To go to a mokyoktang, all you need to bring is the fee and your body. With a bored cashier, you exchange the few rumpled bills for a locker key, then walk through an opaque curtain. You lock your shoes outside and enter barefoot—that was the easy part. Next, you begin to peel away every article of clothing from your body, even the underwear that is so adamant in bidding your buttocks farewell. You keep thinking, you need something, something to clutch onto, or wrap around your body. Your antsy fingers gnarl or flicker uneasily at your side. But the only thing you have on you are your hands, which are too small to cover up the expanse of your body. You involuntarily hunch over, and even your bare toes curl inward as you take wobbly steps along the slippery tiles. With your peripheral vision, you see the other women, and are astonished at their poise, chest outward as their breasts bounce in plain sight. The assortment of female bodies fascinates you: a naked batch of females varying from scrawny six year olds to grandmas lugging around the mammaries that have nursed four or five babies in their day. But alas, you keep your head down because you know making the slightest eye contact will have you running back for your brassiere and panties.

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