Rubbed up the Right Way
A bad back is the gift that keeps on giving, offering you an exciting opportunity to wake up each morning without knowing if you’ll be able to get out of bed at the first attempt. To make tomorrow morning a little easier, I booked myself in for a massage.
Google, who are the best thing in the world ever for finding things – or they will be, once they unveil Google House, so I can find my keys – have been undone on this occasion. It seems that “massage” is a not-so-secret codeword for a House O’Handjobs. My search turned Google Maps into a literal wankers’ paradise. It’s amazingly shameless, with these tug-shops having big flashy websites that must have cost their weight in wanks. As I thoroughly investigated.
The slightly cheaper option is an actual proper massage from an actual proper professional. Not that much cheaper, mind, when you can apparently get two Thai girls in a bath for £40. Bargain, although they’re probably not properly accredited massage therapists.
So many questions though – do I take my pants off? Probably not, but I wouldn’t want to get it wrong. Would it be better if she were hot (pro: she’s hot. con: being asked to roll onto my back may lead to me being told to leave) or hideous (pro: no chance of stirring. con: gross) or a fella (pro: definitely no chance of movement. con: not really my thing.)
The preparations are like those of a first date. Over-long shower so there’s absolutely no chance of any lingering smells. Best underwear, she probably won’t even notice, but it’s better than bright blue Superman boxers.
The massage house – I don’t know what the proper name for the place is, but I do know that a massage parlour is the other one – is one of those slightly hippy joints, with all pan-pipe CDs and holistic shit on the shelves. Don’t really need to take all that seriously, just there to chill out and relax.
Brilliantly, the masseuse was more nervous than me, and got a bit embarrassed when she told me to take my clothes off, and forgot the word “trousers”. The next hour passed by in a blur, as it’s amazingly relaxing and I’m not entirely convinced that I stayed awake through all of it. There was one bit I definitely did stay awake through, and that was when she massaged my feet.
Firstly, I forgot to check for sock fluff between my toes, so I was worried about that, but more annoyingly, my feet are horribly ticklish. I actually had to grab onto the sides of the table so I didn’t burst out giggling and ruin the whole thing. So I don’t mind being almost naked in front of a stranger (although I did feel a bit sorry for her), but dammit, leave my feet alone. She didn’t wank me off, either.
It’s bloody relaxing though, you should all have one.