I had read Tennessee Williams' short story "Desire and the Black Masseur" which turned me on so, although I danced with-and-was-friends-with black guy..., I had not yet had an erotic encounter with any of them. While reading the classifieds for "Massage" one day, I spotted an ad which featured "Young Black Masseur," so I wanted to see what that was like. I phoned and made an appointment and the voice on the other end was deep, soothing and respectful. The address was for a small house in a middle. “We’ll just keep working on it.”“So that means we’ll keep sleeping together?” He blinked. “I mean in the same bed?”“Yes,” I said.I felt lots of tingles again.I decided to keep him busy by putting him to work painting. Walls, not people. When we’d been at the Home Depot I saw a stack of cans of paint by the paint counter that were marked way down because they were returns. There were three or four shopping carts, abandoned on the streets, so we snagged one of them and walked back to the big box. More

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