@Mindy Jensen
To offer a VERY different perspective...
I used to live in a two-bedroom next to a one-bedroom apartment. The bathroom of the two bedroom had a big window for ventilation that led to a central shaft of the building. The bathroom window was directly above the commode. Directly across was a window that led to the kitchen of the one-bedroom, directly above the kitchen sink.
So a very attractive young lady moved in next door. Over the next few weeks, as I was standing up at the commode to do my business with the window open, I observed, several times, the young lady, topless, doing dishes in her kitchen sink, with no curtains in her own (closed) window. She was looking down and she didn't see me, and I was able to duck out of the way. After about six or seven times, it became obvious she was a nudist at every opportunity at home.
It was a hot summer, in the nineties during the day, almost every day. We didn't have air conditioning. Neither did she. My ventilation window was open all the time. So I wrote her what I thought was a very nice letter, explaining the situation, explaining that I didn't want to play peeping Tom, asking her to maybe get some curtains or wear something when she washed the dishes. I couldn't get curtains because my window was a casement window, opening inward. I slipped my letter under her door one morning and hoped for the best. I did this because I thought it was the most decent thing to do.
She got FURIOUS at me. Her father lived across town, and she told him about it, and he got furious with me as well. In his book, if I was a REAL man, I would settle down in my john with a nice coffee and a cigarette and wait for my neighbors' appearances. This is what he told her, really.
She took every opportunity to make fun of me and belittle me during the next six months over it and pretty much everything else.
My point is that as a man, in matters like this, you often feel prejudged, damned if you do and damned if you don't. It really doesn't matter, she's GOING to think of you as a creep, even if she needs to manufacture the situation out of thin air. Your only (possible) way out of it would be to pretend you were gay, maybe, bring a guy over and make out with him in front of her.
This story ends in what you might think of as an unexpected way. Her father died suddenly, a year passed, and then one day we started talking about it. My own father had died suddenly the year before. It turned out that we had known each other as little children, and neither of us remembered, but we both had group photographs with the other in it. After all, her family had owned her apartment for forty-some years, since the building was built, as my family had as well.
I ended up living with her for eighteen months, with my mother right next door, and if things had gone differently we would be married today.