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Friday, November 28, 2008

In A Bottle

I'm all for decadence, you know. I'll always go for the M&Ms with the peanuts for instance. No, you can't buy class like wot I have.

So in a rare day off this week, I decided to treat myself to a massage. Now, before I go on, I'd like to say this was at a reputable place, rather than a central London doorway with 'Model Upstairs' in letters made of insulation tape above the chipped lintel. As a sidebar, I'd love to pop up to one of those places and ask the cavalcade of prolapsed hussies whether they actually have any models at all in there. And I don't mean people who actually look like they're from this side of the primordial soup - or indeed, that haven't had a similar soup sloshed up them hourly - I mean an actual Airfix model of the USS Voyager in a dust-proof case. Ah, they'd try and chase me out, but I'd throw a photocopy of a Green Card into the corner and watch them rip each other to shreds to get it.

Meanwhile, back to my reputable place with tinkly music and lesbian tea literally on tap. The charmingly bored functionary asked me whether I'd like a man or a woman at this point. Ah, this is where the joy of being a Gentleman Who Is Excited About The Prospect of a '9 to 5' Musical can excel; I pity the man who goes in and wants to ask for a woman as it has all these strange connotations, or the woman who asks for a gentleman... It feels like you've managed to remove one level of sexuality from it if you're a man asking for a man to massage you - another bonus of being a Gentleman Who Knows How Many Times To Click Your Heels Together at the gym is you get to get a quick squint around the changing rooms. Imagine if you were a man allowed to change in the women's dressing room? Yes, it's like an all you can eat buffet! Carb free, of course.

Anyway, I digress. I chose a man and yes, I think I managed to dispel any sexual connotations from the whole affair, only to later realise that I was indeed in Soho, the mecca of all gay men (where twinks gleefully turn and prey to Jeremy Joseph on the hour, arse in the air, kneeling on their Same Difference prayer mats) and the tinny sound of Girls Aloud was drifting from my dangling headphones as I spoke. Ah well.

At which point, I was introduced to my masseuse, a giant Australian of a man called Matt, who almost knocked me over - such was the power of his handshake. Thank heaven there was a masseuse table to sit down on, my knees were as weak as my resolve.

So there I was in a private upstairs room with all my clothes off, covered in a towel, and slowly being lubed up by hands so large and firm that they could have felled a cow with a single slap... That's not a massage in my head - that's foreplay! I had a very similar situation when I had to go to hospital once for a bit of an inspection of the nether regions after they'd found a lump. An inspection that involved me up on blocks, manhood out to the world, while a TV-pretty doctor smeared my area with KY jelly and then had a jolly old poke around. I tell you, I spent the whole time invoking images of Nicola Girls Aloud splayed on my bed, having not mowed her minky for a good few months. Ee, I tell you, it did the trick to hide any... embarrasment. In my mind's eye it looked like someone had run over the last red squirrel.

There's a short circuit that happens in my head, I think. You are put into a situation that you are familiar with, such as the above, and your body is expecting an entirely different outcome. As I was here with this Matt, I began to find him desperately attractive. I mean, he wasn't - good looking to a point, yes, but not going to get me dripping like a fucked fridge any time soon - but here I was in a situation that had often lead to sex in the past. So my brain had already filled in the parts where we'd flirted over our Babycham, I'd got a bit giddy, and he'd offered to take me back to his Soho penthouse to show me his etchings, and moved in for the kill during a medley of Il Divo. It's like we'd jumped three steps, and I was ready to jump him. It was the most curious sensation.

I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, I managed to say goodbye to Matt with my dignity and my towel raised high, though did almost fall to my knees when he shook my hand in farewell. Well, I find the fantasy is often better than the reality. Besides, I could tell he was deathly straight. Not from his manner, not from his choice in shoes. But because his deodorant was that terrible Lynx. You know, the first choice of hetero boys everywhere because they think they don't need aftershave if they use it, and the advertising states they can pull women from across the bar. The only way that works is to get so close to the girls that they find the stench overpowering and go into a dead faint at the fumes. The rest of the times, I've seen women backing away from a group of straight Lynxed men with their handbags over their noses, gasping for air. Its a shame that you can't smoke in bars anymore - it used to be fun watching pyres of straight men going up in flames whenever someone accidentally let a lighter stray to his mate's armpit. Oh those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

1 comment:

CyberPete said...

Basically Axe is the same. The Christmas party I went to was all Axe smelling hetero men over 40 bar a few surprisingly cute under 30s smelling of JPGs Le Male. That fragrance is almost as bad.