Naked and afraid (Part I)

I’ve never gone commando. I layer shorts over yoga pants to hide my underwear lines. And before today, only four people had ever seen my birthday suit: my parents, my sister and my husband. But I just spent three whole hours in the very naked company of three girlfriends -- and a whole bunch of strangers -- and survived.

The last time anyone saw this Nearly Never Nude naked

It was Jackie who suggested we spend Sunday afternoon at the Korean Spa.

“BTW Kelsey – everyone will be naked!!!!!” she wrote in the email invite Monday. “AAAAAHHHHHHHH.”

Somehow Jackie overlooked my prudish tendencies, honed from half a lifetime of anxiety-inducing spa and massage experiences.

In West Palm Beach, there’d been the $20-an-hour student massage studio that required customers to bring their own sheets. The treatment room was one long, co-ed rectangle with 10 or so tables separated by flimsy hospital curtains that failed to dampen any of the moaning and groaning on either side. 

For my 24^th birthday, Matt treated me to a mid-winter weekend getaway at Missouri’s equivalent to the “Shining” hotel. My spa treatment – in a dark and remarkably bare basement -- consisted of lying prostrate on a de facto embalming table while warm water drummed down on me from holes in the ceiling.

And, still vivid in my mind, was the overpriced, pre-Christmas holiday massage I received from “Santa Claus,” an unkept, white-bearded gentleman whose belly rested ever so gently on my back as he slid a greasy, hairy forearm up and down my spine.

(“Did he ask you if you’ve been naughty or nice?” Kelsey asked when I related the experience.)

This particular spa experience, I judged, might warrant a pre-treatment parking lot cocktail: We would shower in a communal shower naked, soak in a communal hot tub naked, lounge in a sauna naked and, for an added cost, lie face-up while tiny, lingerie-clad Asian women drenched our nakedness in oil and milk.

Bathing suits and underwear are strictly forbidden, the spa’s website warned. For the Nearly Never Nude, the prospect was frightening. I would pack a bikini just in case.

I spent all week concocting excuses for cancelling my appointment. Chatting with a co-worker didn’t ease the anticipation.

“Ooooh, I love Korean Spas,” Eliza said, hovering over our shared cubicle wall. “But they do require a lot of pre-grooming.”

Duly noted.

Kelsey’s comments en route to the Palo Alto facility today were equally discomforting.

“I heard those Korean women really beat you up,” she said.

“What, like a Thai massage?” I asked. I had been brutalized by Thai women before.

“No, they scrub your skin until it falls off and you’re all red.”

“And why are we paying for this?!”

The conversation grew progressively more terrifying once we picked up Cat in Mountain View.

“Do you think they massage your b-hole?” Kelsey asked. “They call that a 'margarita' because of the salt on the rim.”

“Anyone who calls it a ‘b-hole’ has never had it massaged before,” Cat said, matter-of-factly.

And, later: “Don’t be surprised if you cry during the massage part,” Cat said. “That happens sometimes because of all the tension it releases.”

“If I cry during this experience, it’s not going to be from the massage,” I replied.

To be continued....