Diego's Travel-Massage

The shelf held only a few bottles left strewn about. Only women's supplements remained—the men's sold-out.

Diego took a bottle.

"Do you know if this will work just the same as the men's option?"

The shop keeper eyed him up.

"Son, I don't know what those are for."

"For pheromones."

"For what?"

Diego sheepishly pulled out the money he kept in the small, top pocket of his backpack.

Diego threw a few into the back of his throat. He swallowed.

Wrap! Wrap! Wrap!

"Ola! I'm Diego. I'm here with Safe Space Massage & Bodyworks."

"How do I know you ain't bullshitin'?"

Right. Bad neighborhood. He's probably afraid I'm undercover or something.

"Er—" Diego's voice cracked. He cleared it.

"Manipulate and caress with press, push, rolf, and stroke.

"You gon' do all that?"

"Yea!" Diego rose involuntary up an octave.

That sounded... giddy.

The door swung open.

Diego took in the room. There very little furniture inside. The room smelled like a whirl of pungent odors.

Musk.

The client returned. He was large, muscular.

"You can wear whatever you like under the towel."

The client dropped his sweatpants. Diego shot his sights across the room and turned away. Diego turned slightly, sneaking a peak. The client was on the table. Under the towel. Nude. A towering lump rose high off his lap. The towel draped, flowing thick, soft creases down, over the man's body, and down, over the table.

Diego shot glances from the mountainous scene and the client.

So unshameful.

"Yea. We stroke, but I don't know."