Read Online Between These Walls by John Herrick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Herrick
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would also distract his own attention and help prevent his mind from wandering again.
“How did you get into this line of work?” Hunter asked.
“Not what you’d expected, huh?” Gabe’s tone indicated he knew what Hunter had really wanted to ask—why a guy would become a massage therapist—and could appreciate the humor in it.
“I guess you could say it goes against the stereotype I had.”
Gabe chuckled. “Stereotypes aren’t always accurate, but they sure are convenient, aren’t they?”
Hunter shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. His conscience reminded him of how much protection he’d found in the masculine, athletic stereotype over the years. It made for the perfect hiding place. Yet his greatest fear was that, one day, he would make a small—yet critical—error, and his house of refuge would come crumbling down on him.
Once, in a college psychology class, the teacher had remarked that, according to statistics, those dealing with homosexuality are more likely to be individuals we would least suspect. For men, we build an image of limp wrists, curves around a voice, and flamboyant or feminine qualities. But oftentimes, the instructor claimed, a homosexual is a man’s man. Your favorite coach or star player. To this day, Hunter could remember his posture growing rigid in his chair at that remark. It had struck the fear of God into him. In that moment, the class of forty students felt much, much smaller. And in Hunter’s mind, all eyes had turned toward him, waiting for him to blink first and thereby shoot his whole masquerade to hell. Hunter didn’t know if the teacher’s claim was true, but it had affected him more than he wanted to admit.
“Believe it or not,” Gabe continued, “my career started with a summer job. The summer after my junior year in college, a friend of mine got me a job working in a hotel in Akron—you know, to earn cash. She worked as a massage therapist at the hotel and made decent money with it. They had me doing laundry at the hotel, so I delivered towels and sheets to her office. One day, as we talked, I took a look around her office, and she convinced me to let her give me a demonstration. It felt amazing.” Gabe shrugged, working his way farther down Hunter’s back. “It seemed like I could get the hang of it if I tried, so she started showing me techniques. After graduating college, I needed an actual job. So she convinced the hotel to hire me as an assistant while I earned a certificate in massage therapy.”
“So what’s your college degree in?”
“Fine arts. My emphasis was on performance art—acting, stage production.” With a smirk, he added, “Not a lot of demand for actors in this area, and I needed to pay the bills. So years later, here I am, relieving the Hunter Carlisles of the greater Cleveland-Akron area.”
Hunter sniggered. “And you couldn’t ask for a better client, right?”
Gabe’s eyes darted to a clock on the wall.
“For the remaining 37 minutes, you’re my favorite client.” Gabe continued with deeper, more prolonged motions in Hunter’s lower-back region. “What’s your field of work?”
“I’m in sales. Computer software.”
“Sales? No wonder you’re stressed.”
“It’s been a tough few months,” Hunter said. Preferring not to delve into the details, he decided to tie up the loose end of the conversation. “But that’s part of the sales industry. You have ups and downs.”
As little as Hunter had said about the pressure he felt on his job, it had felt so good to get it off his chest. The way Gabe nodded, the compassion in his eyes, calmed Hunter. He realized he was in the company of someone to whom he could talk, one with whom he could open up, if he wanted to. Hunter didn’t have friends who relished substance-based conversations. On the contrary, their conversations gravitated toward professional sports—which teams were in the lead in a division, which teams traded which players, the amazing play
“How did you get into this line of work?” Hunter asked.
“Not what you’d expected, huh?” Gabe’s tone indicated he knew what Hunter had really wanted to ask—why a guy would become a massage therapist—and could appreciate the humor in it.
“I guess you could say it goes against the stereotype I had.”
Gabe chuckled. “Stereotypes aren’t always accurate, but they sure are convenient, aren’t they?”
Hunter shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. His conscience reminded him of how much protection he’d found in the masculine, athletic stereotype over the years. It made for the perfect hiding place. Yet his greatest fear was that, one day, he would make a small—yet critical—error, and his house of refuge would come crumbling down on him.
Once, in a college psychology class, the teacher had remarked that, according to statistics, those dealing with homosexuality are more likely to be individuals we would least suspect. For men, we build an image of limp wrists, curves around a voice, and flamboyant or feminine qualities. But oftentimes, the instructor claimed, a homosexual is a man’s man. Your favorite coach or star player. To this day, Hunter could remember his posture growing rigid in his chair at that remark. It had struck the fear of God into him. In that moment, the class of forty students felt much, much smaller. And in Hunter’s mind, all eyes had turned toward him, waiting for him to blink first and thereby shoot his whole masquerade to hell. Hunter didn’t know if the teacher’s claim was true, but it had affected him more than he wanted to admit.
“Believe it or not,” Gabe continued, “my career started with a summer job. The summer after my junior year in college, a friend of mine got me a job working in a hotel in Akron—you know, to earn cash. She worked as a massage therapist at the hotel and made decent money with it. They had me doing laundry at the hotel, so I delivered towels and sheets to her office. One day, as we talked, I took a look around her office, and she convinced me to let her give me a demonstration. It felt amazing.” Gabe shrugged, working his way farther down Hunter’s back. “It seemed like I could get the hang of it if I tried, so she started showing me techniques. After graduating college, I needed an actual job. So she convinced the hotel to hire me as an assistant while I earned a certificate in massage therapy.”
“So what’s your college degree in?”
“Fine arts. My emphasis was on performance art—acting, stage production.” With a smirk, he added, “Not a lot of demand for actors in this area, and I needed to pay the bills. So years later, here I am, relieving the Hunter Carlisles of the greater Cleveland-Akron area.”
Hunter sniggered. “And you couldn’t ask for a better client, right?”
Gabe’s eyes darted to a clock on the wall.
“For the remaining 37 minutes, you’re my favorite client.” Gabe continued with deeper, more prolonged motions in Hunter’s lower-back region. “What’s your field of work?”
“I’m in sales. Computer software.”
“Sales? No wonder you’re stressed.”
“It’s been a tough few months,” Hunter said. Preferring not to delve into the details, he decided to tie up the loose end of the conversation. “But that’s part of the sales industry. You have ups and downs.”
As little as Hunter had said about the pressure he felt on his job, it had felt so good to get it off his chest. The way Gabe nodded, the compassion in his eyes, calmed Hunter. He realized he was in the company of someone to whom he could talk, one with whom he could open up, if he wanted to. Hunter didn’t have friends who relished substance-based conversations. On the contrary, their conversations gravitated toward professional sports—which teams were in the lead in a division, which teams traded which players, the amazing play
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