Chapter 3

“On a scale of 1 to 10?” Quincy asks.

“Maybe a 3. What’s the point of the blindfold?”

“It heightens the experience,” Quincy says. “Aside from not seeing what’s coming, the fear and anticipation add an intensity.”

Is this a mistake? Should I give back $50 and just walk out of here? If I didn’t desperately need the money… What? Maybe I wouldn’t leave. Maybe part of me is curious about what’s about to happen. I look at all five of their faces, landing on Zain’s last and I nod again.

“Can you, umm…take your shirt off?” Quincy asks shyly.

I guess I should have seen that coming. I pull off my t-shirt and my too lean, underdeveloped upper torso is on display for all to see. If we were at the beach or the pool I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but inside with all five of them staring and fully clothed, I’ve never felt more self-conscious in my life.

And then Quincy blindfolds me.

Zain says, “We trust your intention to comply, we really do, but Keegan is going to hold your arms down. Defense is an involuntary response, so some gentle restraint will be required.”

Two hands, Keegan’s I presume, wrap around my wrists and pin me down to the mattress. For a full minute the room is silent and nothing happens. Quincy was right; the blindfold has me in suspense. My breathing quickens despite the inactivity. Then fingertips touch my ribs on my left side and I almost scream. Keegan’s grip tightens as I flinch hard. Those fingers prod and stroke my side and soon another hand joins in and attends to my neglected right side. These two hands journey repeatedly from my ribs to my armpits and my blindfold is getting soaked with tears from laughter.

Another set of hands lands on my stomach. I instantly quiver from the sensation. Ten new fingers do a dance across my lower abdomen and I laugh out loud with reckless abandon. Fingernails graze across from side to side just above the waistband of my jeans and I am covered in goosebumps. While those four hands and twenty fingers continue their assault on my upper torso, I feel new hands grip my shoes. My old, tattered DCs are so worn that they both slide right off my feet with little effort and no need to untie any laces. And then my feet get attacked and I thrash around like a raving lunatic. Fingernails drag up the length of each arch and laughter turns to shrieks.

The brutality against my poor feet ceases momentarily but then I feel the weight of two bodies sitting on my shins, pinning my legs down. Both socks get stripped off and I cry out, “No, no, no!!!!” But my cries land on deaf ears. Every square inch of my tender bare feet gets thoroughly molested with swipes and strokes and scratches and jabs. Meanwhile, the hands on my upper body continue their performance and it’s all starting to be too much. I seriously think I’m about to pass out when suddenly, everything stops. The bodies rise off of my shins and all eight hands stand down from my tickle torture as Keegan releases my wrists.

Quincy removes the blindfold and smiles down at me as I blink against the light of the room. She says, “You did great. You underestimated your sensitivity by a ton – I’d say you’re at least a 7 – but you really hung in there like a trooper.”

Zain is writing in a notebook. He shows it to Quincy who reads it and nods.

My breathing has finally normalized. I’m still on my back on Zain’s bed, barefoot and bare-chested. Quincy says, “Now the jeans need to come off. The underwear too.”

“If he’s wearing any,” Keegan laughs.

“And all five of you still need to be here?” I ask.

“We’re a group,” she replies. “There’s overlap.”

I look at each of them again. No one is recording anything that I can tell. At least, no cell phones are out. I sigh and unbutton and unzip my jeans, pulling them down my hips and slipping my legs out. She begins to massage my legs from the knees running up the thighs. It feels nice. Zain takes his notebook over to a desk against the wall and sits with his back to us. The other three watch as Quincy continues her work. She knows what she’s doing. I have no doubt she is a certified massage therapist. I close my eyes and begin to enjoy the skillful rubbing.

Eventually, she begins a massage of my abdomen. I am not being tickled anymore and again, it feels nice. I relax further. This goes on for some time until eventually Zain walks into the room (I hadn’t realized he’d left) and hands her a bottle. Zain returns to his desk, turning his back and Quincy grips the waistband of my boxers – the last article of clothing on my body. She says, wincing in apology, “These have to come off now too.”

I nod and lift my butt an inch off the bed as she pulls my underwear all the way off and casts them aside with the rest of my discarded clothes. Next, she pours oil out of the bottle Zain gave her and moistens both hands. She begins to rub all around what we all know is her eventual target, coming her fingers through my pubic hair, oiling up my pelvic bone, my perineum and my hips. The oil is warm and soothing – Zain must have been warming it up. She pours more into her hands.

She explains, to our spectators as much as to me, that Lingam is an historic and cultural term for penis. Lingam Massage literally means penis massage. It’s all about moving the energy around in the body, increasing its healing capabilities, pleasure and spiritual purposes. If the Lingam is massaged correctly, the body’s energy will be spread and awaken magical moments of pleasure unlike anything ever experienced before. These moments can culminate in ecstasy and touch the soul in earth-shattering ways.”

Keegan chuckles, “We all know what that means.”

Cass swats his arm, “Weren’t you listening? The goal is not orgasm.”

“Every guy’s goal is orgasm,” Keegan chortles.

“Hopeless,” Cass says, but she’s smiling at him.

Quincy touches my Lingam for the first time. She lifts my flaccid penis and rubs oil all over for coverage. It feels nice but I remain soft. She grazes my scrotum with her fingernails and I smile in delight, but still I do not stiffen up.

Quincy tells the room, “The Lingam Shiatsu Stroke is the first step. I’ll begin at the root of the shaft, gently pressing the penis with my thumbs and index fingers and then releasing. I will move up one centimeter at a time, repeating the process until I have traveled the full length of the shaft.”

Cass says, “That will be a short journey. He isn’t very long right now.”

Jada comments on the obvious, “He’s totally limp.”

“I mean,” Cass continues, “isn’t a Lingam Massage performed on an erect…Lingam?”

Quincy releases my Lingam and it falls back down against my thigh.

Jada says, “You told us you didn’t suffer from erectile dysfunction. Did you lie to us or do you have a problem you were not aware of?”

I know I’m not impotent. I’m not sure why I’m not responding.

Cass asks, “How can you not be rock hard after everything that’s been going here for the last fifteen minutes?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve answered all questions honestly, except maybe one.

Keegan has an idea. “Quincy, let me give it a shot.”

She protests, “You’re not a certified massage therapist. You don’t know how to give a proper Lingam Massage.”

“I just want to see something. Give me one minute.”

Quincy gets up and Keegan takes her place. He grips my shaft in his large, athletic, calloused hand and while I feel a slight stirring, I don’t feel the magic I’m expected to feel.

“A little progress, but…” Keegan gets a huge grin on face. He says, “Hold up a second. Zain?”

Zain turns around from his desk across the room, “Yeah?”

Keegan is still grinning, “Get over here. You’re tapping in.”

He approaches with caution, “Umm, me?”

“Well, apparently you’re the cute one. This is all an experiment, right? Let’s see what happens.”

Zain replaces Keegan between my legs. He hasn’t made a move for me yet, but his eyes briefly connect with mine. He raises an eyebrow and I don’t look away.

Keegan laughs, “Houston, the launch sequence has begun. He’s chubbing up fast and Zain hasn’t even touched him yet. The bus wasn’t broken, we just assigned the wrong bus driver.”

I can feel Zain’s eyes on me. I continue to grow. Actually, I can feel his hands on me despite the fact that contact has yet to be made. My Lingam is now pointing straight up at the ceiling.

Cass says, “86? You picked Quincy as your favorite of the three girls, but she had absolutely no effect on you. All Zain had to do was glance your way and you get a raging boner. What the hell? You said you were 25/75 on my modified Kinsey Scale. You lied. Your penis is telling us the truth, but your words were a lie.”

Keegan musses my hair like he’s proud of me, “Calm down Cass. He’s not a liar. He told us he was 6.25 inches and now that he’s standing at attention, we can see he clearly did not exaggerate. He also told us he was “questioning” when pressed to pick an identity. Maybe he’s still figuring shit out. He didn’t respond to Quincy, but he really didn’t respond much to me either. Now as for our colleague Zain here? The response was immediate and undeniable. 86 likes Zain. Cut him some slack.”

Cass opens her notebook, sighing theatrically, and scribbles some notes. She grumbles, “We’re paying him. All he has to do is tell the truth. Is that too much to ask?”

Keegan puts a hand on her shoulder, “We’re asking a lot more of him than that. The poor dude is lying there stripped naked with all five of us staring down at him. We asked him ridiculously embarrassing questions, we tickled him nearly to death, and now? I know that orgasm is not the goal of Lingam Massage, but the way he seems to be responding to Zain, this poor guy is about to literally lose his shit in front of an audience.”

I wouldn’t have expected Keegan to be the voice of reason in this collection of people. He might not be “questioning” his own sexuality, but we’re both guys and he can imagine not wanting to be in the position I find myself in.

Cass softens a bit. “I guess I’ll assume he was confused earlier. Call it a brief moment of Dyslexia. He understood the scale backwards. He said 25/75, but what he really meant was 75/25. Right, 86?”

My pulsating penis bobs and glistens in precum. My brain flashes on the memory of one of the two times I recall seeing Zain on campus. We’d never met and I didn’t know his name, but I was heading to the track to start a run and he was headed off, just having finished one. He was drenched in sweat with his dark curls wet and weighted down lower than they’re hanging right now. He lifted his shirt to wipe his dripping brow and the brief sight of his light brown stomach caused an involuntary stirring in my shorts. There were a dozen shirtless guys, lean and musclebound, all around us. None of them had any effect on me whatsoever, but that stolen glimpse under Zain’s lifted shirt was a moment that burned in my mind. Seared in my brain. I’ll never forget it.