The Garden: The Richest Men in Los Angeles Still Love Their Mothers
I thought he was going to cum????
Disclaimer:
This essay contains sexual themes and descriptions of adult experiences that may not be suitable for all readers.
Names, dates, and identifying details have been changed or withheld to protect the privacy of individuals and locations. This piece reflects the author’s personal recollections and impressions, which may differ from the memories or interpretations of others.
This essay is a continuation of an ongoing project called ‘The Garden’ — you can find the previous release from this series here
I was stroking his cock… faster and faster, and it was just getting… softer, and softer.
It was annoying.
I wasn’t used to this happening in session. Now that I’ve come to think of it, I wasn’t used to this happening at all. Typically, they’d be so worked up by this point, it would take little to no effort to finish them off - and really, that was the ultimate goal. No woman working at The Garden was there for the joy of giving hand-jobs… sorry to shatter the illusion (I’m not sorry).
He was on the younger side, certainly under 40. He was attractive—his physique athletic and defined, which I was coming to learn seemed not all that uncommon among the clients here in Los Angeles. They all looked like they lived in the movies, and some of them actually did. I didn’t recognize this one.
He looked Middle Eastern or Southeastern European, as if he could have been from the Balkan region, or maybe even Greece. He had a medium olive complexion, curly and short raven-colored hair, smoldering dark brown eyes which were slightly slimmer than almonds—set deep in his skull, past a striking brow-line. His nose was one of an ancient God from a sculpture I’d have studied in my tenth grade Art History class. His likeness surely lived within those pages of the heavy Gardner’s textbook, disguised in feeling as if a brick in my rainbow-checkered Dickie’s backpack. By the end of that school year, said textbook could be seen poking its hardback corner through a tear in the canvas.
He was handsome, in the culturally standard sense—well-kempt, and looked like the type of guy who had real money, but didn’t want you to know about it. He oozed “quiet luxury.” The inconspicuous, baggy pants he’d arrived in cost no less than $3,000. I could tell he regularly got manicures… and once he was naked, pedicures, as well. I’d found myself initially wondering why the hell he was here. What’s wrong with him? In retrospect? I understand fully.
Now, here I was, being reminded just how much of a “real job” sex work is. This was work. “Frankly—” I thought to myself, “good on him, paying for this service—” I pitied his ex-girlfriends, his hypothetical current girlfriend(s), his ex-wife or current one, and his fuck buddies; no doubt having had the thankless task of facing whatever this issue is, and with no compensation at that! At least I was getting paid.
Still stroking. Jerking. Furiously. By this point, he’d become so soft that the tip of his cock was flapping around between the knuckles of my thumb and pointer finger with every tug, and seemingly with the velocity of one of those bouncy balls you’d crank out of a quarter machine in the ‘90s… amusing, really.
Still, I focus on playing the part. I am a Tantric Goddess. I am divine. I can make this man cum. I can do this. Really, I can! Actually… can I?
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do differently,” I finally let out, trying my hardest to poise the suggestion in the lightest and most casual manner possible, almost as if I were flirting. There’s not really a subtle way to tip a man off to the notion of ‘Hey buddy, this seems like it isn’t going anywhere… also, is there something fucking wrong with you?’—
“You’re doing great!” he replied, as if that reassurance were helpful in any manner, as it did absolutely nothing to help the situation. Surely, he must have been fully aware I’ve been yanking on his soft dick for going on ten minutes.
Returning my focus, I slowed my motions so that my hands resembled the movements of milking a cow, rather than simulating a jackhammer. Slowing my pace, I squeeze and tug, squeeeeeeze and tug. For fleeting moments, it almost seemed as if I were getting somewhere. However, within seconds, his seemingly dysfunctional appendage became even more flaccid than before. I began to speed up again, and by this point, I’d checked out.
I’m thinking about Erewhon. Yes, really.
Specifically, the ‘Coconut Cloud Smoothie,’ and a big container of ‘Mighty Greens’ soup. Ice cold, right out of the fridge. I like to eat the soup cold, typically over a period of a few days. There’s something about the chewy, yet crisp texture of biting into the softened greens—ice cold, salty, slightly slimy. I’d take swigs of the vegetable soup broth, both refreshing and nourishing as it washes down my throat. Slightly thicker than water, you can feel the hint of olive oil as it slides down, yet still it’s light enough to drink in the heat. I’m envisioning the pairing of my precious soup with the smoothie, which aptly named, really does look like drinking a cluster of clouds. I’m tasting the hint of pineapple, only slightly overshadowed by the coconut cream - visualizing how the mixture all turns a little too grey to be considered blue by the end, once it’s all been mixed together.
As if the rudest of awakenings, suddenly and without any warning, I’m snapped back to reality by the most unexpected group of words a man could possibly string together while I am holding his penis.
Breaking the room’s deafening silence, with a flat and monotone—
“Sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about my mom.”
Without a single thought passing through my skull, truly an involuntary physical outburst, I instantly burst into laughter. The type of laugh which pushes its way past your lips with the force of projectile vomit, and there I was—still stroking his cock, and fully cackling my ass off.
I look at him, and to my surprise, he’s also burst into hysterical laughter. Within seconds, I am no longer touching him, he is seated upright on the massage table, and we are both braced against it, individually attempting to gather ourselves and stop losing our minds.
Every time we glanced at one another, we mutually lost it, bursting into laughter once again.
The illusion had been shattered. I am no longer his dirty masseuse, and he is no longer a regular client. Suddenly, we’re both real people.
For a moment, neither of us knows what to do with our bodies, not now that the script has evaporated.
My hands hovered uselessly in the air before I pulled them back toward myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt, standing there in character, without a character to inhabit. The room felt brighter somehow, like someone’s turned on the big light. I wiped at the corners of my eyes with the back of my wrist, trying to regain a sense of composure, though my cheeks still ached from laughter.
My ribs hurt.
My mascara might be running. I had no idea.
“Fuck,” I managed, finally, half a breath, half a laugh.
He shook his head, still grinning, one hand dragging down his face in disbelief, as if trying to wake himself from a dream.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, though he’s clearly not sorry in the way apologies are usually meant. More like amazed. Embarrassed. Relieved.
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, it’s tender yet strange, like the quiet after a nearly catastrophic car accident, when both drivers just stare at each other for a second, grateful to still be alive. I glanced around the room, suddenly aware again of the soft music looping, the folded towels, the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air. All the theatrical cues still humming along, oblivious to the fact that the scene had derailed.
“Well,” I said, attempting a tone resembling professionalism, though that word feels absurd now, “that’s… a first.”
He let out another short laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Same.”
There was a beat where neither of us spoke. Not uncomfortable, just uncharted. Two people standing at the edge of a moment that no longer fits neatly into the transaction either of us signed up for.
And then, almost instinctively, I tilted my head at him, curious now in a way that had nothing to do with the session, but everything to do with being human.
“Okay,” I said, softer. “So… what?”
“Yeah, sorry, I know that sounded super weird. I don’t mean it that way—” he began to explain.
“It’s just that my mom’s been sick. She has some type of cold or something. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. It’s just I was talking to her on the way here, and now I can’t get hard because all I can think about—” seemingly, holding back a chuckle “—is my mom.”
“Well, I hope she gets better soon,” was all I could manage to think of to say in the moment. By this point, the hilarity of the situation had worn off, and I felt out of my comfort zone. Where was I supposed to go from here?
Do I ask him if he still wants me to jerk him off?
No. That would be weird.
Would it be weird? That’s literally why he’s here, isn’t it?
Yes. It would be weird.
I’m in the midst of contemplating my next words when he breaks the silence again, with yet another unexpected string of words. This time, a question, the worst question:
“What’s your name? You know, your actual name, not the one Mother gave you.”
As if he could sense hesitation, he immediately follows with “I’m Ben.”
How does Ben know Mother?