"Over-exposed," an excerpt from "Spavalous."

To prepare for a week’s vacation only adds to the stress accumulation that brought the need for a vacation in the first place. Take, for instance, my trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico.

As I puttered around in an effort to pack, I lost the will and threw everything I could into one suitcase. After buttoning up our respective homes, ending a full workweek, and emptying our savings, my boyfriend, soon to be my fiancé, and I headed to the airport, unaware of the turbulent ride ahead, both on the plane and as a result of making a poolside commitment. By the time we arrived at our destination, I was in need of a massage treatment.

So once we were checked in, I immediately called the Wyndham Spa and booked the first available appointment to which I would soon encounter a series of firsts. For a one-hour treatment, I was instructed to head to the adjacent fitness room’s showers, and then grab a robe and slippers from my assigned locker, the same place all items I wore would be held during my service, including my underwear.

The masseuse, whose name shall remain anonymous, seemed, on the surface, to be much like the other massage therapists I’ve experienced. He told me to remove my robe while he stepped out, and to climb onto the massage table, face down, and drape the bath-sized towel he left on the table over my body. Simple enough.

He returned and began to massage my shoulders first, and then my extremities. As he oiled, kneaded and smoothed my carpel-tunneled arm, I peeked through the doughnut hole to which my face was lodged. I could view nothing but the floor, but for whatever reason, felt the need to stay alert.

And then it happened.

Moving down to my legs, the towel was placed over one thigh while he worked on the other. He pulled his hands from my inner thigh, and forcefully wrung my knotted muscles out, down to my calf, then back up again. I could feel a breeze between my thighs (not even paper underwear was offered) that left me feeling a bit uncomfortable, but I said nothing. The massage began to feel more like I was being molested, or at least this is what I sensed.

When I arrived back in my hotel room, I recreated the scene with my naked body and a towel so that my boyfriend could assess the situation.

“Can you see anything?” I pleaded.

“Oooooh, yeah,” he cooed.