THIS is horrible. I’m grimacing through the little head-hole in the table and clenching my fists as I get slathered up for a 15-minute massage down some basement in the city, staring at my masseuse’s pearly toenails in her thongs.
“Hard or soft?” she’d said. Soft.
As the girl carelessly traverses my back, neither soft nor hard, but a totally ‘meh’ medium, ‘Que Sera, Sera’ pipes reedily through the ceiling.
I’m not one to grumble, but my masseuse has all the finesse of a 14-year-old boy – which perhaps isn’t entirely surprising, as when the light comes on afterwards she appears to be a 14-year-old girl (therefore, nonces, I won’t reveal the location of the joint). If she were a bloke trying that nonsense on in bed, I’d have shrugged her off in five seconds flat.
Maybe, I ponder, as the masseuse settles in for five water-torturey minutes of rubbing a nubby square-inch on my left shoulder blade, massage is more of an art-form than I thought. Inspired, I get home and start Googling for tantra training.
Watch this space.
Keeper? No. Wanted to jump screaming from the table.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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