Regular readers will know that I'm not overly prudish: I've overcome my English inhibitions and can now use the changing room at the gym with relative impunity; I have massages on a semi-regular basis; and I've even been washed by a diminutive woman at the Kabuki Springs & Spa in San Francisco. However, I've never been given a massage by a man that I wasn't actually dating. Until yesterday. PJ had been singing the praises of his masseuse, so I was looking forward to the 80 minute aromatherapy massage I had booked for yesterday afternoon. Until I got to the designated room and discovered it was a bloke. Very nice and friendly, but still. A bloke. I took a deep breath, lay down (naked) and tried to think of anything but the fact that a strange Latvian man was massaging my buttocks. Luckily, he played the soundtrack to Swan Lake as my "relaxation" music; it had commentary by a posh English bloke, so I'm now au fait with the different parts of the ballet.
Reader, I survived -- although I did shoot out of the room like a scalded cat after he left, rather than relaxing further. I'm hoping my dark chocolate facial this afternoon is rather more traditional.
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