Manhandled

I bought myself a massage last week. It was from a friend of mine who’s been doing massage therapy for over a decade now, and it was the first time I’d ever let anyone who I wasn’t actively fucking touch my body. Ever.

Jesse’s touch was amazing. He is very skilled at what he does, and knows how to work with a man who’s body is akin to that of a mountain gorilla. He didn’t pull any hairs, and recognized where on my body there was tension and stress. What I wasn’t prepared for, and what I’m still trying to process, is why I’ve been so resistant to letting someone, a professional in the art of massage therapy, touch my body.

I am a survivor of abuse. Child abuse, from both my father and grandfather, and sexual abuse and assault from both lovers and random hook-ups. I’ve had my body manhandled and hurt by other male figures in my life, for most of my life, in fact. I say ”have had” as though I’ve been a passive recipient of these actions, which is the part I’m still grappling with as I type this, but that’s neither here nor there. Not yet, anyway.

What is here is a man who has desperately needed to learn how to stop flinching at the touch of another.

What is here is a man who’s finally recognizing, after twenty years of being out, and forty-four years on this planet so far, that his body is his own, and that body autonomy really fucking matters.