Amanda and I had been chatting on and off for months. I scrolled back through our chats, as I typically do, to get context and quotes for the diary entry. It started, as it often does now, with a message about my posts.
“Thanks for all the love,” I wrote to her, in response to a string of likes, in quick succession.
“I’ve just found your page and am busy exploring,” she replied later that day, after a few more likes.
Her avatar was a photo of high heels and calves, presumably hers. I can say this because she changes it every couple of months. Every change is a glimpse of her but nothing that could be used to identify who she is. Other than the changing profile photo, she posts nothing. She reposts inspirational quotes, beautiful photos of scenery or architecture, and the occasional erotic, but not pornographic, photo. Her page is a metaphor for the conversations we’ve had. Generally brief, interesting but sometimes obscure, sometimes tantalizing but unrevealing, and always classy.
“The Jessica story is my favourite,” she wrote a week or so after first contact.
“Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
“I can relate to it,” she replied.
I didn’t know how to reply. I gathered she wasn’t the type of woman you asked questions of. I didn’t want to offend, upset, or scare her off. Before I could come up with something in response, she wrote more.
“I’m more Angela‘s personality but Jessica’s circumstance.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’d love to hear what you think of the Elizabeth entries,” I replied, as I’d recently published them.
“I just started it. I read one chapter at a time, no matter how much I wanted to continue. I like to resist the urge and save it for the next night.”
I liked that. It implied desire and temptation, as well as discipline to resist.
“Bedtime stories?” I asked, a little flirty.
“Exactly.”
There was something about my interactions with Amanda. It was like I was a high school senior flirting with my teacher, or at work flirting with a colleague. It felt exciting but also a little dangerous. A delicate and precise process. It was like I was tiptoeing up on a deer, holding my breath, not wanting to startle it. I wasn’t even sure she was flirting back most of the time.
“Anyway, have a good day,” she wrote.
She always formally ended a chat. It was another thing I liked about her. That seemed classy to me. Considerate and classy. She had manners, a sort of etiquette she stuck to. Something pretty rare in most online interactions.
“That photo is so sexy,” I wrote, forwarding her one of our reposts a few days later.
It was a black-and-white photo of a woman. She was lying on her back. Her chest was lifted up, head titled back, chin up, rising up to meet the touch of a man’s fingertip on her lips. It was submissive, erotic, sensual; it makes my mouth water just remembering it.
Amanda didn’t answer for days. That was pretty typical. I got the impression she wasn’t logged in very often.
“Exquisite,” she finally replied, followed by “Your photos of Elizabeth are beautiful. She has such a wonderfully womanly body for a young lady.”
“She does. She is also very good at posing to accentuate it.”
“I’m sure the photographer has a role to play too.”
“Thank you. Yes. We got some good shots. Teamwork,” I replied.
“I’m reading her story. Nearly finished. It’s very playful. You captured her brash, youthful personality so well,” Amanda wrote.
“Thank you. You’re full of compliments today.”
“Credit where credit is due.”
I felt a little euphoric rush. I was starting to get a little more sure that, in her own way, Amanda was flirting with me.
“You do a good job of capturing the unique personality of each of the women you’ve written about. You seem to respect their particular style, work with them, and explore their needs perfectly. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you so much. That’s such a wonderful compliment.”
Amanda had me smiling.
“You’re welcome. Well deserved.”
“So when are you going to book your massage?” I replied, taking a leap.
“My massage? No Sir. This is just an exploration of fantasy for me. I’m married with kids.”
“Like Jessica?” I shot back at her.
“Touche,” Amanda replied.
Then dead air. Radio silence. No messages. I knew she hadn’t left. She never just left. I had to think of what to write next or else a “Have a nice day” or something similar was coming.
“What fantasies?”
“What fantasies am I exploring?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Interesting question.”
I left the silence this time. I intentionally paused, with no follow-up, leaving Amanda to feel the space.
“Lust, passion, taboo,” she finally responded. “The best fantasies are taboo, I think.”
“I think all sexual fantasies are taboo to some extent.”
“Agreed.”
“So what is yours?” I asked, feeling a little more game.
“That’s a story for another time. I best let you get on with your day. I look forward to more Elizabeth before bed. Have a wonderful day Mr Masseur, Author, Photographer.”
Diary of a Masseur 