The Galeta Span

In these days of long, long international flights, there's not much to do aside from eating and drinking and watching an infinity of mediocre to bad movies. Or listening to music none of which is to your taste. Then there's the airline's inflight magazine, a periodical designed, apparently, to persuade you to keep on flying with them, never get off that plane and enjoy, enjoy and enjoy your flight. Given that encouragement, one can hardly wait to get off. And that's what I did. After twelve hours listening to squalling babies, hearing couples argue and receiving surly service, it was time to get off; Happily it was in Istanbul.

For those who haven't had the pleasure of visiting it's one of those cities that we all hear about but seldom visit. It's just a bit too foreign, too strange for most Americans and they can't think of much to do apart from seeing the few sights they've heard of. But that's for the too casual tourist. Istanbul is the gateway to the Arab world where males dominate and are catered to. If you're a guy and need of a bit of freshening up, Istanbul is your city; Start at the barber shop.

My favourite is one near the Galeta Bridge and isn't obvious, just another shop in a row of shops but once inside you enter the uber world of masculinity. One is greeted like a visiting dignitary and, it's assumed, you have come for all the services they offer and, unless you're a fool, you have all the time to give over to being serviced and made to feel better, look better and generally feel like a man.

This all starts at the door where you are greeted like an old friend, hands are shaken, embraces given, your coat is removed and, after a few more words of welcome, you're escorted to a small changing room where you find a fresh T shirt with a very wide neck. Whatever you’re wearing above the waist is removed and the T shirt is put on. Next is the selection of the barber who will become your instant friend and stylist for the next several hours. Most speak several languages-to varying degrees of fluency. Having picked one, we'll call him Memet, you're escorted to his chair and seated. Now in other places a drape would be put over you and tied or clipped at the neck. Not here. As soon as you're comfortable, Memet will pull up a stool and the two of you concentrate on your reflection. This is the period where first decisions are made; Is this to be a full cut or just a trim? Something a bit different, perhaps shorter or shaved, or left as is but tightened up. In a sense you both pick what will happen but you find you're guided to his point of view. But then he's a professional, this is all he's done all his life, quite probably learned it from his father and it well may be that the cute kid cleaning up is his son or the son of one of the other barbers. He stands, a decision has been reached. The business of serious consultation is over, decisions have been made, it’s time for you to enter the world of sybaritic pleasure guided there by Memet who is anxious to do so, to prove his protestations of excellence, his quality of service were more than just words dangled in front of a buyer in a Souk.

But what it is will come later. First there is the mandatory shave, facial, reshave and massage. THEN you'll get your haircut but only when the rest of you has been brought to that point where it's deserving of the cut you'll receive. Hot towels appear and are carefully used to first clean your face and then others are wound around and pressed down, their moist warmth penetrating your skin. Whisked away, a fresh piece of shaving soap is dropped in a bowl. A bristle brush is wetted and the delicate business of preparing the perfect foam is begun. Memet has a consistency that he prefers and, if necessary, he'll throw the first batch out and start again. While this is going on, an assistant, a barber in training, is preparing the blade. He is not allowed to strop it, that is for Memet to do, but he makes sure it is clean and is handed to Memet just at the moment when you're fully lathered and ready to be shaved.

Never have you been shaved so thoroughly, so closely, so carefully. Memet looks for the slight rises and bumps that are on every man's face and artfully works the blade so that he seems to always be working on flat skin, his thumb and forefinger ever so gently stretch your skin. After each pass, it's handed off to his assistant to be cleaned and then handed back. During that interval, he has inspected the path he just made for any hair or imperfections he may have missed. And the process continues until your whole face glows from the passages of the razor. But now it's time for the possibility of your upper chest, that part that would show above an open throated chest to be considered. Some Turkish men want hair flowing out, others prefer the more Westernized smooth, hairless look. If it's the latter, Memet will consult as to how far to shave and then the ritual of blade, foam and assistant begins again. You end with the suggestion of a furred pec or sternum but for professional purposes, clean, crisp, white skin almost framed by the suggestion of what continues under the shirt, behind the buttons.

Time for the cut! No Renaissance artist ever paid as much attention to his painting as Memet is paying to your head and hair. Even if you come twice a week, and many men do, it's the same critical eye considering where to make the first snip. An hour later he's done with that and almost has to sit for a moment so tense has it been. To describe the detail you've just gone through is impossible but you know it has been perfectly done.

Now to bring back the razor to blend the neck into the hair, or, if you wish, it will be shaved with a firm line at the bottom of the hair. And of course the Moustache must receive almost microscopic attention, each strand of hair made to conform to the proper shape of your own unique moustache. He'll understand, since you're a foreigner that you may not have one but...with little urging, he'll be glad to start one for you by not shaving an area that he feels will produce the best ‘stache for you. It's almost worth it to let him do this, particularly if you're going to be in town for a few weeks. The pleasure he'll take as it grows will be better than any tip you might give him. He has started a fellow man on the way to his moustache and could there be a higher calling for a barber? There could not. Now for the final bit of touch up. A pointed wand is brought out with a ball of cotton on one end. The cotton is saturated with methylated spirits then lit. It's then passed over your ears and up your nose to burn off any errant hair that would detract from you, the man and his cut. Finally, another quick shave just to make sure that no shadow has appeared while you were being properly barbered elsewhere.

And you’re done. Back to your clothes and, when you emerge, all the patrons and barbers stop to look and approve of the work done. It's the sense of camaraderie that makes a barbershop in Turkey the equivalent to a local pub in England. It's the hang out place, the place you go to watch the football matches or Turkish wrestling.

As you pay you feel they're almost insulted at having to accept your money. After all, you're a friend, someone who will be back but, of course, reluctantly, they do and the assistant to Memet is handed a tip, generally about the size of the bill you've just paid. But...you stop. There was one other thing, one other shaving to be done and...they know and smile and direct you to the Haman, one out of the way, reserved really, for referred clientele. Indeed the owner of the shop, if it's not Memet will hand you a small wooden chit with a symbol on it. It's your ticket of entry to your next pleasure of the day.

But take a moment to enjoy the square, go to the cafe, have a coffee and a cigar or perhaps a hubble bubble. Look across the Bosporus to the Asian side and think about perhaps crossing over later in the week. But now you have an appointment, one you did not make but, none the less, one that was made for you. So you leave a few coins in the saucer and head toward the flower shop and go down the alley beside it to the door on which is the symbol of the chit you have in your hand.

No need to knock, you're expected, eyes saw you coming though you did not see them. A man greets you in the minuscule foyer and leads you down a short flight of stairs, the smell of water growing stronger as you descend, into a large room, tiled in marble and with marble benches as table as the only furniture. He shows you to a changing room where you leave your clothes and collect a sheet which is wrapped around you, waist high, and you return to the main room and lie down on a table. You needn't wait long, until a hand touches your shoulder and you look up and see Memet. He has exchanged his barbers clothes for a pair of short gym shorts and his usual big smile. And he's not alone, he's brought his assistant who has yet to earn the privilege of being clad. He runs a hand down your chest, curls his fingers in your chest hair, further down, your pubic hair, caresses your furry balls and his smiles deepens.

He tells you how pleased he is that he can complete your cut, he looks forward to these days, you are his favourite customer. He twiddles with the hair under your arms and seems to think, again, what will he do and how will he do it. The assistant lowers his zipper and, to assist his thinking, begins to gently suck his cock. His hands go through your freshly cut hair, he seems to be almost bragging to himself at his skill, the smoothness of your skin, he's truly an artist with a razor. He helps you up as his assistant backs away, leaving his sizable dick hanging out, one to be proud of, envied. The three of you go toward a rug covered wall which the assistant draws aside revealing another table but also a basin and a large pool of water, a spa in one room. As he helps you to the table he slips away the sheet and you feel the cold marble on your warm ass. You spontaneously sigh knowing the pleasure and some other things. The table is longer than most in the other room but with a purpose. He places a spreader bar between your ankles and locks you in. Your arms arms are raised above you and secured in leather cuffs closed with locks. You are his canvas and his smile broadens at the prospect. It's time for him to reverse what he's done, to create a new look for you, one only you know you want and it's taken some time to get to realizing it but when you did, your friend in the barbershop was there, waiting for you.

First a light oiling, then the assistant takes a large sponges, dips in a bowl of soapy water and vigorously washes you. At the same time Memet is sharpening blades, checking sheers, all must be perfect. And perfectly quiet so he slips a cock gag into your mouth and secures it behind your neck. You don't need to give him instructions, he knows what to do.

Bowl after bowl of water is poured over you until you are squeaky clean from any soap. And Memet is ready. The easy part first. Using old fashioned hand activated clippers he goes back and forth across your head, your just cut hair falling on the table. He's quick about it and not careful as this is only the preparation. More water, the hair goes away. And now the shaving soap and the bowl and the blade. You can feel the bristles of the brush on your partly denuded scalp and then the razor. Every so slowly, carefully, lustily being pulled across your head. You can almost feel the fresh air where once your hair was. Back and forth, more water, more soap, more shaving. All directions, both with and against the grain. Once in a while he'll stop for a moment, his assistant fastening himself to his cock to pump enthusiasm into him. And then he returns. Your head is almost finished, but not quite. Your eyebrows are taken and he moves South. Your Armpits and then, avoiding your chest, down the trail to your crotch leaving only a feathered path leading to a strip of air perhaps just as wide as where your cock joins your lower abdomen. Back up to your chest where he starts by shaving a circle around your nipples, barely nipping them with his razor so they bleed just a bit, just enough to make them slightly damaged and grow scar tissue to make bigger tits. The better to suck on. He uses the razor as if it were a pruning sheer and takes some off and leaves some until, if one stepped back, it would look like a fountain with your dick as the spigot blowing water up your chest and around your tits. It's artful, it's magnificent, it's not over. While you lay there he sits on the edge of the table and allows his assistant to finally, slowly suck him off. By turning your head slightly you can see his belly contract as the orgasm comes over him, the assistant swallowing hard to keep up his cum production. Shaving you has aroused him, he must be emptied, at least for now.

It's time to roll you over latch you down again and whisk off the few insults of fur on the lower spine that are the curse of most men. They lead to your ass and then into it. Memet removes that patch of hair and moves to his real target, your ass. He likes it hairy and so he puts away his razor and picks up a blood red tapered dildo and prepares it for insertion. But this is for him, you will get him and as we all know, the second coming so soon after that last blow out takes time. But he has that and so do you. Carefully oiled and felt and finally two fingers plunge through your defensive hole then a third is added. A fourth. You hear the snap of a glove, feel the gooey grease being slathered around your ass, feel the tips of his fingers play with the opening, encouraging it to widen. Fingers come back. Two then three then four and, finally, with a gentle shove, his whole fist slides into you. Your prostate is being milked and, even laying on your stomach, you know you're hard and your balls are drawing up just waiting for a cue to spew.

The hand is one replaced by a Turkish delight of a dick. Sturdy and well veined, not long but throbbing again. He wastes no time gaining entry to your guts and presses. Behind him, as encouragement, his assistant has pulled out the first dildo and replaced it with a metal shaft wired so that electricity can make his shit chute jump with pain and pleasure. It adds to his thrusting until he is there again, You can feel the warm semen inside you. He withdraws and leans down to suck out his juice for his own pleasure.

But you are not done. All the binding are loosened and Memet takes his assistant and, using hidden rings in the wall, stretches him out, tied securely, gagged carefully, not for sex but for silence. He encourages you to get off the table and select from the variety of crops, single tails, scourges, floggers that are in a drawer in the table. He smiles and strikes the first blow which draws blood. That's when you notice the stripes on his back for he was once an assistance as well. Both of you work the boy over, blood falls on the floor, the boy seems to cry but no heed is given. When you tire, he's cut down and dumped in the pool which almost immediately is tinged with a pinkish hue.

Only you have not been satisfied and this is his final service. Nimble as a mountain goat, he hops up on the table and folds himself down so his ass hole is a prominent, welcoming target. You mount the table and him using only spit for lube. You know he can take it and you know how to give him the rough, tearing sex he craves. You beat him with your fists as you pump into him. He reaches back and pinches your balls postponing ejaculation and you smile inwardly, he really wants it. And so the two of you are locked together until your strength ebbs and your cock is almost too hard to withdraw safely without spewing in him. And with a sudden heave, it's there, a rush of viscous, deeply white cum. You pull out and are still spurting. Now it's your turn to eat your own product. You lick it from his ass, from the table.

And then you all join his assistance who is sufficient recovered to give easy hand jobs knowing that much more would be too painful. After a time, you rise leaving Memet and the kid and saunter out. Take a quick shower from one of the many showers in the room and lie down with your sheet covering you and sleep for a bit. Then get dressed, pay up, tip and go outside. Across the strait the lights in Asia are coming on. The cool air on your newly bald head feel odd but good. But it's always this way on shaving day. The only shame is that it will be months before you can do it again. And Memet will be waiting, smiling, ready for you. As you're ready for him. Just another one of the many pleasures of Istanbul. You wonder if the tourists are being entertained by the whirl of veils and the bouncing of flesh as they watch this “authentic” bit of canned culture. Back in the cafe, Memet joins you and you silently have a glass of Grapa and a cigar. He smiles at you and makes the sign of a razor perhaps slicing your….maybe another time. I grow hard thinking, wondering when that day will be... Memet smiles, he reaches under the table, gives your stalk and what hangs under it a caress, he knows his customers, their love of the razor and shaving, he knows what you’ll finally want, what he will finally do but now? It has been a good day and the lights on the Galeta bridge come on to agree.