"Here are your panties, Sir" and other stories

Recently I was, for the first time in my life, at a "Spa". Yes, I know I am growing soft. This is a great admission on my part, and you, reader, witness an historic moment.

Anyway, after spending too much time with female colleagues who go to spas and gladly introduce their non-work female friends thus: "Here is xyz. She is a <fill in random occupation>. We met at the spa. We were both naked." , this was inevitable. At this point in the introduction, the male brain has already used the computing power of 10 Deep Blues to create a complex fantasy, by adding on petrochemical derivatives (PVC, anyone?), Ticketmaster, chain saws, yachts, French windows, Jack Russell Terriers, turbans, a large domestic appliance (I'm thinking drier) etc.

Nevertheless, with all this subliminal propaganda on behalf of "le spa". I decided to visit one at my hotel in Jakarta. This is not a seedy place, and please don't get any ideas along the lines of "wanna happy ending". It most certainly is not that type of an institution. It is staffed by very respectable females, who I believe dropped out of sumo-school, and give your body such a workout that you'd never dare ask them for a happy ending. However, they are kind souls, let me use my special oil, which I carry around just for a once-in-a-lifetime event such as this.

However, there was one embarassing moment, when the woman asked me to change at the beginning, pointing to disposable briefs, and in the Indonesian lilt, telling me to "wear the panties". Oh, the horror. Oh, the shrinkage.

After this, they suggested I go to the "sauna". Now the sauna is a dim and dreary place, hot, sweaty, and with a pile of stones on top of coals. This, one imagines, is how Paleolithic hovels looked. Right down to men lolling about (though, these days, no spitting) in ragged loincloths, although at "le spa" you wear fluffy towels of Aegean cotton. I immediately gave it the miss. Right next to it, though, was the steam room. All the appeal of a sauna minus stones and coals, but plus steam obscuring anything beyond 3-mm. I opted for the latter, and the inevitable immediately happened - a stranger with a thick German accent started yakking away. I skilfully navigated this new problem by closing my eyes and offering monosyllabic replies, which is how I practice for my future marriages. I left the room not quite figuring if it was condensate or perspiration on my body. But hey, did I care? At least I did not have to wear panties.