Lessons in sensual-manipulation etiquette

Yesterday, I was booked in for a massage and facial. I’ve had this voucher since last birthday, which was almost a year ago*. As the appointment time came closer, I realized I was wearing a g-string. So? Good question. I started to wonder, ‘Does the masseuse want to see a bit of butt floss? I answered myself, ‘She’ll probably ask you to get nude anyway.’ ‘What if she doesn’t? If I leave it on, isn’t that …you know, icky?’ You see, I’m having this internal conversation with myself. This is a good day. On my anxious days, it’s on a deeper, noxious, level. ‘Honey, she’s seen it all before, all shapes and sizes.’ ‘But not my ass.’ ‘So go change your bloody knickers then!’ ‘No screw it. Because if I were being paid seventy dollars an hour, I’d be prepared to look over the odd unsightly body part, and on a scale of the Worst Things I’ll Ever See In My Life, my ass, I’m sure, only ranks somewhere slightly above the middle and I can live with that.’ ‘Well, touché’. So down I went, g-string clad, and it was pure heaven. Exhibitionism-1 Modesty-0. And I couldn't've cared less! *Hint, hint.