but not taken.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s not too much to ask.