Performance Blank

"Tonight, we have Dextra opening of the first time!" announced the host.

The audience broke out chanting, "All I need is one fan!" The other performers broke their preparation routine to still glances through gaps in the curtain. The crowd was thundering. Al, the most senior performer, asked, "Who is that girl? I don't get a welcome like that after five years!"

My moment had come, I slipped through the curtain to face the crowds. The bright stage lights were in my face. I could feel the heat of the crowd. The room was packed with more human furnaces than the AC could handle. The audience chanting was so loud that I couldn't think straight. I saw a face, another face, throngs of faces.

"Hi, my name is Dextra...." I said

The next moment, I realized that I had been standing there for a long time for the applause to carry on. I saw that all my cue cards were littered over the stage. The performance was over. Like last time, I only remembered the very first and last moments. I tried to be sure that this was really the end of the performance. I looked for clues. A young blond woman in the front had her arms raised into the air and screamed, "I love you!" She was topless. My name Dextra was written across her chest with blue finger paint. Her eyes were glowing like she was a worshipper praying to a prophet.

I felt something wet oozing down the inside of my thighs. It felt surprising, yet also like something that I had felt before in a very intimate place. Curious, I reached under my skirt and caressed my skin to pick up some of the liquid. I tasted it. The audience broke out roaring with laughter as they watched my surprised and innocent face. The taste was clearly that of male cum. I had no clue what had happened, but the performance was definitely over.

I walked back to the curtain. I stood in silence in the darkness behind the stage. The shock of returning to my home would be even stronger this time. I could feel that the show and connection had been much more profound. That young woman that adored me was something. She saw something in me that nobody had ever seen before. As I was in reflection, I kept hearing the audience chant "Dextra" while the performer pleaded to give him a chance. I checked for my panties and bra. Both were gone. I smiled with satisfaction. I had achieved it again.

Al grabbed my chin unabashed to raise my face higher. Circling around my face, he tried to see who he was. He couldn't believe. He couldn't figure out. He couldn't stop looking. I was an enigma to him: The gangly, shy, and rude girl. He let go of me. This time walking out with the crowd was another level of intimacy. I felt my left arm pulled away from me. My arm disappeared between bodies. I couldn't see it anymore. A hand around my wrist held it there. I felt the scrape of a pen tip on my forewarm. The short jabs of the scratchy thing were writing something. I pulled the arm back. "DM me @stacy0799" was written on my arm.

Then I felt a softer pen on my chest. A dark-haired girl was writing me her digits and XOXO. A lanky nerd took my right arm and wrote his Instagram handle on it. As I moved through the crowd, I felt the tickle of pens all over my body from, mostly girls inviting me to contact them after the show. The intimacy and dare that they had to simply write on my body without asking suggested that I had offered myself up to the audience in a way that asked for it. I had no clue what I had promised them, but I loved every moment of that afterglow of people pushing to get close to me. In a way, the love was impersonal. They didn't know me. I didn't even have enough time to really make out who they were. It was simply constant loving adoration pouring to me. On the subway ride home, I adored the big, feminine loops in the letters, the many warm phrases next to the numbers and IG handles.

I didn't call or message anybody. I didn't know what to tell these people. Nobody would tell me what I did during my shows. Did cum running down my thighs really mean that I had sex with a guy on stage? That would be so depraved. I secretly loved the idea of being ravaged and taken by a crowd. The blackouts gave me plausible deniability to indulge and goad myself into harm's way even more.

I was rapt with attention to clues of what happened during my shows. I found bruises on my body, black and yellow. I found the rope imprints on my wrists like I had been tied up. I found pieces of my clothing missing after each show. I found a guy kneeling without pants facing the wall like I had put him there like that. Once a guy, was tied to a pole with my bra in his mouth and knotted behind his back. The most disturbing was something that I couldn't explain what had happened, but it seemed like it should have been very disturbing. That day, it had rained. A young woman in the front row had brand new, bright yellow rubber rainboots on. She motioned with her head to me like I had done something nasty with her boot. She showed me the boot as if to suggest that I had been riding on her boot with my crotch to shine it, which would have been crazy. There were all these salacious innuendos from the audience.

During the fourth show, the inevitable happened. My psyche had started to acclimate to the anxiety of being on stage. Middle in a show, I "woke" up. I was suddenly present. I suddenly realized that I was in front of people. I didn't know what to say. I felt terrified. My ankle was pulling hard. It took a lot of effort to bend my neck to look at my ankle. When I succeeded, I saw rungs of rope wrapped around it. The end of the rope ran to the ceiling. I realized that I was hanging from my ankle. I looked out at the audience, which was head over. My body was split naked. My other ankle was tied to my wrist behind me so that my legs were parted open and revealed my folded open pussy while I slowly spun in a circle. To say that "waking" up in such a compromised position was terrifying. I got very anxious. I panicked about what to do.

Five young women were kneeling at the front of the stage facing me. They were split naked as well. They had their hands modestly in their lap. Numbers one through five were painted on their forehead with finger paint, each in a different color. They showed restraint with their body, but their faces that the audience couldn't see pleaded with me: "Pick me! Pick me!" It felt like I had been playing a game of contestants with them.

A guy in a neat finance suit with his suit tie covering his eyes was standing near me. His posture had the air of a judge. He held a flesh-colored dildo and a ribbed purple butt plug in either hand, presented like a choice.

The audience chanted, "next question! Next question!"

I got the instant suggestion in my mind that the next question would determine if I would get it in the pussy or ass. The implication of getting something into (what I thought was a virgin) ass was so shocking that I blanked out again.

With relief, I realized that the show was over the next moment. I would not have known what to do. My conscience came back while I was bowing forward at the crowd. The entire crowd was on their feet. They screamed, "Dextra!" I felt victorious. The women screaming would lean into their screams with such abandon like I had never seen before. I particularly saw a dark blonde leaning into her screams with full body emotion, her arms waving, body shaking, and feet quickly dancing.

I found myself in an oversize white male dress shirt. The sleeves oozed over my wrist. The hem hung over my hips like a knee-high dress. My feet were barefoot. My high heels were gone. I felt a mass in my belly that made it awkward to walk. My ass felt ready to expel. I touched myself down there. The audience roared at my awkward and dazed face. My worst fear had been right. Both the dildo and butt plug were inside me. The thong was holding them in place and kept them from coming out. I took another glance at the audience. The front row tables had neatly laid out sex toys presented on them. There were different-sized dildos, ropes, whips, blindfolds, and all kinds of adult toys and torture implements.

I waddled to the curtain because the implements in my womb and ass made it hard to walk, plus I didn't want them to fall out. Al seized me up. I felt like a slut walking off the stage like that. It made the deniability really hard. He didn't seem concerned with morality. "From now on, you go last. None of us can follow up on your act," he said. He was concerned with competition.

That evening, cleaning up in the tiny restroom was a mess. My ass was dirty. I wetted some toilet paper to wipe down well. Whoever had put in the implements had applied way too much lube. Thick lines of lube went past my knee and had become sticky. The mess required me to take half a shower with wetted toilet paper. My mouth also had a foreign taste to it. It was a mix of food and something very human. I had no clue what had been in my mouth. It felt degenerate whatever I had done and double so not even knowing what. There was almost beauty to the ritual of cleaning myself of depravity that I had surrendered myself so thoroughly to that I didn't even know.

When all the glow of warm affection in the theatre was over, I was alone again on the subway. This time, I was only dressed in a white male shirt and a song. My feet were barefoot. My clean and delicate feet had to walk over garbage-stained ground, dog poo touched sidewalks, and human pee stains from homeless. The soles became gray and grimy. I felt like a slut on a walk of shame.

My roommate took notice of how I came home. I tried to be all cool about it to deflect judgment. So I sat down at the kitchen table like that. "Did you fuck a dude?" asked Doron. I told him that I had been performing at the theatre. This was a stage outfit, and I had lost my shoes. He kind of mulled around questions for a bit to see if there was anything, but I held my cool. He lost interest and went back to his room to play computer games.

The next day, I met with Mary. I told her that I blanked out during the performances like I had told her before, but this time I insisted until she started doubting her belief that nobody could blank out like that. It was when I told her that I had woken up during the performance hanging from the ceiling and there were five girls in front of me that Mary paused. Mary could recall that there was a moment when I had looked suddenly terrified, even though I always looked fearless on stage.

"So you really don't remember your performances? I thought claiming that you wouldn't was your performance shtick," she asked.

"Holy fuck!" she added.

"If I told you that you were exposed or made out with a guy, would that shock you?" asked Mary.

"Well, I have hunches. I find myself missing pieces of clothing. I see pieces of my clothing in the audience. I feel cum coming out of me. I have the taste of pussy on my tongue. I assume that something is happening, but I don't know what," I explained.

"Well, when you woke up, as you call it, you were playing an audience game. You gave those girls a purity test. You'd ask them a very sexual or embarrassing question. Then the audience would vote if the question was 'ass good' or only 'pussy good.' Depending on the choice, the girl would get to put the dildo or butt plug in you. They usually got a second chance. Those girls admitted to shit that would make your ears fall off so that they could put it in your ass. The fifth girl took the butt plug all the way into her mouth because she wanted to taste you. You are running some kind of female sexuality empowerment show," explained Mary. "You create a safe space for them to bring out all the nasty and taboo stuff and play."

"What if I don't blank out anymore?" I asked her, worried.

"Then you need to amp up the anxiety to make it overwhelming again," she suggested.

To be continued...