Skin-Deep - Shorn and Shown Pt. 02

Part II - My performance and I denude my denudress

Dinner with Martha (conclusion)

Back to the present, where I am just done presenting my shaven abdomen to Martha. It met with her approval (and turned us on.) It is her turn now to show me hers. I am excited. It is a rare pleasure. Somehow, it has been a while since I saw another woman's sex at close range...

She has to put in a bit more work than I had to show me her box. To open the buttons of her trousers, half-lower the pants, make her panties go the same way, lift her shirt and there we go. Sexually straight or not - undiagnosed bi-sexual is more like it - I am moved and aroused by seeing a vulva at close range, presented to me under these conditions, in the bathroom of a restaurant. It would be different in a changing room after tennis or so, where you might see your friends' fannies but at a glance only. Here, it is offered, as it were, on a plate. So, I see that she shaves the labia and groin, but leaves a bushy triangle above her slit. And, yes, she is a natural blonde, light blonde, but I see a whiff of grey on her pubes and can conclude she does not touch up her pubic hair, as opposed to that on her head! (Who does? Someone?). I love her rose of flesh. I love the pronounced inner labia, that look like they're glad to be released from the panties that straightjacket them!

I signal to Martha that I have seen enough. Not strictly true, never true, but we have a schedule and I am nervous. She gets dressed again.

No other woman has burst upon this little episode. Too bad, but fine - there is that schedule, and there will a time and place for this kind of thing, exposing myself, soon.

We discuss the protocol for the evening while we finish the meal. She wants me to undress in public, instead of what we discussed over the phone, which was to undress in a dressing room and appear in front of the audience fully naked. She says that if I do a striptease, the audience has more time to take me in and I will enjoy a longer stint of humiliation. I argue for the original idea. My point is that appearing already naked is more of a shock, both to me and to the audience. Plus, my humiliation would be greater as a shock. And during the preparation and waiting period in the dressing room I would be more nervous, nervous as hell. So, I feel this suits my purpose better. She sees my point and gives in. Amazing, as she is hard-headed! Meanwhile, I am sure that the women and men at neighbouring tables have been able to overhear what we discussed, if they would have bothered. Well... I would be interested, if I were them.

We walk to the gallery. I haven't explained the occasion for my performance and job as a naked waitress, have I? It concerns the closing of an exhibition of paintings by an artist Martha knows. The works are bold abstracts with radical feminist titles - in the MeToo# vein, women's right of body self-possession, to be free of rape and abuse, to dress to one's taste, the taboos of menstruation and menopause etc. So, there is a link with me and what I will do. Not everybody would appreciate that, perhaps. I am mindful of any political significance, but, it has to be said, my first motive is my kicks. Whether what I embody is feminist, or anti-feminist? I think you can argue both, particularly because I am not a young girl, but regardless, Martha has got me in and it's going to happen!

Performance at the art gallery

We arrive at the gallery and are met by the manager, a man, Alfred, and the painter, a woman, Mina. They both kiss and hug Martha and, after a moment of hesitation, greet me in the same way '... since we will be intimate soon enough...' There is an hour to go before the doors will be opened. Alfred is dressed in the standard, unimaginative men's art garb, a well-cut black suit and a grey turtleneck sweater. Mina wears a complicated purple ensemble made of leather, bondage trousers under a dress with a bell-shaped skirt of mid-thigh length and a strapless bodice, completed by a leather collar, also purple. They are both in a buoyant mood and proclaim to be very happy with the prospect of my performance. During a glass of wine, we explain the procedure. Reluctant to drink before I perform, I accepted the wine only to help ease my nerves. They agree with the choice we made of me appearing nude rather than to undress in public and are happy with everything else, my attire, my role and the audience participation, too.

We are shown the manager's PA's office, which will act as my dressing room. The manager and artist stand there, they look at each other and then at us, as if they are pondering something. That turns out to be so when the manager says, 'Vita, why don't you undress for us right now? A great solution that gives you, and us, the best of both the options we discussed?' Martha immediately agrees, 'Yes!! Vita, he is right! Go on...' They are right alright! Easy for them to say, for me it is hard! True, it fits with my aims, and of course I do consent.

The three of them sit on or behind the PA's desk and I take my distance. I swallow, take a deep breath and start. Not in the manner of a striptease artist, mind you, but of a woman undressing in private, but slowly. My heels, I shed them first. A stripper might have kept them on as long as possible. My dress, I pull the zip at my back down, lower it and I step out of it. In my silk slip dress, I neatly fold the dress up and place it on a sideboard. The slip is next. I lift it over my head and remove it. Now in my underwear and stockings, I feel the pressure of the three pairs of eyes, while I fold the slip up and place it on top of the dress. Turning my back towards the audience, I put my left leg on a chair in front of me and roll the stocking down. The right stocking follows in similar pose. I fold both up and place them on the growing pile of my clothes. Still with my back towards them, coy, I undo the bra's clip and let it drop, freeing my breasts. Finally, with my thumbs inside the waistband, I pull the panties down - and there I am. Naked, born again. I then turn around and face them. Boldly.

Martha: 'Great, Vita. You look great. Can you stand a little closer to us? I won't ask you for poses just now, but I want Alfred and Mina to see you well. They have a right to judge their star. And you have the right to know you are seen well.'

So, there I stand in front of them and look them in the eyes while they survey me. I slowly turn around my axis too. Alfred says, in business-like voice, 'Thank you.' When they prepare to go, I suggest they stay, while I finish my transformation. There is a large mirror in this room, thank God. I take my little make-up case out of my purse and, naked before the mirror and my back towards them, I apply a heavy make-up around my eyes, in black and shades of grey, in the late sixties style I so admired when I was really young - think Twiggy - and first became aware of how women supported their beauty. The whites of my eyes stand out whiter than white this way. Normally my make-up is quite subdued, but not now. Now, I will be a stage actor. This is stage make-up. Critical measures for critical times. Then I take the bottle of hair oil I have brought and liberally apply it to my hair. How it is: shoulder length, hanging free and flowing. How it becomes: I slick it back severely and stick it closely to my head. Think fatal women like Lulu or Salomé. Finally, I wash my hands and put the ornate Venetian mask on, crowned by some red feathers, that covers the upper part of my face. Step into my heels again. Reposition myself in front of my audience. A vision in white and black. That is me.

I am now a different woman to the one that entered. The embarrassment is fading and I can sense the power my body and I have. I know this feeling well but it surprises me each time. The mask and even the make-up help me in playing a role. I sit down in the chair in front of them and do not cross my legs. I look at them intensely but don't say a word. Enjoy my power. I see a degree of embarrassment on the faces opposite me. Tables turned!

I finally say, 'Do you have confidence in my performance tonight?' 'Vita, what can I say? Do you have confidence in us? I am in awe!', says Mina the artist. 'I am sure Alfred agrees?' He nods and continues, 'Are there any limits from your side? Before you answer, we have one. The audience cannot touch you. We are not licensed for sex services, and touching is sex, says the City.' I reply, 'I am happy with that. As long as they can look.' 'Then we agree. Lots of luck!' And he comes up with a big smile and shakes my hand. A handshake as if I were not naked and tarted up and about to meet his clientele this way, this not everyday way. He and Mina leave us alone.

The half-hour we still have to kill ticks away at a snail's pace. I have taken the mask off again for comfort. Martha and I are silent most of the time. For my part, I try to be in the moment, not think about the future and my performance. Martha is ticking away on her phone, utters a grunt, a sigh or a giggle from time to time. The chat we do have in-between is idle chatter, about the meal, about how people we both know have been doing, about the news - about nothing and everything but the performance. This changes when the manager comes in and calls, 'Five minutes now! Thank you.'

Martha says, 'Wow, Vita. You are about to do it! Are you excited? I am! I will leave a minute before you and give you your entrance.' My heartbeat has gone into overdrive, settles back down again, to a level still slightly excited. Time to put the mask back on. To be safe behind my mask. An actress. Martha looks at her watch and is about to go. She holds me by both shoulders, looks me over, turns me around and looks over my backside. She declares me fit. 'You look great. Powerful! Your hair and masked face make you look severe. You'll be a success! And don't forget to be conscious of what is going on outside of you and enjoy yourself!' And gone is she. I don't sit down again, but stand there like a horse prior to the race, and I count to sixty. Then I open the door and leave the starting gate.

A short stretch of corridor and a doorless passage into the exhibition area - exhibition indeed - and I am there. My heels click-click on the parquet floor. My heart is racing again. I make ten steps in before anyone notices - a single pair of eyes. A close-cropped woman in a long figure-hugging black dress. She stops talking and nudges to the young hipster in jeans and checked shirt next to her. In the course of the next minute - a long, long minute - all have stopped talking and all eyes have turned my way. They see a vision of a woman, a live, naked woman. They may be used to anything, but I will surprise them - a masked, painted, attractive - I hope, no, trust - and mature woman. I stand still, legs a touch apart, heart beating. Everyone stands still, silently surveying me. A sexual being also. I am conscious of that and I sense no contradiction within the audience. I am superconscious of myself and enjoy every second as it ticks by, again conscious of my power as a woman. Still, although I am calm, would look calm, my heart beats like a hammer in my chest. Can the audience hear this too?

The manager intervenes and rings his glass before things would become uncomfortable. For the audience in particular - he would have understood what makes me and my performance tick. For all I care, the audience may budge under the pressure.

He says, 'Before you, you see Vita. We have invited her to this vernissage for your entertainment. She will serve the drinks from now on. Naked as she is. One thing I will add, and I have to be careful, Vita is not a young lady. She looks great, and I will not say, "for her age"... But that is the point Mina and I want to make. Real women don't look like supermodels and we are happy to make that point. I may be misunderstood here, please read me right, but women beyond twenty can be attractive, beyond forty, any age - we are helping to show that. Well... I better cut this short, before I embarrass Vita or myself!' I feel he is trying!

'The rules of the engagement, then. These rules are simple. You may look, in fact you are encouraged to look, but may not touch. Well, you can touch her hand in greeting, if the occasion calls for it, and she accepts the hand you offer. What do I know? MeToo# rules, so to speak.' Giggling...

'So, you may look, or stare, look at her from afar, from up-close, as close as is comfortable to you, your breath may touch her, she has informed me.'

I have not! Must have been Martha! Cheeky as always. Alfred goes on, 'And she talks. You are allowed to talk to her. Converse. She is a person just like any of us, perhaps a bit more available than average...' More giggling... He is quick to add, 'but... MeToo #, MeToo #...' Hearty laughter...

'... anyway, talk to her, ask her anything you like, tease her, but abuse her not. Not too much, anyway... Seriously, folks, she is open and available to look at, as if a work of art, and to talk to. And she will serve the drinks. Enjoy! Vita! Drinks, if you be so kind...'

But there is Martha, throwing me a curved ball... 'Alright, Alfred, can we postpone the drinks for a minute? The wine we already have can be nursed a little longer.' He shrugs his shoulders and gestures for her to have it her way. 'Friends,' she says, 'is there a volunteer from the audience that wants to perform a close inspection of Vita? You have heard the rules for interaction from Alfred. No touching allowed! If in doubt, if you are too shy to inspect, do it for Vita. She loves to feel your breath and to know that you can see and smell her intimately. The rest of you, just watch him or her do the inspection and observe Vita's emotions. Give her, and yourself, an unforgettable experience. You can talk to her about it later. Who?'

A few seconds and three hands are raised, by two men and a woman - the close-cropped woman in the black dress. 'Ladies first!' The lucky woman smiles ironically and comes towards me, stands literally inches away from me and stares me long and hard into my eyes. For what feels like minutes. Wow! She breathes me in the face, deliberately. No sound from the audience.

'Off we go, Vita,' she finally whispers, 'I will be meticulous. Brace yourself...' She gets down on her knees, prostrates herself before me, this dark angel, on the ground I am standing on. I look down upon her from up high. Her inspection starts at my feet, which she sniffs and breathes on and sees. She does not comment. She proceeds to my calves, my thighs, front and back, meticulously, her eyes and nose just a fraction away from my skin, snaking around my legs, miraculously without touching me. I feel painfully naked! Hardly dare breathing. Feel her breath, though.

Then she says with a throaty, low voice, 'Your crotch and sex area now, Vita, let's see how clean and pure you are...' My lord, I feel her breath down there. And she will smell whatever there is to smell, and see whatever there is to see - my oils and creams, the quality of my shaving, my sweat, my juices... 'Vita, I smell your arousal. Wish you could smell mine.' God! She smells and sees my ass, all of my back, my belly, my breasts, my neck, my face, my ears, my hair... And declares me fit and proper, well shaven and hairless for the most part. And aroused. I do wish I could smell her sex too! She stands in front of me. We stand in front of each other. I thank her, smile and invite her to an embrace. With a small formal bow, she takes her leave and wanders off to her company, the hipster and another young man, who receive her with slaps on the shoulder.

My excitement naturally goes down as I busy myself with my naked waitress duties. To be a good waitress - yes, which I want to be too - requires a bit of thinking and concentration. I carry my tray with glasses around, return to the bar, dump empty glass, fill empty ones, stand around when everyone seems satisfied, or do another few tours of the exhibition space when it is called for. I endure and enjoy the appraisals of the other guests. At this stage, no one speaks to me directly. Has anyone issued instructions to ignore me, counter the openness Alfred preached, are they shy, or aloof? Do they feel it would add to my embarrassment? I overhear several snippets of conversation about me. I feel very naked. Vulnerable. Also proud for doing this.

As the evening progresses, the audience feels more and more free to pass comments, ask questions or indeed strike up a 'normal conversation.' Some questions are quasi-insulting, which I can handle perfectly well - and often we laugh together. Some are real enquiries, questions of how I got the courage, had I done it before? Others ask how I stay in shape, what my diet is, whether I have had any children. Sometimes the conversations develop into supremely normal conversations, about my life and background and the life and background of the other, as if I were not bare-naked.

The first of my real conversations with audience members takes place in the ladies' when I go for a pee. A pair of women is already there and they fall over themselves to declare how they admire my courage and complement me '...you are great shape for your age...' a mixed message, really, but beggars can't be choosers. The door opens again and we are joined by an elderly lady, who appears rather scathing. 'Naked, no modesty, at your age, did you think you would get away with it, could compete with the young ones? Your sagging butt and tits, the cellulitis...' ...of which I am relatively well spared 'for my age'! ... '...shame on you!' The other women look at each other, what's going on? She suddenly breaks into a smile and says, 'Of course... I am teasing! Go, woman, wish I had the courage. By the way, did I see you in a nearby restaurant with Martha McKenna?' I confirm I was there before this do. 'I barely recognise you, you see? Pun intended... But with Martha being here and all...' I confirm I was there, blushing, blushing! She smiles, playfully slaps me on the butt - against the rules, but what will I do? - and leaves the bathroom. So! I have been seen.

One of the original pair of women suggests that I pee with the door of the stall open. Wow! That is confrontational! 'It is only consistent, if you do that.' She smiles mischievously. I hesitate a moment, a moment of modesty, and then decide to comply. She is right. It is consistent. By now, I am simply confident again and the immodesty suits me. So, I sit down under the gaze of these women. In the confined cool space, I feel all the more naked and vulnerable all the same, yet composed. That strange mix of emotions. Urine starts to trickle; the trickle turns into a flood and peters out to a trickle again. I wipe myself and am done. 'Would you like to make sure I have wiped myself properly?' I rub my hand between my legs and offer it to them. 'Please smell my hand or use your own, if you like.' The mischievous smile is mine this time. They laugh and push my hand away. 'That is fine. You appear well-raised.' A moment of silence. 'In fact, I am not sure we'd dare... do we, Carol?' The other woman just giggles. 'Well,' I say, 'in that case, you have something to overcome. Let's go public again and I offer you the chance to inspect me. Even touch me there, if you want.'

We re-enter the exhibition space as a trio, with me leading the phalanx of women - I don't even know their names - my acolytes on either side of me, slightly behind. In the centre of the room we stop, I clap my hands and declare, 'Go ahead, ladies.' They slowly shuffle forward and stand before me. Unsure, they look at each other. I hiss, 'Go on, it's alright,' adding, as an afterthought, 'And... I allow you to touch me. You know you should be gentle.' So, it happens that two well-turned-out ladies in their forties inspect me. Hesitantly, shily at first.