Get the Massage?

I was just chatting to a friend (simply a friend!) on a dating site, when I was interrupted by a guy ‘whispering’ to me (a form of contact), who was determined to get the level of conversation to base zero.

I’m so blooming polite I replied, ignoring where he was trying to lead but still somehow managed to talk about massage (I was talking reflexology, he wasn’t) and erotic photography (him, not me!). I finally told him I just wasn’t going where he was trying to lead and told him I was ending the conversation … in response to his asking if I massaged myself … I did say he could massage his big toe for a headache.

Oh, I hope he didn’t think that was a euphemism!!!

So that reminded me of a time I was going to write an article about different types of massage.

I’d been to ‘naice’ ladies’ beauty parlours (of course) and had massages, Oh and I had a naturist masseur once, who massaged au naturel, I mean he was au naturel, as well as myself.

Actually he was very good and after I’d been to a McTimoney Chiropractor for a (very) bad back (my leg kept collapsing – no it wasn’t just me bending my knee), I’d been even worse the next day. So I called the naturist masseur (who I knew from the naturist club …) and hobbled around to his place, with a stick (yep, pyk wiv stick) and asked him to concentrate on the sore spot.

He relieved the pain no end. His coup de grace was, I’m sure, what probably fixed the problem altogether cos I think it stretched me and possibly untrapped the nerve which had been giving me gyp but the way he did it was a bit unusual. Standing, after the massage, he told me to link my hands behind his neck (yeah, yeah) and just dangle .. so I did - fortunately, so did he!

I suppose you’re visualising this??? LOL. It was all very proper nonetheless.

British Naturism More on this another time!

I think I digressed.

So, I’d had various forms of massage and a new massage parlour had opened in Grimsby. Someone at the paper suggested I go have a look see. So I did.

The first thing that perturbed me a little was the fact that the solid door had a spyhole in it, you know, like a peephole for when you want to see who’s outside.

I rang the bell and was admitted. In the waiting room … previously I’d been used to white coated, hair pinned up ladies in nice white overalls, with pastel walls and nice reception office furniture … there was a shag pile (stop laughing!), deep blue carpet, a white leather sofa and green painted walls and the ‘receptionist’ arrived wearing a grubby, flimsy petticoat.

I knew I was on iffy ground somehow. However, I made polite enqiries.
What type of massage do you practice? (y’know Swedish, etc etc)
Just a massage.
Erm is it a particular type?
Just a massage.
Hmmm, how long does it last?
About half an hour.
For how much?
Forty pounds.
Half an hour for £40?
Well, you can have longer if you want.
Hmmm, is the manager here?
(Manager appears 5 mins later)
She is dressed in what looks like a hastily pulled on track suit, one eye in the pot, the other up the chimney and her hair sorta flat one side and standing up, looking like it had mousse in it on the other side.
Have you seen that film??? Was it ‘Something About Mary’???
I beat a hasty retreat, saying I’d think about it.