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Why you should never go to a health spa on a first date
11 July 2008 - Lee Krawczyk  A few years ago I was out having drinks in Northamptonshire when I was introduced to a very sweet girl called Laura. After several hours of laughing and reciprocated drink buying it was agreed that we should meet up on a ‘proper date’ back in London - away from the gaze of chums and, as it turns out, a slightly demented ex-boyfriend (hers, not mine, obviously).
A week later Laura called me to explain that she had two free vouchers for a health spa in Covent Garden where - she imagined - people go to have massages, steam room sessions, possible waxing of naughty bits and other such treats. She suggested that although a bit weird, we both went along, had a little pampering then headed out for a few drinks after. “Sounds like it could be fun!” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound too keen to join what was essentially the girliest first date in the history of mankind.
And so the following Saturday, seven days after our initial meeting, I arrived at a very trendy and well-hidden Covent Garden health spa armed only with a pair of swimming shorts and a slight sense of trepidation. Laura was already in reception.
“Hello again!” I said, strolling in through the frosted glass doors whilst simultaneously doing this nervous wave thing that makes me look a bit like Forrest Gump greeting Lieutenant Dan before they went shrimping. “Hey you,” she replied. “We’ve just got to wait for the lady to take us downstairs to the room and show us the ropes. ‘The ropes?’ I thought. How hard can it be to have your back massaged?
Fifteen minutes later and I’m sitting stark-bollock naked in a giant throne, covered head to foot in four different shade of mud whilst Laura is directly opposite in a similar predicament. This was not exactly what I’d expected.
It turns out that we’d actually signed up for some sort of therapeutic, all-over mud therapy; designed to wash away the stresses of life and detox our skin. I first realised something was up when rope-showing-lady informed me that, “the mud might stain your swimming shorts so you’d be better off without them.” I left the changing room in only a towel and met Laura in the ‘cleansing dome’. “These are the four types of mud you’ll be using,” explained rope-showing-lady. “Green is for your arms and legs, orange for chest and back, blue for the face and red for the rest. I’ll leave you both to it.”
So there we both were. Looking at each other with a mix of fear and embarrassment as pan-pipe music came on and towels came off. We’d only met a week before, sharing the briefest of kisses as we both headed home. Now we were naked. Awkward. And fearing the worst.
 Quickly we headed to the bird-table in the middle of the dome and picked up the brushes. “So, er, do we just do ourselves or do you want me to paint your back?” I asked. “I’ll do you first,” Laura replied as she spun me round in an obvious effort to hide her nakedness. So now I’m standing there with my giant, white arse, facing her as she splatters my back with orange mud to a pan-pipe version of Relight my Fire. As she does this I do my face, conscious that I now looked like a perverted member of The Blue Man Group. When we’d both finished (and after I decided not to ask of she wanted me to paint her breasts orange) we both had to sit in the thrones, and wait.
This was without a doubt the strangest moment. We’re both sitting there head to foot in mud; my genitals are bright red, my face blue, and the rest of me a mix of green and orange. We looked like Aborigines at a mating ritual. Then, from nowhere, water shoots out of the ceiling, the walls, the floor and even the thrones. Slowly but surely the mud rinses off and flows down the drain. As it finishes we sit there shivering, resembling the victims of a Tsunami and wondering just where the hell the date could go from here.
After finally leaving the spa we spent the rest of the evening pretending that the whole experience was ‘a very funny story to tell our friends.’ In reality, Laura was probably still struggling to get over the image of a blue-faced man with bright red genitals wincing as half a tonne of water was shot up his arse hole in a throne invented by Satan.
Needless to say we never dated again.
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