Naked - Opening and Exhibition

With my left hand I grab the first tuft of her pubic hair and bring on the sharp scissors with my right, hold my breath and 'snap'. And I cut and cut and cut. I pinch her once - 'ouch!' - evoking a bright red droplet of her blood that slowly swells into a rivulet that meanders downwards... I intervene and stem the bleeding with a tissue. More carefully I proceed cutting, and cut the hairs on her vulva, her mound, vagina, groin, perineum.... until all the longer hairs are reduced to stubble.

'Now, Julia, we will first shave the rest of your body and only then cut the hair on your head and shave it. The more dramatic way to go about it... Get us some hot water, the shaving cream and a handful of razors.'

She is back within a minute or two. I see her approaching solemnly, stark naked and uglified - no, her beauty is still evident, her body is beautiful. (Women are at their best between late 20's and late 30's, to my mind.)

I soap up her left leg and foot and shave it meticulously, even the sole of her foot! Then I rinse and dry everything. It's all about the shaving, cleansing every inch of her body, without exception. Whether there is hair to remove is almost secondary. She is moderately hairy. The right leg and foot follow the same process. Then her back, her hips, her ass cheeks, carefully separating them to shave deeply in between. The front of her torso, her stomach, chest and breasts, carefully covering the entire surface, including the nipples and areolas. Finally, for now, I have her sit on the edge of the table again and shave her vulva, again carefully, pulling her labia apart and stretching the skin every which way to allow for a safe shave. I make her sit on hands and knees so that I can shave properly around her anus. Her anus and cunt in my face! Unprecedentedly raw meat. I dry her of any wetness between the folds of her body.

She is now completely hairless below the neck.

I make her stand in front of me and slowly turn her around while I look at my handiwork. She was beautiful, but she still is. Differently, though, more like a virgin. Her ravaged head spoils the picture - her eyes show fear, mixed with a steely determination. There's some way to go... I wash off some remnants of her make-up.

I am compelled to hug her. She lets me. I say, 'You are a beautiful and very naked woman, Julia. Again, thank you for including me in this exercise. It has been a moving experience so far - life-changing, as I said - and we are not yet done. Before we complete the job, let's step out of the flow and relax a bit. Perhaps you are keen to keep going, but at least I need a breather.' She nods.

We sit opposite each other in the sun and drink tea again. Julia sits straight-backed and naked, unselfconsciously with legs open, oblivious, all of her in full view. The mood is hardly happy, but we both manage to relax and momentarily forget what we are engaged with - her ravaged beauty is the elephant in the room. We chat about nothing, the garden, the weather, as if her stay here is a simple holiday. As if we are both properly dressed.

When we are done with the tea, I lean towards her, grab her by the shoulders and look into her eyes. 'Did you still want to go on? I can try to restore some order in your hair.' She shakes her head wordlessly, then says, 'That is not an option for me, it really isn't.' She smiles courageously.

I resume my old role, put on my authoritative voice and stand up.

She shivers, when I pick up the scissors from the table and stands in front of her.

'Yes?'

'Yes, Vita. Do what you have to do. Because I asked you to.'

I have to concentrate. Her face close to my chest, I look down upon the top of her head. I am tempted to pull her head against my chest, like a mother, but I resist. I shouldn't, not now, not yet. Then I take the first strand of her hair and cut. The floodgates opened, I take strand after strand of her hair in rapid succession and cut it close to her skull. I push her head to and fro, left and right, to get to all the areas. It takes only seven, eight minutes for me to rob her off all her hair. She does not know what she looks like. Someone she would hardly recognise, I think. Very different from the attractive young executive she was just hours ago.

'Don't get up. I will be getting some fresh hot water now. Don't be tempted to sneak after me and look in the mirror, not just yet. We'll be done in twenty minutes or so.'

She stays put but runs her hand over her stubbly head. That sensation itself is shocking enough, with her being accustomed to the soft, silky, lush, plentiful feel of the fine hair she had. Now stroking her head is like sanding her hand. When I return, I see tears in the corners of her eyes. She grimaces sad-comically.

Having done the preparations, I whisper, 'Time to finish this ordeal.' She nods.

I put a damp, hot towel over her skull for a minute and subsequently lather up her head, face and neck included. A set of eyes looks back through the white lather mask, as if from a prison cell. Then I shave her, starting with her face and neck, quickly and easily. 'You said, the eyebrows too?' She nods. In just a handful of strokes each eyebrow disappears. Staggering, how much of a difference a pair of eyebrows make. She now properly looks like an alien!

Shaving the scalp is obviously harder work. I change the disposable razor twice to make the job easy and smooth. The scratching sound on her skull must resonate inside, the sound of destruction.

The moment comes when I am finally done. It is early evening and daylight is slowly fading.

All but finished...?

'Eyelashes?' She nods.

Very, very carefully, very slowly, I cut them short with a dedicated little pair of scissors.

We have arrived! She has not a hair left on her body. As bald as... no, balder than the day she was born! I complete the process by placing the warm, wet towel back over her skull, soothing the slight burning sensation. I carefully dry off her face and head.

Finally, I oil her entire body, from head to toe, making her clean and rosy.

I hold her at arm's length once again and whisper, 'Julia, I don't recognise you'. Tears, tears in her eyes, before she even sees herself, and in mine.

'You are done, Julia. I have transformed you the way you wanted. I won't lie: you look extreme. At once, I find you shocking and hugely appealing, like I want to follow your example. You are a work of art!

'Do you want to sit, relax and chat again before we go to the mirror and reveal you to yourself?'

This strange creature formerly known as Julia looks at me...

If you, like her, have eyebrows to speak of, removing them has almost the same effect as shaving your head. This is because these arches match, enhance and support the eyes. Therefore, a woman without eyebrows is either another woman or no woman at all.

But I recognise her eyes...

'Lord... I have to take the plunge. Yes, I dread seeing myself, but I have to do it! No, I want to, very, very much.'

We go to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I take her by the hand before we enter the bedroom. 'Close your eyes... Open them on my signal.' We gingerly walk the last few steps towards the mirror. Then I release my grip and say in clear voice, 'Look, Julia!'

She gasps and her eyes open wide. She whispers,

Oh! I see an apparition. A statue. The eyes are alive and looking at me, looking through me. So smooth. So cool. So clean. So naked. I feel humble under the eyes of this otherworldly creature who is there to cleanse me of my sins. A stern angel. A female, still, with cunt, tits and ass, all the curves. Then - shocked - I realise I am looking at myself, reflected in the full-length mirror. My naked body glows ever so slightly. In the twilight that has come over us, my body appears fluorescent. Is this me? Is this a better me? I feel that I am growing. I stand upright, calm and serene. And smile...

No! That's not at all what she said when we were standing there. These words are fabulation, poetry, humbug, if you like, after the fact. In fact, she was in shock. She stared at herself for three, four minutes, eyes wide open, her breath irregular. Then she sunk to the floor and cried. I comforted her, mumbled sweet words, stroked her bare back, her bare head.

Other-worldly, if she had said those words, she would have been spot on. For a considerable time, I continued not recognising her, although I knew, of course. A lasting shock. The words "ugly" and "beautiful" didn't apply. Her tears flowed profusely for a couple of minutes, but stopped eventually. She forced herself to not turn away and cover her eyes. She was clearly mourning her former beauty, her personality. She was an alien indeed. We whispered... The head was not hers, but the eyes were hers. Her soul remained. Relief.

I took Julia to bed and laid her down. She closed her eyes. I undressed and united us in our nudity. I got into bed and snuggled up to her. We slept for an hour or two, I think, from mental exhaustion surely, and then made love in sixty-nine, her bare head between my thighs and my head of hair between hers, my hair caressing her groin. Our tongues slowly, then more feverishly worked on clits, slits, folds. Magic - years had passed since my last lesbian encounter at art college. Tender orgasms with eyes closed, mine anyway, in separate dream worlds, but bonded in heaven, wordless except for eloquent moans and groans.

The next morning, I left Julia alone. My leaving marked the start of a very lonely time in which she indeed cursed herself and the world, deeply confronted herself, but finally learned to live with herself. Became a better person and, indeed, a better lawyer. She returned to her company and resumed her job, a wiser woman, more her own woman, less hard-boiled, but no less effective, and had continued to rise. Her professional network noticed a difference, not just in her energetic, short new hair. Now, a decade or two later, she still looks the part - great figure and wears great clothes. She has not repeated the full-body shaving, we did not sleep together again, but she spends time nude at home, in private and when I come by. So did I. Will I change as a result of this performance?

For completeness, I can tell you I visited every fortnight to bring provisions. And to sleep with Julia. She needed me and my services. She was earning the right to pronounce the word 'passion'! On my first visit, she had developed a healthy stubble, even on the eyebrows, in her armpits and on her vulva (that was part of the deal - she wouldn't shave any area whilst on sabbatical.) As the weeks and months progressed, her head started to look conventionally attractive again. The rest was quite wild! Une femme sauvage! She truly was, quite resistant to the chills of the evenings, to drizzles, and wore her body quite naturally. What a gift!

We left together at the end of the 6-month period. As a final act, I shaved her body, this time all of it, but her head.

We're still friends over twenty years later. And she is here, seeing me make the step-change this time.

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What does the audience see?

There we have it - I have completed the action of sheering myself, making myself ugly. Your words, not mine... Here I am, the person who once was Vitavie, the famous and wealthy sculptress, featured in many glossy magazines and whose works grace major museums and the private collections of those who count in the world. Look at me now. Stripped and shorn of my status and beauty. By my own hand, of course.

That makes a difference - I know, Julia!

Yet the daze in my head, however, indicates that it happened to me, as opposed to me making it happen, being in control. A certain sense of shock, I think, is what I experience. However, I have little doubt, and I am proud of myself, whatever happens.

I trust that my friends will continue to support me. The dearest handful certainly will, since I told them about what I was up to. Julia had to smile. She, who had been there and done it, I am sure saw the similarity and the difference between her then and me now straight away, but didn't let on. I search her out, there on the other side, and she meets me with her smile, ironic (irony is good, serious can be too much), yet warm. I need that. Because there are the corners of my eyes are wet - I am surprised! Not ashamed.

The arts community, and society at large, how about them? Do my current antics make me more, or instead less 'cool'? Maybe they will just follow the critics. So, what about them? Will they see the value of it, for myself and as a reference to the female condition? I am doing what I am doing, of course, only for myself. Will the critics slaughter me? A mid-life crisis of an artist who has run out of ideas? Sublime or ridiculous self-indulgence? A naked has-been, in several senses? I'll soon find out. There are some critics on the other side of the mirror scribbling as we speak.

Look at me, world, as I look at myself in this mirrored hall. I look like a heretic about to be burned at the stake. So be it. I don't look sad, or insane. I look fine. I have never seen the shape of my skull, but it is fine. I have seen my body, though never in such a glaring light. It's fine, too. And I shouldn't really care. I smile at myself, at my mirror image, warmly.

I suddenly realise that there is an actual audience that sees me, right now, sees me smiling to myself. That would be good. Or would the audience think I smile to them? Would that be better?

That is, I can only assume they haven't left, because I cannot see them through the mirror. No, they will certainly not have gone. I can try a staring contest, but the conditions on my side are difficult at the moment. I'd have to stare through me. Should I make a show, dance and prance? Should I remain motionless like a statue, pretending to be sculpture instead of sculptress?

When I turn around, in whichever direction, I see my reflection on all the other walls and an endless psychedelic row of its clones. Looking up - lots more reflections. It is beyond crazy. Paradoxically, I suddenly feel so alone. Don't think, don't sink!

A shower

I decide to take a shower and put on a bit of a show.

In the shower, for all to see, I wash myself thoroughly, a little more conspicuously than at home. My hair - I would shower it with attention, but cannot now - there's only a stubbly scalp! My breasts - I press them and lift and twist and turn them, facing the onlookers. I show them my bare bottom when I wash my anus; my vagina, bending slightly backwards, when I wash between my folds, extensively, endlessly, as if I were masturbating.

See? Even a famous artist has tits and ass! Suddenly I remember I resolved not to give up masturbation this month. For a moment I consider doing it now, but the mood doesn't feel quite right at the moment. Too bad. Another thought: should I make a schedule for what I'm going to do? I decide I'll make one on the hoof, and have it posted at the side of the audience. Later. I will change it or add to it, as I please.

After rubbing myself dry, I sit and lean back in the armchair, legs open. I have hardly positioned myself before I see the mirror plate rising again. By and large, the guests seem to be still there. Very well!

Facing the audience, an ex-lover

My armchair is facing along the partition and the audience sees me in profile, will therefore focus on my breasts - mature, not pert perhaps, but still shapely. After a while, I stand up, turn my chair square towards the partition and sit down again, legs uncrossed. Under these conditions, we can have a staring contest. In fact, most of the people there look at me, those who are alone and those who are talking to others in groups. I see that two critics stopped scribbling when I turned the chair, but stand by with their notebooks open. After a while, one of them resumes writing, soon followed by the other. Good, good... Stay and write and publish. The gallery owner is still handing out the champagne. People are in no hurry to leave. However, they start to lose interest in me again and focus on each other and their conversations. Okay then, I am not going to put on a show, or am I?

An ex-lover from 20 years ago walks up to the partition, right in the centre, and faces me. His gaze locks onto my eyes as he unbuckles his trousers, drops them, then pushes down his underwear and shows his erection. A classy guy, isn't he? He challenges me. No one appears to see him do it. I put my hand in my lap and insert a finger inside me, casually, without emphasis, statically. Classy girl? A critic seems to see this action - I can't be sure he's seen my ex's - and then scribbles again. My ex- tucks his wares in, rearranges his attire and leaves. Was this a way to show his contempt? Or admiration? For ol' times' sake? Was he pleased? Or horrified? I don't know. I tend towards the negative, as we did not part amicably and he did not smile. Contempt. At least someone was moved. Moved. An erection's worth.

I make contact with Julia through the glass wall. We gesture to each other about my head and nudity, reminiscent of her own self-inflicted ordeal of more than twenty years earlier. I am happy for her to be there and support me. She has prospered. I should too. The difference is that I am doing this in public, 24/7, and am being judged as an artist.

The inevitable toilet break

I sit down again and sometime later find myself having dozed off. Exertion? I find that meanwhile part of the crowd has left. There are two small groups occupying the seating areas, the first around the gallery owner and the other around a leading critic. They are engaged in a lively debate. Good news? Certainly. A debate of any duration is a good sign. Discussion is what makes the changes in life. Then there's a couple in their 30s near the coffee machine and, all alone, another ex-lover, casually eyeing me while sipping an espresso. And Julia, of course, my guardian angel. She is my anchor.

The moment comes when I have to go to the toilet. First time here. It's the big job. I might get nervous. Luckily, I'm still a bit groggy from my nap. I am vaguely aware that I will be fulfilling my needs in public, but under the circumstances it doesn't make me nervous. I get up and walk to the WC-cabin. I open the door, enter and close the door again. I look at the audience for a flash, see that most heads turn towards me. I sit down, look at my feet and calmly do the dirty work - first I urinate, then I slowly eject my stool; all this in the course of about one minute. No sweat, not generally, not now. I wipe myself thoroughly and leave the cubicle. The audience will see the business flushing away through the completely translucent pot. There! Done! A heroic deed indeed. Not really. The commonest job on earth. No cheering by the audience. My ex-lover sticks out his tongue. What a sport!

Exercise

To celebrate this milestone, I walk towards the glass partition, turn to the left and start walking along the partition to the wall, then reverse back to the opposite wall. And so on, and so on. I walk faster and faster.

Let's make an exercise of it! I accelerate to jogging speed. Two, three hundred lengths, totalling a couple of km.

Let's make this a routine! I'll do this once a day and become an athlete!

Two, three hundred times I see myself approaching in the mirrors, with breasts bouncing wildly. Oh, they're not made for that! At some point they start to smart and hurt.

Turning at each end, I look at the audience. I have clearly got their attention. I know they will be fascinated by my lively breasts, probably my buttocks too. (My vulva - not so visible, that hidden shell, but they got a good look at that before, when I sat there in the middle in front of them). Well, by the looks of it, The Daily Exercise will become a people's favourite.