I actually wanted to leave – My first erotic massage in Vienna

It wasn’t that I was afraid of the massage. I was more afraid of the moment just before it. Before getting out of the car. Before the doorbell rang. Before the first sentence. Before the possibility that I might find myself in a situation where I no longer felt in control. That was probably the most uncomfortable part of it: I’m used to having things under control. At work, at home, in everyday life. I give presentations, make decisions, solve problems – and usually come across as much more relaxed than I actually am on the inside. But that afternoon, sitting in my car, I felt like someone who was about to surprise themselves.

To be honest, I couldn’t have given any real reason at all

If someone had asked me back then why I’d arranged that appointment, I’d probably have tried to come up with some halfway decent answer. Stress. Curiosity. A break. To try something new. None of that is wrong, but none of it is quite right either.

The truth was less straightforward. At some point, the thought had simply been there. Not out loud. Not suddenly. More like a door in my head that you walk past a few times, pausing briefly each time. I hadn’t actively sought it out, and yet I kept coming back to it. Sometimes in the evenings, when I was too tired to do anything meaningful. Sometimes after a long day at work. Sometimes in moments when I realised that, although my body was functioning, it was somehow just going through the motions.

I think that was exactly the point. I was coping well. Perhaps even too well. I was reliable, resilient and well-organised. A man you could rely on. That sounds positive, and for the most part it is. But somewhere between my diary, the children, my job, my family and the constant feeling that I had to quickly get something done, my own body had become a stranger to me. Not in a dramatic way. Not because I was ill. Just far away.

And perhaps that was precisely why it was an erotic massage, of all things, that piqued my curiosity. Not because of some wild fantasy. Not because of an adventure I wanted to tell someone about. But because of the question of whether it’s possible, for a while, not to perform, not to think, not to control. Just to be there and to feel.

Of course, I would never have put it that way back then. At the time, I would have been more likely to say: I just wanted to give it a go. That sounds more innocuous. Men like to hide behind innocuous phrases.

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The fear of being recognised was completely absurd – and yet it was still there

As I sat in the car, I watched the alley. A woman walked past carrying a shopping bag. A man was locking up his bike. Somewhere, a window was being closed. Nobody took any notice of me. Why should they? I was sitting in a parked car, doing nothing. Even so, for a moment I had the feeling that the whole town knew why I was there.

Looking back, that’s one of the most absurd parts of the whole story. I was in Vienna, not in a small village where everyone knows who’s going where and when. And yet, within seconds, my mind was conjuring up complete disaster scenarios. What if someone I knew walked past? What if someone saw me? What if I look unsure as I walk in? What if I realise straight away that this isn’t for me?

The strange thing about thoughts like that is that you know full well how irrational they are, and yet they just won’t go away. They stick around like an unwelcome passenger. And the longer you wait, the more space they take up.

At some point, I looked at my watch and realised that almost ten minutes had gone by. That was the moment it dawned on me: if I didn’t get off now, I’d really end up going home.

So I got out.

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The few metres to the door seemed longer than expected

It was perhaps twenty steps. No more than that. Yet every single one of them felt significant. I walked more slowly than I needed to, and faster than I would have liked. A rather ridiculous middle ground, but I suppose it gives a pretty good idea of just how nervous I was.

I paused briefly outside the door. Not long enough to attract attention, but long enough to give serious thought to turning back. Then I rang the doorbell.

And at that very moment, something unexpected happened: I felt a sense of calm wash over me. Not complete calm, but it was noticeable. The decision had been made. That period of uncertainty, that back-and-forth, was over. I could no longer gracefully pretend that I’d just happened to be there by chance.

The door opened.

What happened next was probably the least spectacular, yet at the same time the most important, moment of the whole afternoon. I was greeted warmly. It was perfectly normal. No awkward glances, no feigned charm, no tone of voice that would have made me feel as though I had to play a part. Just a calm, warm welcome.

I’d imagined so many different versions of this moment, and none of them were quite so simple. Perhaps that was precisely what brought me relief. I didn’t have to explain anything. Nobody asked why I was there. Nobody made a bigger deal of the situation than it was. I was a guest. Nothing more, nothing less.

And suddenly, the whole thing wasn’t half as difficult anymore.

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My first impression wasn’t exciting – it was reassuring

It was warm inside. Not just in terms of temperature. More in the way a room can feel when light, scent and silence come together. No excessive luxury, no artificially contrived atmosphere. It didn’t feel like a stage, but rather like a place that deliberately chooses to remain quiet.

I realised I was automatically slowing down. My gaze wandered around the room, lingering on small details without really taking them in. It’s hard to describe. It wasn’t as though I’d felt relaxed straight away. But I was no longer in a state of readiness to flee. That in itself was a lot.

There was a brief conversation. No long preliminary chat, no questionnaire, no awkward moment. At some point, I said that it was my first time. The sentence felt awkward to me, even though, objectively speaking, there was nothing awkward about it at all. Probably because it sounded so honest. Because it admitted something I’d preferred to gloss over until then: I was curious, but I had no idea what to expect.

The response was a calm smile. No mockery, no exaggerated sympathy, no feigned surprise. Just that matter-of-fact feeling: you’re not the first person to feel nervous. And you don’t need to apologise for it.

That took more of the pressure off me than I’d expected.

I think that was the moment I realised for the first time why the setting is so important in an erotic massage. It’s not just about what happens afterwards. It’s about whether you can build up enough trust beforehand to let yourself go. Without that trust, you remain inwardly reserved, no matter how little clothing you’re wearing later on.

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The shower was the first real transition

I was allowed to have a shower before the massage. That made perfect sense to me, of course. At the same time, I hadn’t expected that this brief moment, of all things, would have such a profound effect.

As the warm water ran down my back, I realised just how tense my shoulders were. It wasn’t just because of that afternoon. It felt as though I’d been carrying some of the weight of the last few months up there. Appointments, conversations, responsibilities, minor worries, major issues – things that nobody sees because you hide them so well from the outside world. I stood there, listening to the water, and realised that, for the first time that day, I wasn’t thinking about whether I should have turned back.

There were no emails, no mobile phones and no appointments. Just warm water, still air and a silence that felt unfamiliar at first, but after a few minutes felt surprisingly familiar.

I remember taking a deep breath and suddenly feeling as though I was no longer just a guest in a studio, but standing at a crossroads. Outside lay my everyday life. Inside, something was beginning that I couldn’t quite make sense of yet. And right in between the two, I stood in the shower and stopped putting up my inner defences.

Looking back, I believe that my real experience began there. Not when I lay down on the massage table. Not when I was first touched. But in that quiet moment when I realised that I no longer had anything to prove.

When I came out of the shower, the nervousness hadn’t gone away. But it had changed. It was no longer that tight feeling in my chest. More like a keen sense of anticipation. A mixture of uncertainty and excitement. No longer: What am I doing here? Rather: Right. Now I’m really here.

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The room where I stopped getting ready

The massage room felt different from what I’d imagined. Not spectacular. Not cluttered. Not that artificial attempt to convey sensuality through decoration. It was more a sense of calm warmth in the room, something soft and subdued that didn’t stare at me, but invited me in. I remember pausing for a moment and trying to make sense of the situation. Perhaps because I’d spent so long imagining what might happen, I wasn’t prepared for the most obvious thing of all: that it would simply feel good to be there.

I lay down and immediately realised that my body and my mind weren’t in the same place yet. My body was already there. My mind, however, was still somewhere near the front door, monitoring what was happening, assessing the situation and asking completely unnecessary questions. Am I lying in the right position? Do I look tense? Should I say something? Should I keep quiet? It’s amazing how loud a person can get inside, whilst on the outside nothing at all is happening.

Then things quietened down. Not all of a sudden, but gradually. So gradually, in fact, that it was only later that I realised just how much had changed. The first touches weren’t exciting in the sensational sense. They were more like a sense of arriving. A cautious, mindful exploration of my body, which, even in recent years, I had often merely used. My back, shoulders, arms, legs. Parts of my body that are simply expected to function in everyday life: carrying, sitting, lifting, working, persevering. And suddenly, they were no longer just being used, but actually being noticed.

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I suddenly stopped thinking

At some point, that moment happened – the one I still find hardest to describe to this day. I stopped thinking. Not completely, not as if I’d been switched off. But my thoughts lost their sharpness. They were still there, somewhere in the background, but they were no longer in control. It was as if someone were slowly turning down the volume inside my head.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Perhaps ten minutes, perhaps thirty. Time became strangely unimportant. Normally, I measure almost everything: deadlines, duration, efficiency, next steps. That afternoon, there was no next step. There was only the moment, my breath and that calm, steady awareness focused on my body. That sounds simple. For me, it was unusual. Perhaps even strangely beautiful.

Over time, the touches became more present, warmer, more sensual. Not suddenly, not like a switch being flicked, but like something that is allowed to unfold when you don’t constantly stand in its way. I’d previously thought that an erotic massage would be, above all, exciting. What surprised me was the tranquillity within it. That blend of closeness and security. Of tension and a sense of being safe. Of physical sensation and an inner sense of letting go that I hadn’t expected in this form.

Perhaps that is precisely the difference between just any experience and a really good one erotic massage in Vienna: It’s not about getting the body somewhere as quickly as possible. It’s about giving it time to respond at all.

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The real surprise wasn’t the eroticism

Of course, the massage was sensual. To say otherwise would be a lie. But the biggest surprise had nothing to do with eroticism in the strict sense. It had to do with the fact that, for a while, I didn’t have to put on a front. No strength. No composure. No composure. Not even experience. I was simply allowed to lie there and feel, without anything having to come of it straight away.

That may sound unremarkable, but for me, that was precisely what made that afternoon so powerful. I realised how rarely I experience physical contact without any expectations attached. In everyday life, closeness is almost always linked to roles: partner, father, colleague, friend, person in charge, problem-solver. Here, no role was necessary. There was just my body, which gradually realised that, for a while, it didn’t have to function.

At some point, I realised that I was no longer asking myself whether I was behaving correctly. I was no longer the man in the car, watching the alleyway and wondering whether he should drive off again. Nor was I any longer the man who, during that first conversation, tried to hide his nervousness in a reasonably charming way. I was simply a person who allowed myself to be touched. It was far less spectacular than I’d imagined. And at the same time, far more intimate.

Perhaps, before this visit, I had subconsciously expected an erotic massage to be primarily about stimulation. About arousal, about a particular technique, about an experience that one can later put into clear words. In fact, what moved me most was much harder to put into words. It was that feeling of not being pulled, pressured or judged. Not even by myself.

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My body used to know before my mind did

There wasn’t a single moment when I thought: ‘Now everything is different.’ Unfortunately, that’s rarely how memory works. Change often happens more quietly. I first noticed from small things that my body was letting go. My shoulders grew heavier. My breathing deepened. My hands, which had been slightly tense at first, simply lay there at some point. Not ready to do anything. Not on standby. Just calm.

That was perhaps the most honest part of the whole experience. The body isn’t very good at lying. It either reacts or it doesn’t. It tenses up or it relaxes. And mine relaxed. Slowly, reluctantly at first, then more and more clearly. As if it had just been waiting for me to finally get out of the way.

I remember a moment when I almost had to laugh. Not out loud, more to myself. Because I suddenly realised just how much of a fuss I’d been making of it all beforehand. The fantasies, the doubts, the fear of embarrassment, the worry about doing something wrong. And then I was lying there and, for a while, life was astonishingly simple: breathing, feeling, letting go.

• Nervousness turned into alertness
  What had felt constricting at first gradually became an alert, pleasant presence.
• Touch led to trust
  Not through grand words, but through calmness, consistency and the feeling that one is not being overwhelmed.
• Sensuality suddenly fell silent
  Not any less intense, but deeper. Less loud. Less in the mind. More physical.

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Why I suddenly realised that men come back

Before my first visit, I’d wondered why men keep coming back to something like this. Not to judge, but out of curiosity. After that afternoon, I understood it better. Not because every minute has to be exciting. Not because you’re constantly looking for new thrills. But because there are few places where men are allowed to let their guard down without it immediately feeling awkward.

That’s perhaps a phrase I would have found strange myself in the past. Men and ‘softening up’. It sounds like something out of a self-help book or one of those seminars where you sit in a circle and talk about your feelings. But there, on that couch, it suddenly made sense. Becoming soft doesn’t mean becoming weak. It means letting go of the tension that you often don’t even notice anymore, because it has long since become the norm.

I think a lot of men come out of curiosity. Some come out of lust. Some perhaps because of stress, loneliness or simply because they want to experience something that doesn’t fit into their everyday lives. But what they find is sometimes something else. A moment in which they aren’t judged. A body that doesn’t have to perform. A form of intimacy that doesn’t need explaining.

My Erotic massage experience So it wasn’t quite what I’d expected. It was less wild and much more genuine. Less like a film, more like a person. Less superficial, with more stillness beneath the surface. And that, in particular, was what made it so intense.

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The moment after that

When the massage was over, I didn’t feel the need to speak straight away. I lay there for a moment longer, trying to find my way back into the room. That sounds strange, but that’s exactly how it felt. As if I’d been a little way off inside, without actually being away.

There was no abrupt break. No rushing to get up. No feeling that I now had to quickly become the man I’d been before. I was allowed to savour the moment. And savouring that moment was almost as important as the massage itself. Only then did I realise how calm I was. Not tired. Not dazed. More like clear-headed. Like after a long walk, only without having walked.

Later, as I got dressed again, everything seemed strangely normal and yet not quite the same as before. My clothes were the same. My mobile was where I’d left it. Outside, the same town was waiting. And yet I had the feeling that my relationship with myself had shifted, if only for a brief moment.

When it came to saying goodbye, I felt less awkward than I’d expected. Perhaps because I didn’t feel as though I’d been through anything embarrassing. On the contrary. It felt dignified. Human. And, in its own quiet way, rather special.

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The journey home was different from the journey there

By the time I was back in the car, it was already later. The alley looked almost exactly the same as before, but I perceived it differently. I started the engine and, as I so often do, automatically reached for the radio. Then I decided against it.

I usually always have something playing. Music, the news, a podcast – anything to break the silence. That evening, I didn’t want to listen to anything. I just wanted to drive. The city lights flashed past me, and for the first time in ages, I didn’t feel the need to organise my thoughts. They were simply calm enough.

Halfway there, I found myself smiling to myself. I thought of the man who, less than two hours earlier, had sat in his car for ten minutes and had almost driven back home. Suddenly, that man seemed familiar to me, yet a little strange at the same time. Not ridiculous. More like understandable. He’d simply been afraid of experiencing something that might affect him more deeply than he was willing to admit.

Today, I’m glad he got out of it.

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It wasn’t until two weeks later that I realised what it was that kept nagging at me

In the first few days afterwards, I thought surprisingly little about the visit. Or so I thought, at least. I went to work, replied to emails, picked up bits and pieces from the supermarket, had the conversations that needed to be had, and was back in that perfectly normal routine we call everyday life, even though it often feels more like a neatly organised endless loop.

And yet something was different. Not dramatically so. Not as though I’d woken up one morning and suddenly been a different person. That’s not how life works, and to be honest, I’m always a bit wary of stories like that. When someone claims that a single experience changed everything, it usually sounds like something out of a brochure to me. But something small had shifted.

I was calmer. Not all the time, but more often. I didn’t get irritated as quickly. In the evenings, I didn’t automatically reach for my mobile straight away. Sometimes I’d just sit there for a few minutes without switching anything on straight away. For someone who usually fills the silence with messages, music or work, that was remarkable.

It was only after about two weeks that I realised I kept thinking back to that afternoon. Not about specific details. Not as if it were a scene I was replaying in my mind. More like a feeling. That rare blend of calm, warmth and the strange relief of not having to pretend to be anything for a while.

Perhaps that was precisely the crux of my first erotic massage. It wasn’t the curiosity that had driven me there. It wasn’t the nervousness I’d felt in the car. It wasn’t even the sensuality itself. Rather, it was the realisation of how long it had been since I’d paid any real attention to myself.

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I was looking for something else

Before the appointment, I would probably have said I was looking for a special experience. Something new. Perhaps something exciting, too. That wasn’t a lie, but it was only half the truth. Looking back, I think I was actually looking for a break. Not a break in my diary, but a break from myself. From that inner voice that’s constantly asking whether I’m doing enough, moving fast enough, staying strong enough and keeping everything under control.

A good erotic massage It’s probably different for everyone. For some, it’s pleasurable; for others, relaxing; for some, surprisingly emotional. For me, above all, it was a reminder that my body isn’t just there to function. That sounds trite, almost too simple. But some truths aren’t any less important simply because they’re straightforward.

I’d thought I’d have to embrace something unfamiliar. In fact, I’ve come a bit closer to myself. That was unexpected. And that’s exactly why it stuck with me.

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Would I go there again?

Yes. But for a different reason than I’d previously thought.

Not because I constantly need new stimulation. Not because everyday life is unbearable. And certainly not because an erotic massage is some sort of magical escape from everything that preoccupies a man in life. It’s not that simple. But it can be a space where, for a limited time, you treat yourself differently. More gently, perhaps. More honestly. Less harshly.

That took me by surprise. I’d gone there out of curiosity and found something much more peaceful than I’d expected. Perhaps that’s also why I now think differently about men who do this sort of thing regularly. In the past, I might have been too quick to judge. Today, I believe that many aren’t simply looking for eroticism. Many are looking for a moment in which they can feel, once again, that they are more than just their responsibilities.

I went there out of curiosity. I wanted to go back because of the feeling I had on the journey home.

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