Damian Reilly takes it like a man at the Emirates Towers hotel. It's an odd experience for a heterosexual man; being covered in oil in a dimly lit room and rubbed by another man. By all means, be as cool as you like about it, but it is. Sure, you can lie there, as the mood music plays quietly in the background, trying to convince yourself you're as relaxed as a sloth.
But forgive me when I tell you that you, sir, are lying. And what is improper touching, in there, with the warm hands? In fact, what is proper touching? Man alive, the boundaries become blurred on the massage table. And this isn't the first massage I've undergone. It's perhaps the fifth an ex-girlfriend had a mania for two-for-one rubs.
I've used these sessions wisely, to develop a coping tactic, to normalise the event. There are so many questions. How long have you been doing this? Isn't it a lonely job? Where have you practised before here?
Have you ever laid hands on anyone famous? The last question is my favourite. Because, invariably so far, the masseurs who have rubbed me have done what they do to someone incredibly well known.
That put me at ease immediately; good enough for the Greatest, good enough for me. The one at the Shangri-La has done Al Gore. He seems like a sober man. The one at the One and Only, a frustrated contemporary artist, had done some of the world's leading tennis players.
