The room was redolent with lavender as I dried off her feet. This woman was entrusting me with far more than I’d bargained for, and I was determined she would not regret it.

I scooted a pant leg up over her knee and anointed her calf with essential oils as I’d done with her feet, fully coating it twice before it left behind sufficient residue for me to do my work. Then I began.

I started with simply encircling her calf with a firm, two-handed grip and pulling my hands down to her ankle, as if flushing the tension out through the soles of her oil-soaked feet. Each time I repeated the process, I tightened my grip, applying a little more pressure and moving a little more slowly. I could feel her muscles relaxing and I knew she was starting to really get comfortable. Even with me in the room. Touching her.

Heck, even I was getting comfortable, surprisingly enough.

Now, I hadn’t forgotten the nightmare I’d authored, leading to the anxious agony that caused most of the tension I now fought in her calves. I could never forget that. And I doubt she had either. But at least for me, I was able to truly put it down for a moment and focus on the task at hand for the first time since I’d moved out.

And judging from the utter calm on her face as I began squeezing and kneading her calf, I guessed she was allowing herself the simple pleasure of being served in such a manner, no strings attached. Most likely, the reality still stood firmly fixed in her mind, but unfocused in a dim corner rather than front and center. For the time being, I was pleased to keep it there.

Her lower leg offered no Rice Krispies as her feet had, and I quickly lost track of time in the smooth, repetitive motions of pouring what love I could into my awkward, untrained touch. Once I was satisfied with the putty-like calf muscles in my hands, I oiled her other leg and began anew.

Soon, though, I found myself mourning the end that approached all too rapidly. I’d come here to wash, scrub, and rub her feet. I got a special treat by being able to massage her calves, but that was almost over. Which meant this peace, this comfort, this intimacy was almost over, too. Then it would be back to the heartbreak and the empty house for her and the self-loathing and the car for me. I wanted to prolong this moment in any way I could.

Noticing that her loosely cuffed capri sweatpants I’d bunched up over her knee were wide enough to go higher, I considered going for the Hail Mary pass into the end zone. I was desperate to let this amity in our relational respite linger, and I decided to go for it. “I can rub your lower thighs if you want,” I offered, fully expecting her to decline abruptly, thinking I was pushing boundaries or something. That would force an end to this date that had already gone on far longer than agreed upon. But I had to ask.

Instead, she responded almost listlessly by simply pulling her pant legs up as high as they could comfortably go, exposing the lower third or so of her thighs. Dutifully and rather happily, I reached for the lavender-scented oil and began to saturate her knees with it.

Looking back, I shouldn’t have been surprised at what happened next. I’m sure you can roughly guess where this was going, if not the precise details of how we got there.

But at the moment, this was the most platonic encounter I’d had with this woman in over a decade.

There was peace, comfort, and relaxation. There was no sexual energy in the room that day. And besides, there were still flagrantly obvious boundaries that I didn’t expect to even consider for many months yet.

This was no seduction. This was honest, humble service by a terrified man who clung to any excuse he could grip that would make this moment of contentment last a little longer. To give her and I both harmony for a little longer.

So I began working on her lower thighs.

Originally posted 2015-06-12 08:00:47.