#M4MMassage

[massagem4mmiami]

"AlexSpot24 | Men’s Waxing, Body Scrub, and Male-to-Male Massage in Miami"

[saintorr]

2 new affirmations on being an artist and on Growing Older 2

[zenbrisa-blog]

Zenbrisa is a global massage network that lists the services of professional and amateur massage therapists to be availed. Through this website, you can seek a Full Body Male Massage at a location of your choice at affordable rates.

[m2mbodyworks]

Now - April 30th

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[massagem4mmiami]

I Indulge in the ultimate relaxation at AlexSpot24 Men Spa in Miami & NYC with M4M massage services. From male to male scrub me good massage to men to man massage, experience supreme rejuvenation like never before!!

[massagem4mmiami]

Experience the Best M4M Massages at AlexSpot24 Men Spa in Miami & NYC.. Indulge in top-notch male to male massages ! Try our invigorating Scrub Me Good Massage for the ultimate relaxation and rejuvenation. Book your session now!

[massagem4mmiami]

 Join me as I unravel the blissful moments, rejuvenating my mind and soothing my soul. Whether you're a Miami local or planning a visit, this article is your guide to unwinding in style. Rejuvenate your senses with the best m4m massage services in town. Unwind and let go of all stress with massage men for men at AlexSpot24.

[saintorr]

Beware of Fat Anthony from the Bronx

https://www.nycmasseur.com/post/beware-fat-anthony-from-the-bronx

[saintorr]

Listen/purchase: Pagan Moon (Bilateral Stimulation mix) by SAINTORR

Healing music. Use headphones for an optimal listening experience.

[saintorr]

Just got my E.M.D.R. kit in the mail!

Can't wait to try it!

https://catalog.pesi.com/item/theratapper-41854

Had disappointing experience yesterday with a volunteering experience; however bounced back making videos of me shadow dancing to great music on roof last night...watch for the video edit. Amazing what you can do with a passion for music, your own body, a Galaxy 7 and a super bright bike light : ).

[saintorr]

The Three Roaches of Christmas

Like the Three Wise Men came to worship the baby Jesus, I had three men contact me today. But they weren't wise, and they had no gifts. Only insanity. The first was a psycho, simply stealing my time; more than 10 texts, asking aggravating questions and trying to bargain my rate down. 1-2-3-BLOCK! The two before him were lonely, vermin calling late and pretending to book but really just pretending and wasting my precious time. BLOCK. BLOCK. Before this I had a black man from New Orleans (via Rent Masseur) asking me if he could come for the weekend--the whole weekend, which doesn't even make sense. I wonder if homeless men are now trying to book? BLOCK. Then just now another black man (one Shawn from Brooklyn) booked and this clown even went so far as to send me a text that he was 5 min. away! BLOCK again. You have to love the entertainment value. Not racial profiling here, just calling a spade a spade. All this cray acting out follows the insanity of the times. Ah, M4M massage! When it works, it's heaven. When it doesn't, true horror. So that's the state of my M4M massage business, Christmas Day 2020. In the spirit of forgiveness of man's insanity toward his fellow man, I remain. Put upon yet full of compassion and still open. After all, I am a saint. Steven Orr

Saintorr NYCMASSEUR.COM

[saintorr]

The Most Beautiful Parts

by St.Orr c. 2017

             The most beautiful parts of myself glow when I have compassion for myself, for my pain, my joy and solitude; for the craters, bags and wrinkles that attach themselves to my face and body as I age. Along with these come the tears, smiles and feelings (stuffed and unstuffed) that constitute this lovely, divinely starborn (and sometimes stillborn) psycho-bionic being and oh so grounded human entity called myself. There are broken dreams and anger, the shadows of dark and the shadows of gold; both the ashes and the infinite parts of the pieces of the puzzle that make up the me, a man who thought he was a little girl, who then accepted the man he grew into, wrapped in all of the scars of that cocoon woven into a fleece of many colors, of many shadows, and seasons that make up a life.

            I can see the grace and beauty of those larger than life stars as they sit at their tables at the great awards shows, the Golden Globes, the Oscars, etc. I sit at home and watch and wonder at their flow, their luminosity, their electric energy broadcast through all the wireless waves and satellites and piped into my monitor; I feed on them, consume them and think to myself because I can see their beauty, their grace, that I have it too!  Because I can feel them glistening with unimaginable gentleness, grace, beauty and power, then I too must have those things in me. Or maybe some essence? Well, doesn’t every human being?

            When these luminous ones come together to make their art, they overshadow all the neurotic news of bombastic tyrants and terrorist statistics; they shine through the fear, bloodletting, violence and hatred of the current world, circa winter, 2017. But they shine their fake smiles on all the dreamers and poets who still scrawl, write, and scrounge through the bottom layers of silt seeking a chance at the glamour and the gold of this crap game called show business where beauty is elevated to an art form that can inspire and lift. Their beauty too can be a trap—for it is the A-list, in-crowd that the agents and managers feed on and fight over, the stars we worship and adore. For, let's face no one wants or cares to hear about the losers whose dreaming destroyed them.

            The only famous person I ever massaged was Clive Davis. Other writers have warned me never NEVER to use real names when I record my memoirs but here I go. My purpose is not to gossip or slander but simple illustrate how the high roads and pinnacles of great success can sometimes meet the everyday world of the common man and produce a strange concoction all its own. I was called to Davis’ black marble penthouse tower on Park Avenue late one Sunday evening. He was an elderly man, he owned his own massage table and after a very anti-climactic session he paid me partially in nickels and dimes. While I stood there, in his kitchen, receiving the coins in open palms, his sick, dying Cocker Spaniel had the audacity to throw-up on my shoe. I don’t think there were any pennies. Clive inspired me to write a song called “Park Avenue” which I later produced, recorded and played for him when he called me for a second massage. He didn’t seem impressed when he heard it. “Meh, it's not a killer” he said, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips. So much for inspiration.

            There was one client who actually did pay me partially in pennies; a forgettable outcall in the West Village truly more deserving of the demeaning label of trick than that of massage client. Besides the backbreaking massage, this arrogant, cold-blooded white snake of a humanoid also demanded that I piss on him in his bathtub. I still recall the hideous, garish Kelly green and shiny silver wallpaper of that awful bathroom; and the urge to throw the carefully counted pennies that he doled out right back in his face as he paid me off, both of us standing by the door. God I so wish I had flung those pennies right back into his satiated, smirking face. This was after I rubbed him and worked him up to a sensual release as the bedside photo of his lover standing on some pristine Hamptons beach replete with foaming waves and pant legs rolled up in the sand looked on, a boyish smile sweetly singing into the camera.

            The little boy in me has followed the man to the places where touch replaced sanity as the ultimate actor's “Survival Job” and the worship of the ecstasy of the orgasm was all, was enough, was better, truer and more real than any other form of working in the mundane “real world” could ever be.

            Now, I am emerging from that cocoon. Emerging from all my years that are spread out like a long, murky dark night of the soul. Older, wiser, a bit slower and a bit less generous with my body and hands to the hungry, horny minions of men; for what choice does one have when the downtime waves come lasting for a week, two weeks, or two months? In years past, when I was younger, the downtime could be measured in hours or days, there was always an endless supply of male (and sometimes female) clients in and out and up and down the one flight of stairs leading to my one-bedroom East Village flat. Then I recall all the hours spent in spas, the Plaza, the Waldorf, the crème de la crème of the best hotels and spas in the city; those passive aggressive, peach and crème-colored torture chambers with their silken linen smells and serenely smiling blond aestheticians working the front desk, making bookings, taking payments, listening to the complaints of the rich and not-so-famous. How many times was I initiated into the true meaning of the embalmed slave-state of the so-called service industry mentality? The place where New age serenity smiles are glued in place like impenetrable plastic masks. Oh the ache of the pressure of hands on bodies, hour after hour, giving until there’s nothing left to give; to have to smile, to have to fight attitudinal managers over incorrect paychecks, explain yourself like a criminal when some cunt complains about something you did or didn’t do (“too much peppermint oil on my thigh, it started to burn!” "So sorry to rock your bliss lady, but the cap was loose and came off in my hand!” or “During the massage, his fingers felt much too close to my inner thigh;" or "he stole my Rolex watch”). Oh what joy to be jumping like a trained circus dog when the cruel but handsome, Latin bisexual manager snapped his fingers “Room 4-Go!” at the West Village “Nickel-Spa for men.” That was the summer of the blackout I remember. There, in a tiny massage room, in the dark, a client lay prone, waiting. And there, light from outside glowed through a slit in the door like some view into a World War II NAZI gas chamber that "Hector” would peep through to check up on you, his eyes searching and accusing, making sure you weren’t doing anything naughty! In the darkened room while you massaged, sometimes you fantasized about lunch, the end of the shift, fantasizing the clock speeding up so the hour would go faster. Also, sometimes there were mysterious energy shifts and exchanges. You would begin the massage with a sore wrist, back or an upset stomach and simply through the mindful meditation of touching--of giving--your malady would disappear. Miraculous. After many a massage too, the clients would reappear looking pleasantly-sleepy, refreshed and years younger. Healing hands are so underrated. There is a lovely Zen quality to simply touching and being paid for it. It’s a pure physical, intimate work on a much higher level than office 9-5 drudgery. I’m grateful too for all the joys the sexual release work have given me through the years. Talk about “sweet labors of love.” So it almost appears strange that after all this physicality and all this time I wonder why is it that now, when I find myself servicing a client’s sexual needs that an intense nausea rises in my gut and I’m forced to fight the almost overwhelming urge to vomit? Interesting that after what?--some thirty years of doing massage (I started in 1990) that this very ethereal thing called self-integrity that I thought I’d lost or abandoned years ago, (my lost soul perhaps?) has come back to own me with a vengeance. Or maybe I’m owning it, my dear, sweet self-soul, after all these years. Thank you, God. I guess there’s a point where every man grows into his skin and outgrows his tired, cock-heavy adolescence. It’s as if my gut is telling me “You HATE this.” But I ignore the feelings and my urge to puke when repulsion grips me. I know the hour will soon be done and this strange “stimulation/torture/meditation” meshing and merging of energies, fluids and fantasies called M4Mmassage will help me pay yet another month of my over-priced New York rent. In my new vision of this my “third ace,”  I see myself fleeing this inflated, over-hyped, hollow, over-populated and all-too-neurotic place called New York City. Please God, soon, I pray, just the vista of the ocean and a small garden and I’ll be fine. Oh, and no more massages please, unless he’s my lover and not a client.

[m2mbodyworks]

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