Bush League

They gave me a handy little locker for my shoes, but what about my inhibitions? Where am I supposed to put those?

I found myself in Koreatown a couple days ago. A friend of mine had recommended this Korean bathhouse for a massage and the loofah body scrub they offer...at quite the modest price, no less. Well, that was about the only modest thing about the place. I’ve been to a spa or two in my day. Burke Williams and the like, I also used to work for a day spa while I lived in Chicago. All of these spas seemed to run pretty much the same way, you’re handed a robe and a key, and then you’re pretty much good to go. Use whatever you like, the hot tub, sauna, pool, steam showers, all of which are primarily occupied by entirely naked women. When it comes time for your service, however, whether it be a massage, salt scrub, mud mask, etc…I'm accustomed to being whisked away to a quiet, Zen-like room…just me and the masseur.

NOT so in Koreaville. Aside from being the only white girl in a room full of some of the hottest Asian women I’ve ever seen, they were way less modest than any chick I’ve ever witnessed prancing around in the women’s lounge at an Americanized spa. I swear some of them would get out of the hot tub and grab their folded up towel and just walk with it right in their hand. It was slightly intimidating, I won't even try to pretend otherwise. They've got some great genes -- those bitches. The 70’s bush on the other hand was unlike any I've ever witnessed live. I know, I know. I swear I wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to notice. I am all for rolling with the old school triangle, it’s vintage, it’s retro, it’s in, that’s cool. But trimming the length is a must! I mean no disrespect at all, I was a total bush leaguer in there (no pun intended), they were all damn hot, over-sized muffs or not.

So, here I am (sporting my micro-mini triangle) getting into the hot tub. No big deal I can handle those miniscule moments of nudity amongst strangers. But now comes time for my massage. This lovely Korean woman comes over to me and I believe she is calling me over for my "appointment" but I have entirely no clue what she is saying to me, so I just got up and followed her. We walked into a room that I had noticed upon my arrival. There appeared to be a massage table directly in front of the doorway, and I thought to myself, ‘what an odd place to put the table…right in front of the door??!!’ As I made my way through the entrance, trying to avert my eyes from the overgrown muffin that was lying on that table, an alarming reality set in. There were 7 more tables in this giant shower-like room, and they were all occupied by naked women, except for the one designated for me. I had a couple of choices here. I pictured myself sprinting to my car, barefoot, white robe flailing crazily behind me from my adrenalin-induced speed. 'Screw my wallet, I’ll get new credit cards...I wonder if they're gonna charge me for this robe.'

“Face down!”
“Huh?” I mumbled when I realized I was still standing very close to the only visible doorway (read: exit).
“Face down!” She smiled as she tapped her hand onto the table. Yep, this time I understood exactly what she said.

My next move surprised even me. I smiled a smile from ear to ear and dropped my robe right there on the floor. Me, chicken? Hah!! I did, however, FEEL like a chicken…a chicken getting prepped for the deep fryer. I was being cleaned, slathered and tenderized. I was even garnished with something that resembled a cucumber salad.

I never knew the meaning of the word liberating until that day. Every nook and cranny was exposed to a room full of ladies, not to mention the woman who didn’t miss a beat while she flipped and patted and kneaded (all the while maintaining her entire routine wearing only a matching bra and panties. Black. Lace. I'm not kidding).

Americans are funny about our junk. We are a painfully yet hypocritically modest society in so many ways. God forbid we see a nipple on television and women have to fight for the right to provide their child vital sustenance in public. But Britney Spears (pre K-Fed) grinding under gallons of pouring water for her audience of 9 year olds who want to be just like her is totally acceptable. Funny, I say.

I have to say, another excellent feature of this hard core smack down I stumbled into was the fact that they didn’t have to be all pseudo proper and fakey respectful out of fear that you would sue them for coming within three inches of your business. It was more like, “You’re in my hood now, you pale American, your laws are no good here.” And probably thinking all the while that my triangle was just too darn small.

It was brilliant. I highly recommend it.