International coverup

BORDEAUX, France — More men have seen me naked on this trip than in my entire life.

Monday’s one-hour, full body massage with David the masseur from Romania was at 11. Rebecca had had one at 9:30.

Our paths crossed briefly, and I asked her how it went.

“Oh, you’ll see,” she said. Hmmm.

The last time Reb said something like that to me I wound up on my stomach straddled by a Chinese woman who called me a whiny American baby. Good times.

The full treatment was 60 minutes for 60 Euro. Not bad for a fancy add-on cruise perk.

Before David stepped out of the room, he handed me a blanket resembling the tea towel I had purchased in Blaye the day before.

What the hell. I stripped and hopped on the table trying to cover my 60-ish body and hide the muffin-top rolls and folds. I certainly didn’t want him to think I was a Shar-Pei.

Then he began with sweeping brush strokes up and down my arms, legs, shoulders, knees and toes.

He moved like a pastry chef kneading dough. A sculptor forming his masterpiece. Deliberate, even and, um, with conviction.

At some point, I’m not sure how, he flipped me over and resumed. Sweeping and swirling and … I alone was his box of Dunkin’ Munchkins.

I didn’t care — even when the tea towel slipped off, slowly baring my white American ass to this complete stranger.

“Uh-oh,” I said, sounding like a complete idiot.

Without missing a beat, David discretely covered me back up, tucked the blanket under my numb right hip and continued for another 20 minutes. I was transformed from a sugary donut hole into a mouth-watering French beignet. It was wonderful.

That is, until he said these two words in broken English: “Sit up.”

What?

“Sit up. Like you are in chair.”

What?

But I am not in chair. I am buck naked on a massage table the size of a cookie sheet floating on a river in France.

And I’m speechless because until a minute ago, I was sound asleep dreaming of grapes, goats and Edith Piaf wearing a Camembert cheese box hat singing “La Vie en Rose.”

This isn’t your mother’s massage.

So, I sat up with the baby blanket covering my business in back and nothing in front as he handed me a towel the size of a washcloth to cover my Va-JJ and various parts north.

OMG.

Then he continued with my neck and back for about 10 minutes to complete the hour of bliss. Is this what a chair massage is like, I wondered?

If so, it is heavenly, albeit rather embarrassing for an uptight American like me. Au revoir, modestie!

Upon returning to my state room, I decided to shower and change clothes.

Who knew I’d emerge from the bathroom — again in my birthday suit! — staring face to face with a window washer outside my state room?

Horrified, I screamed.

He kept working.