2 comments/ 7034 views/ 3 favorites Love at The Body Shoppe By: AverageBear Author's Note: It's been a couple of years since I posted a story on Lit. Most of my stories are inspired by true events, but are liberally embellished by my imagination. This story, however, is completely true – every word of it, to the best of my recollection. It starts out a bit slowly to develop the context, but if you'll stay with me, I think you'll see why I'm still haunted by this encounter after more than 17 years. "LOVE AT THE BODY SHOPPE" I'd been hooked for a while. No, not on cocaine, not on weed – not even on alcohol. On tanning salons. Not the kind where you get that beach-ready look, or are in danger of the lobster look if you fall asleep in the bed. I'm talking about the mid-1990's Houston euphemism for live, one-on-one peep and stroke shows. In other places, their more physically interactive counterparts are known as massage parlors. But in Houston in the mid-1990's, any form of paid physical sexual contact was illegal – and may still be. The "tanning salon" owners knew what they were doing, and they had no appetite for tangling with law enforcement. So they found ways to satisfy their customers without technically breaching the law. I suppose anyone looking for a genuine tanning experience could rent the beds that they had on display and baste their way to Tropicana heaven. For those of us in the know, however – and it was likely a large majority of their client base – there was a much more erotic experience available from the lovely ladies who manned the welcome desks. For a fee, you could pick your favorite girl and have her "model" some tanning swimwear in a room at the back. You'd be seated in a comfy recliner chair and asked to wait for her to "get ready." She'd go off and change to wispy swimwear and then enter the room from another door. Once she pressed the "play" button on a boom box to start the modeling music track, she'd begin to disrobe and invite you to "get more comfortable." To remove any doubt about expectations, there was always a box of Kleenex and a bottle of body lotion on a little table beside the comfy chair. You've got it – the "getting comfortable" suggestion was for you to get naked and give yourself a hand job while watching the girl dance naked. It was sort of one level better than watching girls at a strip joint. Here, you left happy instead of frustrated. As for any further expectations, once you'd learned the ropes, you knew not to expect anything more. Each girl would remind you at the outset that there was to be no physical contact, as that was strictly forbidden and against the law. The more bitchy of the "models" would remind you that they were wearing spiked heels and knew how to use them if you got out of hand (no pun intended). I first learned about the tanning salons shortly after I moved to Houston. My wife and kids had stayed behind in Atlanta to try and sell our house. I was in a new town, in a new job with a new company. I had some lonely nights the first few weeks, first at a hotel and then in a temporary apartment provided by the company. I didn't want to complicate my life with an affair, but I needed some form of companionship and sexual release. I stayed away from the bars and took to watching porn and jerking off to ease my sexual frustration and loneliness. I still felt lonely with my video companions. I needed human companionship. Soon after, as I was looking through the classified ads at the back of the newspaper, I noticed some ads for strip clubs. I had been to strip clubs a few times in Atlanta, but I didn't like the dirty feeling of ogling the same girls at the same time as all the other guys in the joint. In the same section of the classified ads, I noticed ads for "tanning salons." It didn't take me long to figure out that these were essentially private strip clubs. After my first visit (and a thorough schooling in the "rules"), I was hooked. I could feel a bit of human companionship while keeping my life uncomplicated. Since I was paying, there was no danger of developing a relationship. Since I wasn't technically having sex – or even physical contact – there was no need to feel guilty about cheating on my wife. At least that's what I kept telling myself. It took nearly six months for our house in Atlanta to sell. After the first 3 months, the company no longer provided temporary housing, so I had to move into an apartment. With the added expense and still carrying a mortgage, I carefully rationed my entertainment money out of each 2 weeks' paycheck. No ball games, no bar nights, no dance clubs – just "tanning." Of course, I made sure to pay cash each time so there was no paper trail through my credit cards – wouldn't want to rock the boat back in Atlanta. I made it a point not to be seen too regularly at any one salon. I'd go once a week, but found different salons in different parts of the city, so it was a few months before I made a second visit to the same place. By the time our house sold, I had just about made the rounds to each of the tanning salons a second time. However, after my wife and kids moved out to Houston, I cut dramatically down on my tanning salon visits. But I couldn't completely stop – I was addicted. I cut down to once a month, but my guilty pleasure began affecting my job performance. I lost focus. But it wasn't just my addiction that was causing it. I discovered that my new company was involved in some unethical practices, and I wanted out. With the help of a recruiter, I found out about a really good job opportunity in Arkansas. After a few interviews over the course of a month, I was hired and scheduled to start the following month. My Houston employer was disappointed that my tenure was ending so abruptly, but thankfully the situation never got messy, and I made plans to leave. Besides dealing with my company situation, the impending move to Arkansas could help me in another way. There were no "tanning salons" in Arkansas, at least not to my knowledge (now, meth labs in Arkansas are different story for another day). I needed to break my tanning salon addiction, and the move would force me to go "cold turkey." It was late May, and the kids had just finished their school year. We'd be moving the first week of June, and I decided that I would have one last "hurrah" at one of the tanning salons. I was feeling particularly horny, and my wife had become so busy with moving preparations that she claimed exhaustion and refused to join me in any sexual activities. Departing from my past line of thinking, I decided I'd try to "get lucky" at a tanning salon. I stopped by a pharmacy and picked up a packet of condoms. My stomach fluttered with excitement and anticipation, though from experience I knew not to have high expectations. A pair of spiked heels could be waiting to crush the family jewels. The first tanning salon on my agenda had the somewhat suggestive name of "The Body Shoppe." A very pretty, very young girl was seated at the front desk. She had auburn hair, pretty green eyes, pouty red lips and a beautiful set of white teeth. She wore a thick gown, much thicker than the outfits I'd seen other girls wear at these joints. It didn't give me much of a view of her figure, but her face was extremely pretty. She had a shy demeanor and an air of innocence. I felt a pang of guilt at the condoms in my pants pocket. "May I help you?" she asked. "I don't know," I replied. I shrugged my shoulders and looked past her at the obligatory tanning bed past the counter. "Need a tan?" she inquired. "Um..." I stuttered. She could tell I was flabbergasted. I think she believed I'd never been to a tanning salon and was trying to figure out how to ask for her services. In truth, I was embarrassed to be soliciting a sexual encounter – whether the usual peep show or something more – with such an apparent innocent. She had to be barely legal, but I knew these shop owners were careful and would never hire someone under age. They would also never risk providing the full-on sexual encounter I had in mind, as it would surely lose them their license and incur them a hefty fine. "What can I do for you?" she continued, looking at me with wide eyes and an air of hesitation. I made a quick decision that would alter the course of my life. "Nothing, thanks," I said. I turned toward the door and left quickly. In truth, I turned tail and ran. "Stupid, stupid," I said to myself as I climbed into my car. Unfortunately, the brief encounter had done nothing to assuage my horny state. My dick was at full salute to the young girl's understated charms. I knew I needed some form of release, so I sought out another tanning salon. I knew of one a few miles away. As I entered the door, I was greeted gruffly by a thirtysomething bimbo with spiked and dyed platinum blonde hair. "Whaddaya want?" she virtually spat out. Her outfit was much more revealing than the one worn by the girl at The Body Shoppe, but it was somehow less enticing. Her figure, while not bad, was spoiled by her surly attitude. Nonetheless, I was still thinking with my prick instead of my brain. I decided to try my luck. "What services do you offer?" I asked coyly. "Gimme a hundred bucks and I'll tell you," she replied. "You want a hundred, just to talk?" "Look, do you wanna get started, or do you just wanna yap?" she snapped. "Okay, okay – I'll take the bait. I can't wait to find out what my options are." I handed her five twenties and stuffed the rest back into my wallet. "Now, what can we do?" I asked. "Come to the back and get as comfortable as you like. I'll give you a show and you can please yourself. With some extra tips, I might let you see me please myself. But no contact – none whatsoever." I noticed the spiked heels she was wearing. She didn't have to say anything more. Suddenly, my raging hard-on went completely limp. I finally saw the transaction for what it was – a transaction. From her perspective, there was nothing to enjoy, nothing to fantasize about, nothing to look forward to other than cold, hard cash. "Um, I don't think I want to go through with it," I stammered. "Can I get my money back?" "Hell, no," she exclaimed, "come on back and let's get it over with." It finally dawned on me that all these months, I'd been objectifying these women at the tanning salons, but at the same time they'd been objectifying me. They were objects of my desire – I was an object of their financial gain. I hung my head in shame and frustration. "Fuck it," I muttered. I turned and walked out of the shop, chucking the packet of condoms into a nearby garbage can on the way to my car – another fateful decision that I would live to regret. I headed out of the parking lot and started on my way home. Along the way, however, I began thinking of the dramatic contrast between the sweet young thing at The Body Shoppe and the nasty bitch at the other salon. I couldn't get the girl with the auburn hair, green eyes and shy smile out of my mind. At the next light, I made a detour and headed east back toward The Body Shoppe. The security bell dinged as I entered the front door. The desk was empty, and I momentarily wondered if I'd made a mistake in returning. Within seconds, however, the girl with the auburn hair appeared and flashed me a radiant smile. "Decided to come back?" she asked reticently. "Yeah, I want to find out what kind of services you offer." "Sure. We have tanning beds available, or we have modeling of tanning swimwear in a private room at the back." "And – who would do the modeling?" "Well, if you'd like, I can model. Or, if you'd prefer someone else..." "No – no. You'd be just fine." "So you want a modeling session from me?" "Um... yep. That is, if you're up for it." Her eyes seemed to darken, as if a cloud were passing through them. I could tell that she was weighing some decision in her mind. I felt a wave of compassion for her, and almost told her not to worry about it, that she should gather up her innocence and go back to her mama and her daddy. I could even give her a hundred bucks that would be way better spent on getting her home than on snarky answers from the testy bitch at the other shop. Her eyes held mine. It was as if she could read my thoughts, knew that I wanted to protect her – from lust-filled assholes, like me. Finally, she spoke. "Absolutely," she said, "I'm ready. No doubt in my mind." I heard myself exhale. So this was it. She was going to let me see her naked. She even seemed like she'd make me feel okay about jerking off in front of her. "I'll take you to the back. You can get comfortable while I get changed," she said as she led me down the hallway. Her body was still veiled behind her plush gown. She left me in a room with a comfy recliner chair, the obligatory box of tissues and body lotion, and the boom box in the corner. For the first time since my first time in one of these places, I was nervous. My palms were sweaty and my heart raced. For some reason, I cared about what this girl thought of me. I really didn't want her to think of me as some dirty early-thirties prick with a sick fetish, even if that's what I felt like I had become. I remained completely clothed as I waited for the girl. When she re-entered the room from a side door, she wore a white terry cloth robe. She locked both doors, smiled, walked over to me, and introduced herself. "I'm Melissa," she said perkily, "and I want to make your day." Wow. It took me a moment to recover from her bold statement. As I did, I thought about taunting her with a Clint Eastwood movie zinger: "Go ahead – make my day." But I didn't want to emphasize the decade or more difference in our ages by referring to something that was before her time. Instead, I introduced myself (with my real name, for the first time ever at a tanning salon) and took my seat as she walked over and turned on the dance music. As she began to sway to the beat, she positioned herself directly in front of my chair. Then, unfastening the sash of her robe, she let the terry cloth drop to her feet. My earlier concerns about not being able to see her figure were misguided. She had a perfectly formed body – not too skinny, curvy in all the right places, but not an ounce of extra fat. She wore a matching bikini top and bottom, a shimmering satiny fabric of mottled pink and blue. "Pretty outfit," I commented, "for a very pretty girl." Her wide smile betrayed her delight at my simple words. Right from the start, I could tell that there was something different about this girl. While others always – I mean ALWAYS – collected their cash up front, Melissa didn't even mention it. While others essentially gave me the tanning salon version of my Miranda rights at the beginning of each visit, Melissa said nothing about the rules, and gave no threats of spiked heels to the groin if I were to get out of line. This was too good to be true. I momentarily worried that she might be an undercover cop. There were too few boundaries being expressed. So I decided I'd keep my jeans on until I was sure. I watched her supple bikini-clad body and searched her beautiful eyes. If she was deceiving me, she should be up for an Academy Award. I noticed that Melissa's gaze seemed to linger on my left hand. It dawned on me after a couple of seconds that she was looking at my wedding ring. "Busted," I said. "Yes, I'm married, and no, she doesn't know I'm here." "So why isn't she keeping you satisfied?" "It's complicated," I replied. "She stays busy and tired – it's not really her fault. And we were apart for the better part of six months. We've become like two ships passing in the night. I'm probably not working hard enough at it." "At least you're man enough to admit it," she answered sincerely, "I admire that." I really didn't know what to think. Here was this beautiful young girl (probably in her late teens) having a serious conversation with me (ancient by comparison at thirty-one years of age) while I waited, mesmerized, for her to strip. Perhaps the fact that I had kept my jeans on gave her the cue that I might me more than just an ordinary lecher. "What about you?" I ventured. "Anybody special in your life?" "Not yet. I guess I'm just waiting for Mr. Right," she smiled. "Good things can come in strange places," I replied. "I'll bet you're a good thing," she flirted. "And speaking of coming, don't you want to get more comfortable?" "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," I said playfully, but with serious intent. Her green eyes became luminescent, and a grin spread across her face. She backed a step away from me and began to sway to the music once again. She began a slow, seductive striptease. I sat in the comfy chair and rubbed my throbbing cock through the fabric as I watched. She turned away from me as she undid the clasp to her swim bra. With an arm across her freed breasts, she turned to face me. I could see the sheer enjoyment on her face. She dropped the arm that shielded her breasts and pointed an ornery finger at my hand as it rubbed my dick through my jeans. Her tits were perfect – medium-sized globes of creamy, white flesh, topped like mounds of ice cream with perfect little cherries. As her tits bobbed up and down to the beat, she shimmied to the music and turned away again. She grasped the sides of her bikini bottom and began to work them down her legs with angular, jerky movements to each beat of the music. Her beautiful derriere sported the same creamy, rounded white flesh as her perky breasts. As she daintily lifted an ankle to kick off her bikini bottom, I held my breath in anticipation. As she turned, I saw that the vee of her pubic mound was covered with a nicely trimmed thatch that matched the auburn locks adorning her head. If I was her age, I would have thought I was in love. "Your turn," she chided, continuing her erotic dance. I smiled sheepishly and stood from the chair. I'm not a dancer, so I simply grasped my polo shirt at the hem and pulled it over my head. Seconds later, my jeans dropped to the floor. I turned away from her for a moment of suspense. After a quick rub of my cock through my jockey shorts to better impress her with my length and girth, I pulled my underwear to the floor. Cock in hand, I turned toward her. She nodded her head in approval and said, "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" What happened next came as a total shock. Whereas EVERY other girl I'd met at a tanning salon would have immediately relegated me to my chair, Melissa moved closer toward me where I stood. She looked me in the eye, looked down at my cock, and looked back at my face with a question mark on her brow. I nodded my assent. Immediately, she reached out and grasped my now-fully-erect, pulsating hard-on. Involuntarily, I let out a gasp. She let go immediately. "Did I hurt you?" she asked with a look of concern. "Not at all," I responded, "it felt so good I couldn't help myself." "You won't have to help yourself – I'll help you. That is, if you want me to," she said. I said nothing. Instead, I answered her by reaching out and gently taking her wrist, guiding her hand back to my dick. She gently began to stroke it, smiling as she saw the pleasure on my face. I couldn't contain myself. This beautiful girl was enjoying every moment of the pleasure she was providing me, and I had to find a way to express my gratitude. However, I was wary of assuming too much and spoiling the moment. I reached out with my right hand – slowly, tentatively, allowing her eyes to follow its trail – and brushed my fingers over her left nipple. Her areole immediately pebbled in my grasp. I gently moved my left hand to her other breast, and slowly began to give her a chest massage. Her right hand continued stroking my stiff rod, perhaps a little faster than I could readily handle. Love at The Body Shoppe "Not too fast," I requested gently, "I don't want to come too fast." "I don't want you to, either. I just didn't know – I'm not..." "Not what?" "I'm – not very experienced at this," she explained. I gulped inwardly. As I thought about it, however, I was not at all surprised. "That's okay," I said, "just go with the flow. I'll let you know if there's a problem." "Deal," she said. "And I'll just go with the flow, and you let me know if there's a problem – okay?" She hesitated momentarily. "Deal," she affirmed. I smiled, and she beamed back at me. I continued to massage her breasts, then leaned toward them. I got my face right in front of her left tit, removed my right hand and placed it behind her back for support, blew slowly and gently on her nipple, and – stopped. I looked up into her eyes, giving her every opportunity to stop me. Instead, she nodded her approval. My lips descended on her perfectly formed nipple and began to suckle. My tongue then swirled around the tip as I felt it stiffen. I moved lazily back and forth from one breast to the other. With nearly half her tit enveloped in my mouth, I felt her left hand pull the back of my neck toward her midriff. She was getting off on me sucking her tits, and wanted me closer to her! I felt like I was in an erotic dream. She was matching me move for move. Getting a little more daring, I moved my hand to one of her beautiful ass cheeks. I began massaging it while I continued to suckle each tit. As she continued to stroke my cock, I slowly rubbed my way around from her ass to her hip, then to her leg and finally to her inner thigh. I didn't want to let her tit out of my mouth, so I just looked up from her chest to see her facial expression as my hand crept stealthily toward its goal. Seeing nothing but bliss, I decided to take the chance of incurring her wrath. My hand crawled up her inner thigh, my knuckles stroked her auburn thatch, and then with outstretched fingers, I took one feathery stroke across her feminine slit. "Jackpot!" I thought as I felt her moisture lubricate my fingers. She was wet for me! She wanted me! Hallelujah! I guided her with me toward the chair. I lifted her in the air and trailed kisses from her breast up toward her neck. As I sat down in the chair, her knees caught on the arms of the chair. She was straddling the chair – and my lap – tantalizingly close, but, as the saying goes, no cigar. I desperately wanted to ask her to sit on my pole, and I was convinced that she would, but then it hit me. "Shit!" I thought, "I threw the condoms in the garbage outside the other shop1" Here I was, about to get lucky, just as I had hoped – and with a girl beyond my wildest dreams – but I had fucked up the plan. She sensed my consternation. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Absolutely," I replied, "just trying not to let things get out of control." "No worries," she said, "I'll let you know if I get uncomfortable. You're keeping up your end of the deal. I'll keep up mine." Wow again! What a girl! This was too good to be true – but it WAS true! "Let's just take it one step at a time and see what happens," I said. "Deal," she replied. I lowered my head and began to once again suckle her breasts, as my fingers worked their way inside her molten vagina. Her pussy was just like her personality – warm, slick, and inviting. I found her clit and began to massage it between my thumb and forefinger. Her body pressed toward me as I continued to finger fuck her. She continued to hand pump my cock, and we found a mutual rhythm. I stole glances at her face several times over the next few minutes. At first, her eyes were closed and her features displayed an aura of bliss. As I alternated frigging her clit and pumping three fingers back and forth inside her love tunnel, her eyes fluttered open and she caught my momentary look. She smiled as our eyes locked. "You're a very sensitive man," she said. "You obviously know what a girl likes." Her words, her look, her whole being were screaming at me to claim her as my own. Shit! Why did I toss the condoms? Why the fuck did I ever leave her in the first place? For me, however, it was no longer just about myself – it was about her. She was turning me on at more than just a physical level. It suddenly became important for me to please her. I desperately wanted to give her an orgasm. We'd have to see what form that would take, and where we would go from there. "So I'm not making you uncomfortable?" I responded to her. "Quite the opposite," she quipped. I'm not much of a believer in finger fucking to orgasm – I prefer it as foreplay – but I could see how flushed she was, how labored her breathing had become, and I decided to turn up the heat. Her pussy had become so sloppy and so loose that I was able to easily work a fourth finger inside. That gave me easier access to strum her clit with my thumb as I increased the pace of my fingers pounding in and out of her love tunnel. As my pace increased, so did hers. Her dainty fingers were not only pounding my prick back and forth, but she was gently squeezing and releasing it at the same time. It was a sensation that I'd never experienced from a hand job, but reminded me of the feeling of a tight pussy clenching around my cock as I pounded it. I'm sure she didn't know the uniqueness of what she was doing – she just did what came naturally. She was such a sexual creature! I began to feel a tightening of her pussy around my flailing fingers. I began to strum and stroke her for all I was worth. As I did so, she did the same to me. Before I knew it, I was at the point of no return. I began to feel the beginning of the explosion from the depth of my balls, the massive buildup of semen, the pulsating of my member, the brief lingering on the precipice of orgasm – and finally, the volcanic, mind-blowing spewing and spurting of my load of cum as her hand continued to milk me. As I reached my climax, I looked up to see her momentary pleased grin, and then her look of lost control as her eyes closed and she began to spin toward her own climax. My fingers had been working at a frantic pace, and now had the pleasure of feeling the fruit of their labor. The tell-tale clenching of her pussy around my fingers left no doubt as to her release. Her feminine moans were harmony to her pussy's melody. Oh, the shattering convulsions and yet tender bliss of this shared moment! Two strangers just half an hour ago, and yet two soul mates at this moment! As her beautiful eyes opened once again, a green glow betrayed her sexual and emotional satisfaction. As our respective genitalia began to cease their pulsing, she reached her arms around me, and I followed suit with her. We swayed slowly together, off beat from the dance music that continued to play in the background. We cuddled for several minutes as we both came down from our highs. Finally, the question that had been lingering in my mind popped unexpectedly out of my mouth. "Do you treat all your customers this way?" I asked. She hesitated, and looked a bit embarrassed that I had asked. "It's my first day on the job. You're my first client," she said. Somehow, I wasn't at all surprised. I needed to know more. "What led you to take a job like this?" I inquired. "I need to save some money this summer. I'm going to Baylor in the fall, and then on to med school later." Wow a third time! A girl smart enough to become a doctor working in a joint like this. And a girl supporting a conservative Baptist education with a job like this. The irony was not lost on me. "I'll tell you what," she said, "let me go get you something better than those nasty Kleenex to clean you up, and I'll be back in a jiffy. Then we can decide where we go from here." The glint in her eyes displayed an air of mischief. Despite that, her words seemed wholesome and clean, even full of inspiration and hope. She quickly put her swimsuit back on, wrapped the robe around her shoulders and midriff, then departed out the side door from where she'd entered. Melissa returned to the room a few minutes later with a warm, wet cloth and a bright, dazzling smile. Still dressed in her model swimwear but dropping the robe, she moved over to me and began to gently rub the semen from my cock with the warm washcloth. This simple act had a caring, sensuous feel to it. Then, without a sound, she put her other arm around my back and held me close. Her body began to sway in time to the music track that was still playing on the boom box. In a somewhat surprising move, she lay her head on my shoulder. I felt nothing but tenderness toward her. She had lowered her defenses and had become completely vulnerable with me. But then I spoke the most inane words I could have uttered, and they shattered the moment. "My wife would like you," I said, "I'll bring her with me next time." I immediately wished I could take it back. The thought was at best wishful thinking on my part, perhaps spurred on by a wave of subconscious guilt at the intimacy being expressed by – and reciprocated toward – this beautiful, precious stranger. I had panicked, and now there was no way back. As I realized the gravity of the moment, I tried to laugh it off. I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes in a feeble attempt at humor. "It could happen," I said in jest. "Yeah, right," she smiled. Then she paused and looked searchingly into my eyes. "You should go home to her," she said. Her words lingered in the air. I couldn't tell whether they were a command or a subtle question. I've rolled it over in my mind hundreds – maybe thousands – of times in the seventeen years since, and I firmly believe she was testing me. I now know what my ideal response would have been. I should have spoken these five words: "But you need me more." Then I should have locked lips with her, gently probing her tongue with mine, our eyes searching each other's to the depths of our souls. Then I should have gently removed her wispy, satiny scraps of swimsuit, baring her naked body to mine once again. Then I should have lifted her gently and placed her in the comfy chair, knees and feet splayed apart, and pulled the recliner back to a horizontal position. Then I should have placed my hands on her breasts, massaging them while dipping my face to the juncture of her thighs, and lavished eager licks on her labia and clit. After a leisurely round of muff diving, I should have told her that I loved her – being careful not to lie – and that I wanted to slide my raging hard-on into her beautiful, auburn-thatched cunt. She would have said "Yes!" and guided my cock into her eagerly awaiting slit. We would have moved in primal unison, our thrusts matching each other's passion, until we spiraled out of control, reaching another mutual climax, but this time my jism would be deposited in her womb instead of on her leg. We would have kissed and cuddled, until she tilted my chin up with her rogue finger so she could look me in the eye and tell me, "I love you, too." But that's the way it would have been in my fantasy world. Instead of saying and doing what I should have, I hesitated. I thought about the discarded packet of condoms. It would be just my luck to bring home an STD on my first instance of infidelity. In retrospect, I honestly couldn't imagine such an innocent having a venereal disease to pass along to me. I thought about the impending move to Arkansas. And I thought about my wife, and what she'd think of Melissa's musky scent on my fingers if I didn't wash them well before I got home. The moment of truth was there, and somehow I couldn't reach out to Melissa. "Don't I need to pay you?" I asked lamely. "It doesn't matter," Melissa replied. Her downcast face betrayed her disappointment at my mention of money at a time like this. "Surely you'll at least have to pass on something from me to your employer, won't you?" "Sure," she said quietly. I took a small wad of twenties from my wallet and dropped it on the small table next to the body lotion. I knew she didn't want to count it. I took her hand and held it in mine. "See you next time," I said as I looked directly into her beautiful green eyes. She nodded, but no words came from her mouth. I embraced her, and she tentatively returned the gesture. I didn't mean it to be a lie. I had every intention of sorting through the encounter in my mind and coming back later in the week. But there hasn't been a next time, and I haven't seen Melissa since. I got busy the next few days preparing for the move, thinking of Melissa as I packed, trying to figure out what to say to my wife. On Thursday, unable to hold back any longer, I called The Body Shoppe before the movers were to come to our apartment on Friday. "May I speak with Melissa?" I asked hopefully. "Who's calling?" the female voice at the other end of the line inquired. "A friend," I said, "a friend who cares." "I'm sorry, sir," she replied, "but she doesn't work here any more. She quit Monday evening. It was her first and last day. She only had one client and decided she couldn't handle it." I hung up the phone, filled with a sense of utter loss. The moving van would come the next day, that chapter of my life was over, and I would never see Melissa again. I had no way to find her – I didn't even know her last name. I was cured of my tanning salon addiction that day. I haven't been to one in the 17 years since. My wife and I have had a pretty good life together throughout that time. Our kids are now grown and off at school. We've both worked harder on our marriage, but it's built more on friendship than on passion. I haven't been able to talk to my wife about what happened between Melissa and me on that fateful day. Frankly, I don't know what to tell her, or what good it would do. The sexual nature of my encounter with Melissa would be painful enough for my wife; the personal intimacy of it would probably crush her. I'm still haunted by thoughts of what I didn't say and do with Melissa. If I hadn't thrown away the packet of condoms at the second salon, I know I would have stayed with Melissa and made love to her in physical, penis-in-vagina union that day. If I hadn't turned tail and ran from The Body Shoppe the first time I spoke with Melissa, I would have had the condoms with me, and nothing would have stopped us. But, as a friend of mine is fond of saying, "If 'ifs and buts' were candy and nuts, what a merry little Christmas it would be." Perhaps just writing about it after all these years will prove to be therapeutic for me. Quite honestly, though, I truly wish I'd told her how she'd gotten to me. I wish that we'd fucked like rabbits, condom or no condom (probably even better without) and seen where the passion led. I may be delusional to feel this way, but I think there was something more – both passion AND friendship – that could have been built into sharing more than just a once in a lifetime orgasm. Melissa still has a grip on me – not just on my cock, as on that fateful day, but on my heart. So much for breaking the addiction. And so much for keeping things uncomplicated...