The Naked Truth

A few years ago I treated myself to a massage and a wax at Bliss. I had never been there before, and despite having heard mixed things about it, I wanted to give it a try. I showed up the customary ten minutes early at the location on Prince Street. The spa was less luxurious then I had imagined, but they were expanding at the time and under construction, and much was hidden by curtains. It didn't matter. I would soon be relaxing in a dark warm fragrant room.
My therapist came to show me in. We chatted amicably, and she said "Undress, get on the table and I'll be back in a few." The treatment table in front of me was made tightly with white sheets; it seemed like someone worked hard to get it to look so nice, and I wasn't sure whether I should get under them or not. I didn't want to ruin anything. All the therapist had told me to do was get undressed and get on the table. And so I did. If I was wrong, she would guide me.
I lay there, in all my glory, trying to be modest and not seem uncomfortable, waiting for her to come back. After either a millenium, or five minutes, she entered. And upon seeing my naked self arrayed before her, she yelped.
"Oh! My!" She said, as though we were in a convent, and seeing a naked woman was the last thing she had expected upon entering the room.
She quickly turned away and told me to get under the covers. I was mortified. I would have been much happier tucked in to begin with, if only I had known! Now she thought I was a steaking freak, and I was as embarrassed as I had ever been. Let's just say it was not the most comforatble massage, even though she had a lovely touch. The worst part was at the end, when she half heartedly tried to make a repeat customer out of me. I know it was her professional duty, but her heart wasn't in it.