Get Naked…

“Get Naked.”

I’ve been asked more times than I can count why I always say, “Get naked.”

I guess if I were a superhero ho…

That’d probably be my catchphrase.

Cape optional.

But let’s back up a bit.

Back when I first started…

You know, back when Justin Bieber was still a kid and Breaking Bad had just premiered on TV.

Yeah…

I’ve been around that long.

Crazy, hey?

People always ask how I still look so young.

Good genetics.

…And a shit ton of Botox.

My body is held together by equal parts caffeine and Botox.

That’s why I’m always so happy.

I literally can’t fucking frown.

It’s science.

Sixty units just in my forehead.

Snapchat filters help too.

But back to my story…

When I first started, I was terrified walking into rooms with complete strangers.

Little personal insight…

I’m actually way more introverted than people think.

It’s the caffeine that tricks everyone into believing I’m an extrovert.

Around people I’m comfortable with?

I’m quick-witted.

Sarcastic.

Can talk for hours.

Around strangers?

My brain completely blue screens.

I’m much better now…

Well…

No.

Scratch that.

I’m still awkward as fuck.

The only difference is I’ve learned to embrace my inner dork instead of fighting it.

Now…

Where was I?

Oh right.

“Get naked.”

How did that become my thing?

Story time.

A few months after I started, I had a massage booked with a new client.

He seemed…

Odd.

Not creepy.

Just…

Different.

I figured he was probably nervous.

He’d made it sound like he’d been to places like this before, so I wasn’t overly concerned.

Turns out…

He hadn’t.

Not even close.

My blissfully unaware ass heated up the massage oil, grabbed my towels and headed back into the room.

To my surprise…

He was lying face down on the massage table.

Fully clothed.

Shirt.

Jeans.

Belt.

Everything.

I remember thinking,

“Maybe he’s just waiting for me to get undressed first.”

Reasonable assumption, right?

So…

I got undressed.

The entire time this man is staring directly at me.

Not casually looking.

Not politely pretending not to.

I mean…

Watching.

Wide-eyed.

Completely committed.

If you’ve ever changed clothes in front of a prison guard…

That’s what it felt like.

If you haven’t…

Congratulations on making better life choices than me.

Stay in school, kids.

So there I am…

Standing naked beside the massage table.

He turns his head back toward the pillow.

Still fully clothed.

At this point my awkward little introvert brain is frantically searching for literally anything clever to say.

Instead…

What came out was,

“So… a little overdressed, are we?”

Smooth.

Real smooth, Tasha.

The sex appeal was simply overwhelming.

He looked at me.

Nodded.

Sat up.

“Perfect,” I thought.

“We’re making progress.”

Then…

He untied his shoes.

Took them off.

Removed his socks.

Carefully folded the socks into the shoes.

Placed them neatly on the floor.

And…

Laid back down.

Still completely dressed.

Just…

Bare feet.

Now my internal dialogue has gone completely off the rails.

“What the actual fuck?”

“How am I supposed to massage someone fully clothed?”

“More importantly…”

“How exactly was the rest of this appointment supposed to work?”

Was this going to be my first over-the-pants massage?

Because…

Believe it or not…

That actually does happen.

More often than you’d think.

Looking back now?

Honestly…

This probably doesn’t even crack my Top Ten Weirdest Sessions.

Not even close.

But at the time…

I was absolutely baffled.

So…

What did I do?

I stood there…

Completely naked…

And rubbed this man’s giant hobbit feet…

For forty-five minutes.

Forty-five.

Minutes.

He barely said a word.

Every few minutes he’d slowly glance over at me…

Smile like Pennywise…

Then lay his head back down.

Now here’s something you should know about me.

I don’t like clowns.

But do you know what I hate even more than clowns?

Feet.

I really hate feet.

And this man…

Bless his heart…

Had feet that looked like they’d spent twenty years hiking barefoot through Mordor.

Gentlemen…

Moisturize.

Please.

By the end of the appointment he finally sat up.

Looked at me.

Smiled.

And the only word he said the entire session was…

“Good.”

That’s it.

Good.

Then he calmly put his socks back on.

Slipped into his shoes.

Walked out the door.

Like that was the most normal interaction two adults had ever shared.

Alright then.

After I cleaned the room, my next client came in.

We went through the usual routine.

Picked his massage.

Paid.

Small talk.

As I walked toward the door, without even thinking, I turned around and blurted out,

“Okay… get naked.”

He laughed.

Smiled.

And replied,

“Yes, ma’am.”

When I came back…

He was actually naked.

It was beautiful.

No confusion.

No shoes.

No surprise feet.

Just a man who understood the assignment.

And from that day forward…

Every single client has heard exactly the same two words.

“Get naked.”

It saves time.

It avoids confusion.

And most importantly…

It dramatically reduces the odds of me spending another forty-five minutes rubbing hobbit feet.

Once was enough.