Recent convert to the cause of massages

I lay facedown with my ugly mug in a padded oval aperture in the massage table. May, my masseuse had strong, capable hands. They were finding knots in my shoulder muscles. The pain was bliss.

Earlier she had handed me a pair of black shorts. She went out while I pulled them on. The room's lighting was subdued.

When she reappeared she covered me from top to toe with a warm towel. Next she pressed on my shoulders, back, hips and legs.

Then she pulled back the top half of the towel. The warm oil had a pleasant relaxing smell.

Earlier, when we arrived at the massage parlor in Beijing's Chaoyang district, my Chinese friend told May I was a massage virgin.

That wasn't strictly true. A long time ago in Macao, a Filipina had walked up and down my spine. It popped. Then she sat on my back, took my head in her hands and yanked it one way, then the other. Vertebrae cracked. I left feeling 6 feet tall.

This time I opted for the Chinese oil massage, a one-hour treatment. Fortunately, my friend had a voucher worth 400 yuan ($62.16).

I should explain that I'm ambivalent about massage. I was brought up in the Kirk (Church of Scotland). Ministers of the Kirk frowned on pleasures of the flesh.

In the Boys' Brigade we sang this hymn:

"Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin;

Each vict'ry will help you, some other to win'

Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue'

Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through."

However, thanks to May's soothing ministrations, I was beginning to overcome my hang-ups. When she began to work on knots in my calves I yielded completely.

My problem with massage is partly cultural. Throughout the United Kingdom, and particularly in Glasgow and Edinburgh, massage parlors are fronts for brothels. Police tolerate their activities because it gets hookers off the streets.

Generally, Scottish men don't admit to visiting massage parlors. Pals might nod and wink, females would be shocked. These places may offer massage, but the main business is sexual services.

A year ago, I visited a brothel in Glasgow's Duke Street (strictly in the line of duty, mind you, as I was a crime reporter carrying out undercover surveillance). In my top pocket was a pen camera.

I was trying to locate a particular working girl. When I discovered she wasn't there, I made my excuses and left.

But I noticed a bottle of Johnson's baby oil on the bedside table. The charming young ladies, two black, one white, who introduced themselves, were apparently also amateur "masseuses".

But back to May, my Chinese masseuse, who was now, apparently, rearranging the contents of my stomach. Had it been wise to have porridge, bacon and egg, tea and toast for breakfast?

The queasy feeling passed when she moved on to pummeling my thighs. When she finished massaging my back, May wiped me down with a warm, damp towel to remove the oil.

I'd never been pampered like this in my life and was beginning to enjoy it. Time seemed to stand still, but I guess an hour had passed. Then it was over.

When I emerged into the reception area, May handed me a cup of tea. I waited for my colleague who was having a manicure. She appeared waving wet, blood red, talons. "How was it?" she asked.

"Wonderful," I said. "When can we come back?"