Half-Naked at a Tertulia

“Well Greta, this is Jennifer,” Darren said. The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t put my finger on where I had heard Greta before.

The look on Greta’s face told me that she had no idea I would be showing up, and that Darren had not prepared her for what she was seeing; a half-naked girl inexplicably standing on her doorstep an hour before midnight.

What an introduction.

Like a dummy on auto-pilot, I reached out to shake her hand as if this was some totally normal introduction but she grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the cold.

“Darren, why didn’t you tell me your girlfriend was here?” she asked while shutting the door behind me.

“Come on Greta, I already told you that we’re not together anymore,” he corrected her.

“Yes but you told me you were ditching us to watch films with her,” she said at him before looking towards me. “Darren has spoken so positively about you the past year. I’m glad I finally get to meet you.”

And then it hit me who this woman was.

THIS was the Greta that he’d spoken about on the car ride over here, the woman that had stripped naked on stage when he was in college. The description he gave of her matched the woman I was looking at now, except older.

She had to be in her 50’s, but she was still gorgeous. Dark brown hair, a body that suggested she worked out a lot, with dark piercing eyes, and a friendly smile. She was wearing a brown long sleeve blouse, jeans, and boots. It only stood out because I wasn’t wearing anything aside from a shirt and socks.

She formally shook my hand this time while I used my free hand to hold my shirt down, still unable to really process why she wasn’t freaking out over what I had on – and what I didn’t have on.

“Did Darren ever tell you about me?” she asked.

“You had the orgasm on stage, right?” I blurted out as an introduction that would have went over like calling out the wrong guys during sex if I had mistaken her for someone else (or if Darren had totally made the whole thing up).

But when she crackled and threw a funny look towards Darren, I knew I had correctly identified her. “I resent that being how he chooses to describe me,” she said.

In a weird way, having her acknowledge some embarrassment helped to break the ice, as did the laughter I shared with them as we stood at the door in the foyer.

“I told her the story of your performance to prepare her for this,” Darren said as he patted me on the shoulder like I was his pet.

“And what is this?” Greta asked, aiming her attention at me and not him, a subtle act of respect that I appreciated.

But apparently Darren didn’t get the memo, because he answered for me, saying that I was preparing for a role that involved exhibiting myself nude to a crowd.

“Is that so?” she asked me.

I only nodded before she accepted that as a good enough reason to be in this house half-naked. “Well this would be the part where I would offer to take your coat, but…”

I looked down at my erect nipples poking into the shirt, and my long naked legs further down, until I saw my feet. “You can take my socks if you want.”

I meant it as a joke, I think, trying to find something to say because I hated awkward dead air, but Greta took it in stride and responded by bending over. Before I knew it, she was actually rolling a sock down my leg. By the time I caught Darren grinning at me, I had stepped out of both socks and watched her hang them up on the coat rack.

I felt even more naked with my bare feet on the hardwood floors. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it because Greta was talking to me.

“So you guys are staying, right?” she asked, throwing looks to both of us. “You missed the wine and cheese tasting but it’s still early. We haven’t even gotten around to sharing anything yet.”

Darren and Greta turned to me as if it was my decision. Greta seemed to pick up on my confusion.

“Did Darren even tell you what this is?” she asked.

“Some type of shindig. I forget what he called it – something about getting together with artists, sharing your work, and eating pie.”

“That about sums it up,” she said before playfully nudging Darren in the shoulder. “This one sometimes will only show up for the pie.”

“Don’t listen to her lies, ” he said. “I show up when I can. And not just for the food.”

It was obvious they’d been friends for a long time. They seemed to have a big sister, little brother type of relationship.

She rolled her eyes toward me. “He comes for the food,” she said with a chuckle. “And he never brings any either – just shows up to eat. Just like tonight. Showing up late, piling paper plates with slices of pie, and ten minutes later going ‘can’t stay long, gotta go!”

“I didn’t want to leave her out there too long,” he said, defending himself.

“Well you should have brought her in,” she spat at him. “We’ve been dying to meet your muse.”

Hearing her call me his muse made my heart skip a beat. He had never called me that himself. Was this something he told her? Or was she just teasing us? I couldn’t tell.

“I wasn’t quite sure Jennifer was ready for something like this,” he said, eyeing me. “I wanted her to come inside only if she was ready.”

“Well are you ready Jennifer?” Greta asked, totally giving off a warm and comforting demeanor.

“Sure, I guess,” I shrugged, which brought my shirt up and thus my bush into view. I quickly yanked it down. This was going to be impossible. But here I was, attempting it anyway.

Sink or swim, I was jumping into the deep end. Naked.

Greta giggled before saying “We don’t bite,” and leading me by the arm out of the foyer, where I could hear music and talking in another room.

It felt surreal, being led into a house filled with strangers while holding my shirt down to hide my naked body. I could still sense a buzz of arousal but it wasn’t as strong as before – it was as if my arousal had went inside to hide, peeking out from behind the shadows, waiting for the right time to come out again.

But what replaced it was just as heavy; a strong feeling of nervous excitement, the kind you get when around your crush, the kind you get when your crush asks you out on a date, the kind you get when you hang out with his friends for the first time, the kind you get when you’re about to meet his parents. It was just like that, except if you were naked for each encounter..and had a full bladder that was about to burst.

So nothing like any of that at all.

This nervous energy was unlike any I’d ever experienced. And that was saying something considering I had such bad anxiety.

People were always surprised when I told them I used to take medicine for anxiety, and that I still struggled with it, especially when I had to meet new people or interact with a big crowd.

They think that because I’m talkative and make lots of jokes that it means I’m not shy or nervous about interacting with people, not knowing that I fight my anxiety by talking and making jokes.

They think it’s wit, or a sharp sense of humor, or something, but really, it’s just a plain ol defense mechanism that a girl developed when she was a kid that wanted to be liked by the other kids at school.

The more nervous I get, the more I talk, the more insecure I feel, the more jokes I make. I can’t stand dead air or silence when I’m around people, my mind races to too many places, and I start fearing what this person is thinking about me. So I end up distracting myself from thinking the worst by telling bad jokes and hopefully getting that person to smile.

That was how I coped with my anxiety. But there was no bad joke to save me or no small talk to hide behind. I wasn’t sure I was ready for what was ahead of me, nor confident that I actually did have the strength to make it through this experience without freaking out.

When I turned the corner and walked into a living room with a dozen people sitting around on sofas and chairs, I felt a panic that stuck to my bones. They all stopped what they were doing to look directly at me.

I wanted to run but my wobbly knees felt stuck in cement.

Everyone looked so dressed and warm, wearing sweaters, and trousers, and jeans, and turtlenecks, and long-sleeves. I was wearing nothing but a shirt! Even my socks were gone.

“I didn’t know it was that kind of party,” a man from one of the sofas said.

And they started laughing. Oh my God. They are laughing at me. And then I caught Ari, Darren’s best friend, sitting there with a drink in his hand, staring at me as if an alien had just walked into the room.

“Everyone, this is Jennifer Lawrence,” Greta spoke up, introducing me to the group of strangers as if Jennifer Lawrence wasn’t a recognizable famous persons name, while I looked everywhere but at Ari.

Everyone still looked as if they didn’t know what to make of who and what had just walked into their party.

“So yeah, I feel like I need to explain why I’m half-naked,” I said, holding my top down with both hands.

“An artist never needs to explain herself,” a man said as he stood up from the sofa and walked over to greet me. He held out his hand and introduced himself as Lewis. This was his house and Greta was his wife.

“Trust us, Jennifer. In the art world, you showing up wearing just a top isn’t even in the top 100 most crazy things we’ve seen,” Greta smiled. “Nudity is quite common.”

“Plus with you’re with Darren,” a woman said from the sofa. “So this actually makes perfect sense.”

“Darren being an asshole is a good enough explanation,” another woman said, which brought more laughter from the group.

Darren was flicking them off when I looked over to him, which actually got me to let out a small laugh. Standing here was awkward as hell but I wasn’t dead yet, so far, so good.

“So I think everyone should introduce themselves,” Greta said as she invited me into the living room so I could have a seat on the sofa next to Darren and her. A few people moved over to allow room and Lewis went to pour me a glass of vintage wine.

I took a much needed sip of the red wine, wanting to calm my nerves as quick as possible, and then paid close attention to Greta, trying to ignore everybody that was smiling at the half-naked celebrity sitting amongst them.

Greta talked about her education at Harvard, before mentioning that she was a former Broadway performer, but had transited to working as a theatre director and playwright. Her latest works had been nominated for a New York Drama League Award.

When she was done, her husband Lewis talked up his resume which included his crowning achievement; meeting Greta on Broadway 20 years ago and convincing her to marry him. This got some ‘awws” from everyone, before he listed off his actual resume. He was a casting director for her productions and also taught classes at some of the local colleges.

She introduced Cy as the “musician of the group.” He was a tall and handsome man with dreads, and moonlighted as a jazz musician on the weekends in Harlem. In addition to being musically inclined, Cy was also a painter and sculptor.

His wife Simone was sitting next to him, with dreads nearly as long as his, and she taught the History of Jazz at Juilliard.

Miguel introduced himself next as an Argentina filmmaker, though I had to admit I had never even heard of any of his movies. He laughed, telling me that most people hadn’t – he produced short films, 30 minutes or less, and they were all usually foreign language as well.

David was a professor at NYU Tisch, and his wife Sarah, clearly the youngest person there aside from me, was a cultural clinic and doctoral candidate.

Landon was a choreographer and street performer and Joey, his partner, was a program director for a Boston Film Festival, and a film teacher at Columbia.

Dustin, one of the older guys in the group, perhaps as old as 70 if I were to guess, introduced himself as a former lawyer, but was now trying his hand at publishing poetry, novels, and screenplays.

Crystal was the woman that I recognized had called Darren an asshole, and she was a bald, very tattooed, clearly lesbian chick. She wrote novels.

Norma was a violinist in the orchestra and Jane helped run a community theater Uptown.

And then there was owen, with a lowercase o (he emphasized that). He was a photographer, musician, painter, street performer, pianist, street magician, poet, yoga instructor, rapper, singer, scholar of the arts, chef, and on and on and on.

“I bet you’re vegan too,” I couldn’t help but say when he was done rattling off his bohemian and hipster traits.

My first joke connected with everyone there, which made me feel good, and a little less nervous.

But the full nervousness didn’t go away. I felt pretty inadequate, to be honest.

These were a group of professors and artists, most of them between the ages of 40 and 60. They were all in pretty good shape, attractive, well dressed, well spoken, with a noticeable sophistication to the way they carried themselves. These were clearly people Darren would be friends with (and people my actual friends would call pretentious).

And then there was Ari. A guy that had moved on from being a brain doctor so he could write and produce movies with his best friend.

It felt really weird looking him in the eye while I was like this, mostly naked. But more than weird, I started to feel the buzz of arousal again. I took another sip and looked away.

“Tell us about yourself,” Lewis asked me.

“Well,” I said, feeling so vulnerable with all eyes on me. These were college professors and auteurs. What could I say to them that wouldn’t sound like some MTV bullshit? Telling these people that I won an Academy Award felt like empty self praise that they wouldn’t actually be impressed with. My defense mechanism kicked in.

“I don’t play instruments or teach at universities. Hell, I don’t even have a GED,” I laughed. “I moved to New York to pursue modeling, because I wasn’t good at anything else but smiling in front of a camera, got lucky enough to get cast in a few bad blockbusters, became the highest paid woman in Hollywood because of it, met Darren Aronofsky, banged Darren Aronofsky, appeared in a Darren Aronofsky movie, and this year I got nominated for a Razzie for Worst Actress, can’t forget about that. Now I’m sitting here naked with just a t-shirt on. That about wraps it up for me.”

Self deprecating humor was my go to, the way I learned how to fit in and be likable, relatable, down to earth. But Darren wasn’t having it.

“Fuck that,” he said, clearly annoyed with my attempt at being modest. “Jennifer is a four-time Academy Award nominated actress. She’s the second-youngest woman to ever win Best Actress at the Oscars. She’s won Golden Globes, Indie Spirit Awards, British Academy Awards. She’s won nearly 100 awards in all for her diverse performances.”

He turned away from them to look at me before he continued.

“But beyond her brilliant acting…She started the Jennifer Lawrence foundation, where she has raised and donated millions of dollars in charity around the world. She’s the youngest recipient ever for the Sherry Lansing Leadership award which is an annual award for a woman that is a pioneering philanthropist in Hollywood. Jennifer also is involved politically – she recently joined the board for the largest grassroots anti-political corruption nonprofit in the world.”

“Damn, girl,” Greta said with a big smile.

“Damn is right,” owen said with with a clap of his hands.

I responded to the praise by emptying my glass of wine into my mouth, and feeling like all of my blood had rushed to my face. Strangely, even though I was was sitting here without pants, underwear or socks, having Darren recite my accomplishments from memory was the most embarrassing moment of the night so far.

I couldn’t even look at anybody in the eye.

“I’m really glad you were able to make it Jennifer,” Greta said.

“Well Darren did say there would be pie,” I shrugged.

A few people laughed at my joke before Greta told Darren to give me some of the pie he had wrapped up for me.

“So you were in Darren’s latest movie – the one about the house that represents earth and mother nature,” Lewis said.

“Yes,” I answered. “The one I received a Razzie nomination for. I was terrible.”

“Don’t believe that,” Darren said, handing me a plate from heaven and diet from hell. Four generous slices of pie; pecan, banana cream, pumpkin and what looked like blackberry. “She was brilliant and she knows it.”

“Not according to the people that hated it,” I said before looking at the pie slices, my mouth full of water, knowing this was going to destroy my diet.

“Try mine first,” owen said, pointing to the pie on the end. “Made it with blackberries I grew in my own garden.”

I looked down at his pie suspiciously, scrutinizing it heavily now.

Everyone laughed. But Simone spoke. “He might be a weirdo, but he bakes a damn good pie.”

“It does look good,” I said honestly. “Who made the other pies?”

“I did the pumpkin,” Greta said.

“Pecan over here,” Sarah raised her hand, claiming it.

“I bought the banana cream from this great spot in Queens,” Dustin said.

“I also made apple but these heathens went through it,” Greta said.

“You still make the best classic Apple Pie I’ve ever had,” Cy said, with a chorus of agreement that followed.

“Still trying to get that secret recipe,” Simone said.

“Keep waiting,” Greta smiled. “I gotta come keep you guys coming back somehow.”

When they were done laughing, they looked towards me, sitting there with a plate full of pie.

It felt weird having everyone watch as I prepared to eat. “I feel like I’m a judge on one of those Food Channel cooking shows,” I remarked. “Only thing I’m missing is a side of ice cream.”

They laughed at my joke but Greta took it seriously.

“A la mode it is then,” Greta smiled before looking over at Darren. “ Make yourself useful. Vanilla ice cream is in the fridge.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “While I’m gone, you tell them the truth Jennifer. Stop downplaying yourself.”

“Yes, I’m sure the reason people hated the movie was your writing and direction,” Greta said. “I’m sure Jennifer here was great.”

“She was,” Ari said, surprising me with his praise, his kind smile. His presence was the one making me the most nervous. I felt heat coming from his eyes. What was he thinking about this? Who would he tell?

“Hell yeah she was,” Darren agreed before leaving for the kitchen, leaving me alone with his friends.

“You were really good in the film,” Sarah said. “I wrote about it on my site.”

“Thanks,” I said, allowing myself to accept a compliment without any witty retort. Whew, and it was hard.

“Have you guys seen the movie yet?” I heard Ari asked curiously towards the hosts of this gathering.

“We haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Greta spoke for her and hubby.

“We saw it opening week,” Sarah said.

“Same here,” Simone said.

There was a mini debate amongst the people that saw it, 7 in total, not counting Ari, with about half liking it, and the other half being mixed. No one outright disliked it, or were willing to say so out loud. But everyone was complimentary of my performance.

This seemed to really interest Greta and Lewis.

“What else have you been in?” Lewis asked, which felt like an odd question.

I was one of the most recognizable actresses in the world, but ever since meeting them, I got the vibe that they had no idea who I actually was, aside from being Darren’s (ex) girlfriend.

“I won the Oscar for Silver Linings Playbook,” I said, still feeling a little embarrassed about it. Why? There is no self-deprecating or modest way to talk about winning an Oscar. And I was a horrible self promoter that never did it right. “And promptly fell on my ass while walking up the steps to accept the award .”

More laughs. Either with me, or at me, I wasn’t sure which one yet. But as always, making them laugh felt like a win.

“Yeah that was the talk of the night, I remember that,” David, the film teacher said.

After I successfully got the group to talk about me falling instead of the award I won, Greta brought the conversation back around to the film, not the fuckery surrounding an awards show.

“Haven’t seen that one,” Greta said.

“Me either,” several others spoke up.

“I heard it was really good though,” Landon said.

“Okay, um, well have you seen the other David O Russell film I was in, American Hustle?” I asked to Greta and Lewis. “I was nominated for Best Supporting Actress.”

“Sorry, didn’t see that one either,” Lewis said.

“Joy? Winter’s Bone?” I laughed, nearly in disbelief at none of my ‘good films’ being on their radar.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry but I haven’t seen a mainstream American film in about ten years,” Greta said once she realized I wasn’t going to name anything that she knew.

“That about covers your entire career, I suppose,” Lewis followed up.

I must of had a look on my face that said something like “What the hell kind of theater people are you?” because they felt the need to answer that unasked question.

They explained that they were so wrapped up in the theater scene, broadways, musicals, and plays, that they rarely had time to go to the cinema, and when they did it was usually for foreign films, shorts, documentaries, or indies. And they didn’t buy DVDs or watch TV, so they never got around to seeing many popular movies.

Darren came back smiling as he handed the sweets over to me. “See? Don’t feel bad that they haven’t seen any of your work. Greta and Lewis have only seen like two of my films.”

“Four for me,” Greta said.

“Shorts don’t count,” Darren spat.

“Only in your shallow world Mr. Hollywood Feature Film Director,” she said.

“Wait, honey, I think we have seen one of her pictures,” Lewis said, as he took a good look at me. “You had dark hair in that one, though, if I’m remembering this right. The one with the children fighting each other with arrows and such?”

Of course, of all of my movies, that was the one they had to know me by.

“The Hunger Games,” I said before scooping some of the ice cream and pie on my spoon and bringing it to my mouth. It was delicious.

“Riiiiiight, The Hunger Games,” Lewis nodded, smiling in a way that suggested he like the name of the movie more than the movie itself. “That was one the children watched when we were visiting family for Thanksgiving, remember honey?”

“Yeah I remember that now,” Greta said, as whatever memory she had came back.

“I was actually a big fan of the books,” Sarah said. “And I thought they did a great job casting you as Katniss.”

How fitting, the only other person that looked younger than 35 was my only real fan. I took the praise in stride and thanked her again before scooping more pie and ice cream into my mouth.

The conversation shifted to everyone’s favorite films from 2017. Not surprisingly, almost all of them named films I’d never even heard of, with just a few voices chiming in on films that were nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars, namely ‘Get Out’, ‘Call Me By Your Name’, and ‘The Phantom Thread.’

But the conversation about modern cinema didn’t last, as their enthusiasm for classic films was much more palpable.

They touched on the golden age, the French New Wave, and then the experimental age of 1970’s Hollywood.

I was a Hollywood star but still felt a bit out of place during it all. Most of them were twice my age, and while they had a love for black and white ‘motion pictures’ and thought provoking films, I spent my downtime watching dumb stuff on TV, like reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians or Dumb and Dumber for the 200th time.

But while this could have been a very boring and awkward night of me quietly stuffing my face with ice cream and pie, not saying a word, Greta made sure to include me in on the conversation, asking me what did I think of the movies and subjects they talked about, and then allowing me the opportunity to shift the focus to something I enjoyed.

“What’s your favorite film, Jennifer?” she asked to make sure I was still engaged with them.

I would have felt like an idiot saying “There’s Something About Mary” and having this group critically discuss such riveting scenes like Ben Stiller getting his dick and balls caught in his zipper, or Cameron Diaz wiping jizz in her hair after mistaking it for hair gel.

So instead of being that honest, I decided to go with a film I actually did enjoy, even if it wasn’t my actual favorite – the 1974 John Cassavetes classic ‘A Woman Under the Influence.’

My dad was a film buff and had sat me down to to watch a ton of classic films with him, especially after I expressed interest in acting.

We rented the classics that a film student would watch in Film 101; ‘Citizen Kane’, ‘Casablanca’, ‘Vertigo’, you know, the usual.

But dad specifically wanted me to watch talented women act, so he chose ‘ A Woman Under the Influence’ off the strength of Gena Rowlands portraying a colorful, mentally ill mother in the film, which was so powerful she ended up being nominated for Best Actress.

I told them this story, and how I was so mesmerized by the movie that I ended up watching it over and over again, studying the mannerisms and speech of Gena, until I was acting out her scenes for my family and friends. “It was the first role I ever lost myself in,” I told them.

“It’s poetry that you won your first Oscar for portraying a woman with a mental illness,” Darren said, connecting the dots for the group.

David followed up my comments by also saying ‘A Woman Under the Influence’ was one of his favorite movies, which got us to exchange a few lines of dialogue back and forth.

While it was fun sharing my story and getting such a positive reaction for my fake favorite movie, I wasn’t necessarily a narcissist that needed to be the center of attention or hear myself talk to be entertained. I enjoyed listening to passionate people discuss what they were passionate about. And even if I was an Academy Award winning actress, I still had so much so soak up from these artists, aficionados, and teachers.

Between delighting my tongue with pie that was as good as advertised, and listening to such a spirited discussion about the art of film, I almost forgot that I was half-naked.

Almost. But never quite.

As soon as I relaxed to the point where I might be able to forget, something would jar me back to reality. I would glance down – just for a split second – and see my bare feet resting on carpet, my toenails painted pink. It looked comically out of place compared to the dozens of pumps, designer boots, loafers, and polished lace ups on the floor next to my feet.

Everyone was friendly, mature, even nonchalant about the fact that a basically naked celebrity was sitting there with them, but they were human. I noticed them looking at me for perhaps a second longer than they should have. The women seemed to look longer than the men, but the men seemed to look harder in the short amount of time they threw a glance my way.

I imagined it felt surreal for them to have Jennifer Lawrence acting like this. But even still, it felt even more surreal for me.

I was steadily holding my plate on my lap, awkwardly so, while keeping my arms and wine glass close to my chest to hide the outline of my breast.

While everyone else was completely relaxed on the sofas and chairs – kicked back, tossing their heads back to laugh, being themselves with their closest friends – I sat at attention, listening, smiling, participating, but never letting myself go. I kept a steady pose, shoulders square, chest forward, with my bare ass planted on top of my shirt, and my feet stuck to the floor, never moving enough to expose myself.

It got uncomfortable after a while (even more uncomfortable than what you would imagine, half naked and all), not being able to reposition myself or just lean back. My muscles started to get tight and it made me even more aware of how unclothed I was compared to everyone else.

But there was no way I was going to sit in a way that showed everyone my vagina. NO WAY JOSE!

Having Darren sitting next to me was a bit reassuring, and helped to calm my nerves. And after I looked settled enough in to what this social gathering was all about, Greta decided to end the chat about film and open up the floor to anyone that wanted to share their work.

When no one immediately jumped up – which I reckoned was because a half-naked newbie was sitting here, messing up the flow of their usual ‘show-n-tell’ – Greta decided to go first.

While Lewis passed on cigars for those that wanted to have a smoke, Greta got up and did a dramatic reading of a play she was writing about working class women.

She briefly described the point of her scene, did about ten minutes of dialogue and gestures, using her husband to read a male characters dialogue. When she finished, everyone gave her a nice round of applause before she turned the floor over to us to offer our thoughts.

One by one, each of us shared our feedback and criticism, some of it more thoughtful than others (mine was simple and shallow, I just said it was “really good and interesting” while Jane and Crystal spent about five minutes each offering measured praise and suggestions to make it sharper), but she thanked everyone for being honest before sitting back down.

Cy went next, first reaching for a portfolio case, before standing before us to show his latest work. The two paintings, he said, were both inspired by Norman Rockwell. He explained that he hoped to show 21st century life and the role of the television.

He unveiled his first one, a depiction of a man getting dressed in a police officers uniform, while a woman, presumably his wife, looked worried while holding a little boy on her lap. In the background, there was a TV on, with a news station showing a massive protest downtime. The colors, deep reds and golds and blues, really helped make the slice of life portrait pop.

The second one was a painting of four kids on a sofa. Two of them were sharing a tablet, one was on an iPhone with Beats headphones on his ears, and the other kid was watching Netflix on a laptop. In front of them was a TV that no one was watching.

Everyone had something to say about these untitled paintings, with several minutes devoted to offering suggestions for titles, but most of the time spent talking about the subjects depicted and implied, police shootings, and gun violence, and protests for the former, and technology addiction and millennials and nostalgia pining for the “good ol days” for the latter.

I even found myself offering long winded admiration for the feelings that his pieces provoked in me. “These are just really fucking good,” I said at the close of my feedback.

Crystal followed Cy, reading a long passage from a short story she was writing about a lot lizard deciding to go to the dentist so she can get her teeth fixed and turn more tricks.

I didn’t like that one that much, but I chalked it up to not really “getting it”, since everyone else seemed to think it was moving and hilarious in it’s “raw honesty.”

I kept trying to imagine it as a movie scene that I was starring in – I read so many scripts, I couldn’t help but render all stories in my head this way – but I had a hard time seeing anything worthwhile about prostitutes getting their teeth fixed by stuck up dentists.

Still, I lied channeled my inner Darren impersonation, praising her piece for “getting the milieu of the working girl right.”

Crystal thanked me personally for the feedback, so I took it that she had bought my bullshit. And with that, everyone seemed more willing and ready to jump up to share their work.

Dustin read a section of a scene he was was writing but having trouble finishing.

Miguel read two possible endings for a screenplay he was working on.

Landon performed a song and dance. Norma played her violin. owen did some weird abstract performance where he took on four different personalities, and had a conversation with himself.

When it came time for me to tell owen what I thought, I decided to be completely honest, shrugging and saying “at least you make really good pie.”

This got the biggest laugh of the night.

We critiqued the shit out of whatever his performance was supposed to be, but he was a great sport about it, taking it in stride and grinning at his haters. “The masses never appreciate the real geniuses until they are gone. I’m just too ahead of my time.”

While I didn’t appreciate his genius, I did appreciate his sense of humor. He had me laughing more than I thought possible when I first entered this home, content to get this exhibitionist thrill out of my system and live in the moment. I never thought the moment would involve genuine laughter from my belly, though.

By the time I handed off my plate and wine glass, I had leaned back in the sofa and placed my hands in front of my crotch. I was actually starting to become relaxed around these strangers, at least enough to get comfortable in my seat.

But along with my comfort came their comfort, and soon enough, the quick glances my way were starting to become longer. I caught both the men and women looking at me, and this, to my embarrassment, was really a turn on. I could only imagine what they were really thinking beyond what the kind smiles and fun banter.

And then I caught Ari, the only one of them that I knew before tonight, and his eyes were focused on the spot between my legs. I caught him trying to look at my pussy.

He turned away in what looked like guilt when our eyes locked and then, with me feeling my own guilt, I put my hand on Darren’s leg and sat a little bit closer to him.

The sequence of events fully brought my arousal out of hiding.

I was horny again.

I tried to play it off. I made jokes, and talked too much, and pretended like nothing was out of the ordinary, but there was nothing ordinary about any of this. I was on fire, debating how wanton it would be to spread my legs slightly to give Ari, David, Sarah, and Dustin, who were sitting across from me, a view they wouldn’t soon forget.

I didn’t do it, of course, I was a good girl, but just thinking it produced crazy effects on my breathing, on my posture, on my nipples and pussy.

To open my legs now would be to reveal something wet and swollen and sexual, and being unable to focus on anything but this fact was painfully distracting.

Thank God Ari excused himself to the kitchen as Lewis led us into the next phase of the night, reenacting scenes from movies.

Greta and Jane brought out a huge rack filled with clothes, hats, costumes, and other accessories that could be used to help each person get into character.

It was a funny exercise, like karaoke for film snobs, and everyone got involved, even Darren, as he ended up choosing to reenact a scene from the Spike Lee film, “Do The Right Thing.”

It happened to be one of his favorite scenes, where the black guy had his Jordans stepped on by a white guy and all hell broke loose. Darren went over to the costume rack, pulling a pair of glasses with a spectacle cord, and a medium high black afro wig.

Then he pulled up Ari from the sofa to play the part of the white guy that scuffs his sneakers, which made me feel a little uneasy at first. I wondered if Cy or Simone might become offended at the optics of two white guys reenacting the racially charged scene, with Darren reciting lines like “Yo you’re lucky the BLACK MAN has a loving heart!” while sporting a fake afro.

But as Darren and Ari went through their rendition, with Darren really getting into character and all but screaming at Ari for stepping on his brand new white shoes, I caught Cy and Simone laughing the hardest. Their laughter was disarming and allowed me to find Darren’s silly overacting hilarious too.

We cycled through various combinations of performers; Norma and Cy, owen and Lewis, Crystal and Simone, Joey and Miguel, Jane and Landon, Sarah and Dustin, reenacting everything from The Wizard of Oz to Full Metal Jacket.

Laughing brought a needed calmness to the heat between my legs, keeping the buzz of sexual excitement on simmer instead of boiling. Pleasant but not overwhelming. That sexual, non-sexul shit Darren insisted could exist.

So when David, the film teacher at NYU, got up to perform something for the tipsy, well-fed, and eager audience, I was feeling good. I had even shared a cigar with Darren. And David must have sensed the good vibes coming me because when our eyes met, his face lit up.

“Jennifer, do you want to help me with a scene?” he asked.

“Me?” the question fell out of my mouth clumsily, as if there was another Jennifer in the house.

He responded with a soft smile. “I think we should do ‘A Woman Under the Influence.’ I remember you said you used to perform the dying swan scene for your family.”

“Oh yes, that would be a great scene!” Greta encouraged.

I looked at her, then at David, then for some reason, I threw a look at Darren, who made a face and motion with his arms to let me know he was in agreement with Greta.

“I dunno,” I said all meek-like, as if I was a little kid afraid to perform in the talent show instead of the accomplished award winning actress that I was.

I probably had more awards and money from acting than everyone in this house combined. But that didn’t seem to matter in this setting. These men and women were an artists artist and I didn’t feel better than them, or more valuable, or more talented. It was humbling in a good way.

It would have been nerve-racking to perform for them if I was fully dressed. But wearing only a top? With my body on edge, in an unrelenting state of excitement?

“Come on Jennifer,” Jane said.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun,” Crystal agreed.

And then there was a chorus of encouragement from everybody, all telling me to get off my naked ass and perform for their entertainment. The want to be liked was my weakness, as was the validation I constantly sought.

Saying no wouldn’t have been very likable. And I didn’t want to say no anyway.

I looked back at David. “The dying swan scene?”

“Just that scene,” he promised. “I’ll be Mr. Jensen.”

“Ugh,” I groaned before giving in to the noise and pressure. I pulled my shirt down, still not yet ready to just reveal all of the goods, and took a deep breath before sliding away from the sofa.

I felt like I shouldn’t have been as nervous as I actually was.

I wasn’t even this nervous for my first film audition, where I had to wait three hours in a small room with 30 other blonde actresses.

I wasn’t this nervous my first time meeting De Niro.

I’m not sure I even had this many butterflies between the silent seconds (that felt like an eternity) between Jean Dujardin saying “and the Oscar goes to…” and “Jennifer Lawrence, Silver Linings Playbook.” Not to mention, I was probably more nervous now than I was during the fall seen around the world that happened as I made my up the steps to accept my award.

And that was absurd, right? Why should this moment, in front of 16 people, make me more nervous than a humiliation that was viewed by more than 40 million?

Sensical or not, this was the nervous state I found myself in as I stood next to David, in front of an audience of near strangers, eagerly waiting for me to play the part of a mentally unstable woman under the influence of alcohol.

The role didn’t feel too difficult to slip into at that moment, for I felt more than a little unhinged, and I was certainly a woman under the influence of something.

We skipped going for costumes, how we, or should I say how I looked, holding down my t-shirt, was spectacle enough. But I realized after standing there in the middle of the room, eyes surrounding me, the shirt just wasn’t long enough or stretched out enough to stay in place.

There was no way I would be able to hide myself through this entire renancement. The people in the front of me were going to see my bush and the people behind me were going to see my ass.

It was a startling thought, but did nothing to change my mind – if anything, it just made me even more eager to get it over with.

This was always inevitable, from the moment I decided to leave my house without a jacket or shoes, and the moment I chose to listen to Darren, leaving my pants in the elevator. There was never a true doubt in my mind that something like this was going to happen.

And it was time I just let go and embraced the moment before me.

I leaned in to whisper to David. “We should start at the part where I ask you for tea.”

He nodded to indicate that he knew the lines well enough and would follow my lead whenever I was ready. The scene would begin with him dropping his kids off for a party, and then me inviting him in for tea even though he clearly wanted to leave.

I went through the mental steps I always took whenever I had to slip into a role. An exercise of breathing, clearing my head, getting rid of my soul, and all of the baggage that came with being Jennifer, and becoming a blank canvas that I could paint portraits that weren’t me.

I didn’t learn from an acting class, or an acting coach, I taught myself the routine. It was how many method actors operated, how they conjured up emotion and facial expressions that they never practiced beforehand. For better or worse, it was how I got rid of the noise so that all I could hear by the time the director yelled ‘action’ was the character speaking through me.

No longer a half-naked Jennifer Lawrence, the Hollywood actress and superstar, I was Mabel, a wife and mother, struggling with an illness that no one quite understood.

I turned to David, now Mr. Jensen.

“You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?” I asked, the question dripping with obvious subtext that might as well have been the only text they could all see clearly. His wife was watching a nearly naked Jennifer Lawrence ask her husband if he was comfortable, seeing him try not to look down at my hard nipples nearly poking through my shirt, or what lay below.

It was erotic even though it shouldn’t have been.

But I really got into the role, the character, the scene, and David did as well. I pinched him on the cheek, gave him a hug, and told him that we were going to “have a little fun,” exactly as I remembered the scene from the movie.

We moved the scene to the imaginary backyard, where we had imaginary kids playing. I couldn’t remember the lines verbatim, but I recited the gist of the dialogue as best I could, channeling the disturbed voice of the character.

At some point, I felt my top push itself itself up, truly exposing my bare ass and bush to my audience, but I didn’t let it stop me from reenacting the scene. I pulled it back down, as subtle as I could manage, and continued, embarrassed, but compelled more by the desire to remain in character.

I was Mabel, and hadn’t just flashed my ass and pussy to everyone (even though I totally had!).

“Once the kids get together they’re not interested in anything,” I said, concentrating on making sure Mable’s emotions shined through, and ignoring my own. “You have to break through that and make them interested. In languages, dancing, jokes. Fun!.”

“Can I have my tea now?” David asked as Mr. Jensen, the frustrated father that wanted to leave the kids party and not have to entertain this crazy bitch anymore.

“Oh screw the tea,” I threw at him. And before I could say my next line, I heard Norma playing ‘Swan Lake’ on her violin, right on cue. They were fucking good at this.

“Hey you hear that?” I exclaimed in excitement. “You don’t believe in miracles? That’s Swan Lake. That’s perfect!”

I quickly moved to the audience in front of me, Cy, and Simone, Daren, Ari, and owen, and Greta, and Lewis, and Sarah, immediately casting them as extras in this scene.

“Come and die for Mr. Jensen,” I said to them as they got off the sofa, smiles on their faces, to participate. “Come on we’ll do the chorus. Come on.”

I had them move in a circle around David, flapping their arms like the dying swan. Moving my arms and shuffling my feet like that was the movement that ended the false modesty. My top shrunk to its normal size, shooting up past my naval, again exposing my butt to everyone behind me and the blonde hair that covered my mound to all that remained in front. But I didn’t bother covering this time. I kept flapping and kept shuffling, I was the dying swan now, and Norma’s violin strings were just too beautiful to ruin by breaking character now.

“Come on,” I pushed, my naked ass bouncing to my movement. “Die for Mr. Jensen. Come on Greta, Ari, you know the dying swan. Come on, that’s it. That’s it. Die, Cy. Bravo!”

I caught the wide eyes and dropped jaws from the people watching me, and heard plenty of giggles and “oh my God” comments but it didn’t stop me. I turned to David, who had noticed my wardrobe malfunction, and had broken character himself, looking as if he didn’t know whether to warn me about my state of undress or keep going.

I kept going and started clapping. “Come on, they just died for you, Mr. Jensen.”

The scene ended there, and with it came a round of applause from everyone, none louder than Darren, who looked really happy for me.

I was too busy pulling my top back down to really even contemplate why Darren would be happy for me, it didn’t actually sink in until after I hi-fived several people and sat down, replaying everything that just happened in my head.

I was having fun with this, all of this, but especially my exposure. And Darren was happy that I had allowed myself to experience and enjoy what had been fantasies and regrets until now.

Everyone offered praise for my acting, but Greta was the one that made sure to highlight the obvious. She wasn’t just going to act like I hadn’t flashed my ass and crotch to everyone there.

“It’s amazing that you kept character through the whole thing,” she said. “The ability to get in front of a live audience and perform nude is impressive.”

“Thanks but this was nothing,” I said, downplaying my performance, per usual. “Now having an orgasm in front of a live audience. THAT is impressive.”

This got the reaction I wanted, taking some attention away from me, and transferring it to her. Greta laughed while others looked on curiously, wondering what I meant by that.

“Oh yeah, didn’t you do something like this when you were at Harvard?” Landon asked. “I remember hearing something about you masturbating during some performance.”

“What?” Miguel and Crystal and Simone all asked, almost in unison.

Greta just continued laughing, covering her face now.

“That really happened?” Norma asked, obviously still unsure if this was some inside joke or something.

The silence spoke to the truth of it.

“How do know about this?” Crystal asked, with the undertone of “how do you know and not me?”

“Darren told me,” I shrugged. “Said it was one of the most moving performances of his life.”

Darren gave me an ‘oh really, you wanna go there?’ face as I laughed.

For the next few minutes, Greta was bombarded with questions about this infamous nude performance from her Harvard days, some 25 years ago.

Greta was gracious enough to humor everyone, admitting that it was true, and that Darren and Ari had attended one of her one-woman performances (well Darren had attended three of them, but I wouldn’t find that out until Greta told me much later).

But Lewis, her dear hubby, was the one that decided to take this exchange of surprise to another level, revealing that the original performance was recorded – and they had a copy of it, the only copy that existed.

“Oh my God I have to see this!” Norma said.

It was the exact sentiment everybody else expressed, especially since it was Lewis that let us all know that a tape of this performance existed. And with everyone riled up, it was only a matter of time before we chipped away at the reluctance and Greta agreed to show us the performance by throwing up her arms and shouting “Alright you heathens, I’ll show you!”

Lewis left the living room to retrieve the tape, while we all migrated to the next room over with the large flat screen. I found it amusing that they still had a VCR, but somehow it seemed very fitting for a couple that didn’t watch modern movies.

I sat at the end of the sofa, with Darren squeezing in next to me, and we engaged in small talk for about ten minutes, mostly teasing Greta, before Lewis finally came back with the tape – an actual video tape, like some ancient relic from the past – that we were all dying to see.

The tape started with a bunch of TV fuzz, which provoked a few jokes about the outdated technology, but the picture turned clear enough after a few seconds, showing a smaller than I imagined stage. But then I remembered that this took place on a college campus, not some major theater.

On the stage was a bucket, a full length mirror, a twin sized bed with a teddy bear sitting at the head, a nightstand with framed photos and an alarm clock sitting on it, a jug of water, and a microphone stand at the center.

“The set was supposed to be my bedroom,” Greta said as we watched the stage.

“Let them watch the video,” Lewis interjected, obviously not wanting her to ruin any surprises.

That was the first time I truly looked at Greta and Lewis as a couple, and what I saw very much endeared me to them. Their relationship felt familiar, warm, and fun. Two artists with equal power. She was more accomplished in their field, but he seemed as if he gave her pushes whenever she needed them. It was eerie how much I saw of myself in her, and Darren in him.

I glanced over at Darren, sitting next to me, and when we locked eyes he smiled, patting my knee with his hand. It was almost as if he was reading my mind, letting me know that he missed me too.

I turned back to the screen just in time to see a woman gingerly walking to the front of the stage, wearing a yellow sheath dress that stopped just above her knees, and white heels. Even with the degradation of the picture quality, it was easy to see that this beautiful lady was Greta. She was more youthful, more innocent, more nervous, more flushed than the woman I met tonight, but it was still clearly her.

She stopped when she reached the microphone and placed her arms around her back in a resting position

“I had to wait for everyone to get seated,” Greta said to clue us in on why the woman on screen wasn’t saying anything.

“Let them watch,” Lewis said again.

“But I want them to know what’s going on,” Greta responded before the Greta on screen spoke and Lewis started to shush her so we could hear.

“I have to admit, I’m a little nervous,” she spoke into the microphone, her shaky voice corroborating her words. “My acting coach tells me to take deep breaths to get rid of the nerves. So allow me to breathe for a little bit.”

The woman on stage took in several breaths, exhaling loudly and comically. There were a scattering of laughs from the unseen audience.

Young Greta spoke again. “With all that breathing, now my mouth is dry so hold up just a second longer and we’ll get the show started.” She then reached over for that jug of water, popped the top, and took a few sips.

She smacked her lips, said “still too dry,” and then proceeded to drop her head back, tilt the jug, and chug from the jug of water for the next 30 seconds, again prompting laughter from the audience, this time both inside and outside of the screen.

She sat the now half-empty jug down at her feet, wiped her mouth, and burped into the mic. “Whew, scue-zees,” she excused herself in a cute girly voice before clearing her throat and officially ‘starting’ her one-woman show.

“So for the next hour, you as my audience will be tasked with pity laughing at my unfunny jokes to avoid embarrassing me,” she said to laughs. “See, you’re already really good at it.”

More laughs.

“But it’s going to get old quick,” she said. “But seriously, I do have a goal with this show. I want you all to experience the six core emotions that Dr. Paul Ekman identified. Happiness, which hopefully you’re feeling now. But I also want to induce feelings of sadness, anger, fear, disgust, and surprise.”

Her voice was still a little shaky, it was almost as if this was her first time speaking in front of an audience. It was charming, if not adorable, even if that was going to lead to the audience giving her the pity laughs that she predicted.

“But if I succeed tonight, you’ll experience even deeper emotions than the six I outlined. The emotions will be nuanced and conflicting. I want to shock you, amuse you, titillate you, upset you, embarrass you, excite you. All at the same time.”

I turned away from the screen just for a second to look at Greta. She was silently laughing, as if watching this old performance of hers that she thought buried and nearly forgotten was a huge source of embarrassment. But now she was sharing it with friends and strangers. I could sense her nervous excitement, especially since we all knew an orgasm was on the way.

I returned my focus to the screen, eager to see how this nervous girl on the screen got there.

“I want to experience all of these emotions with you,” the woman in the yellow dress spoke into the mic, her voice shaky and fragile, so unlike the voice of the woman she would later become. “But FIRST, I have to get over my stage fright. I have my teachers, professors, classmates, friends, and strangers scattered around in the audience. I wanted to look nice for my performance, so I went out and bought a dress.”

She stepped away from the mic and looked at herself in the full length mirror that was set up. She checked herself out, frowning, clearly displeased at her choice of attire. She looked as if she should have been attending cocktail hour at the country club, and not headlining a theatrical show on Harvard’s campus.

“It’s so loud and…yellow,” she sighed, before noticing something on the back of the dress. She mumbled into the mic “Oh shit, the tag is showing in the back,” and tried to reach behind her back to grab for it but failed.

“Oh God, I’m sorry everybody,” she said before looking off stage and waving someone to help her.

A young guy wearing a headset and holding clipboard, probably stage assistant, jogged into the frame as she turned her back to him. And with one tug of the tag, her dress inexplicably ripped at the seams, seemingly exploding as he pulled it off her body in a shocking moment of ‘what the fuck just happened?’

A loud laugh fell out of my mouth which I covered with my hands, while others around me laughed more freely. I could hear gasps in the school theater as Greta was now left standing on stage in her mismatched bra and panties.

She held herself close, looking every bit as shocked and terrified as a woman in her position should have been, left unclothed in her underwear in front of a huge audience. But the spotlight on her seemed to grow brighter as she just stood there, not running, but also not appearing to know how she should react.

A few uncomfortable laughs followed as the young guy holding her dress apologized and said something to her which we couldn’t hear.

She only shook her head. “No, no. The show must go on,” she said before looking out at us, her audience. “They paid to see a show, so a show I’ll give them. Even in my underwear.”

It became clear then, that this was part of the act, as the guy shrugged and awkwardly walked out of the frame with her ripped dress in his arms.

The audience inside the theater seemed to catch on that this was a work as well, as a few people whistled and cheered as she said “well that’ll teach me to buy a dress from the dollar store clearance rack.”

“Ah that is funny,” Crystal spoke from her seat.

“How did you get the dress to rip like that?” owen laughed.

But Lewis was shushing them again, pointing at the screen, as it demanded our full attention.

“So this is what it feels like to stand on a stage in your underwear,” the embarrassed girl on stage remarked before taking more comical deep breaths. “So yeah guys, I have to try to get over being nervous before I can really start the show. Sorry. My acting coach always told me to imagine my audience naked. He said that always helps get rid of the nerves. So let me try that if you don’t mind. Just bare with me, one sec.”

More chuckles followed as she closed her eyes and silently counted to herself, though with the mic near her face, it was loud enough to hear. “One, two, three, ready, set, go, now you are NAKED!”

But when she opened her eyes and held up her arms as if to say ‘wallah’ and will a naked audience into existence, her bra tumbled off her chest and her panties slid down her legs, like some kind of Twilight Zone twist, leaving her naked instead.

“What?” several of the people next to me laughed, as did the audience on the screen.

I just stared at the woman on the screen, trying my damndest to imagine what that must have felt like, standing so naked on stage in front of professors, teachers, friends, classmates, and total strangers.

While I imagine most women would have covered their tits and twat before darting off stage in tears, this crazy woman simply shook her head and said “So I guess it kind of worked.”

With everyone’s attention in the palm of her hand, she stepped out of her panties, still wearing her white heels, and grabbed the mic from the stand, as if she had a newfound confidence from her display of public nudity.

It felt incredible to watch from the sofa on this old video, I could only imagine how crazy it would have been to sit in the theater, seeing her like this live.

“So now that I’ve gotten the worst five minutes of my life out of the way, I can get on with the rest of my 55 minutes in front of you,” this naked woman said as she kicked her clothes off screen. “I mean, what is the worst that can happen from here?”

It almost felt like a threat, especially with the knowledge of future events that her current-day audience had.

The first ten or so minutes of her routine, now that she was naked, was pretty much the kind of stand up you’d find at a comedy club. She made people laugh at her expense, drawing attention to her nudity, at one point even deciding to do the show with her back turned to the audience, so she can hide from their stares, at the expense of showing her naked ass to everyone.

“Nice ass,” Miguel mentioned at that part, which got more laughs from everyone on the sofas, including Greta herself.

But her show, playful and amusing up to that point, focusing on her nervousness and bad luck, suddenly took a turn to the dark side as she talked about the last time she was naked and embarrassed – the night she was date raped on campus.

With her heels kicked off now, and her hair down, she walked around on the stage completely naked, barefoot, fully vulnerable and transparent.

There were no more laughs, or whistles now, just an eerily silent audience from both time periods, hanging on to her every word as she told the story, in excruciating detail, about getting drunk with this guy and waking up naked in a strange place, with different men touching her.

Greta, the woman on stage, even teared up as she told her story, still naked, trembling, walking around the stage and allowing everyone to get a good look at her body.

This personal and traumatizing moment somehow led her to the night stand, where she picked up a framed photo of her and her father. She transitioned seamlessly into talking about her upbringing with a strict father that never told her that he loved her, that always had expectations for her that she couldn’t reach.

“He sent me to Harvard to become a doctor, yet here I am on stage, naked, after receiving a useless performance arts degree,” she said as if it were the punchline to a joke. But no one dared laugh.

“Sorry, my mouth is dry again,” she said after that, taking time to bend at the waist for another long drink of water.

She talked about various other subjects, college life, theater, religion, finding a way to tie her nakedness into all of it, and before long we were laughing again at her way of describing things.

During her story about the time she visited Niagara Falls she started to rock back and forth on her feet. By the time she was wincing, squeezing her legs together, and struggling to talk about the huge waterfalls she encountered, we were all pretty antsy, knowing that this woman had to pee.

But she continued her story, making us all uncomfortable in the process, until she stopped herself, apologized, and said “I think I might have drunk a little too much water.”

She chastised herself, told everyone that they paid for a show, so the “show must go on,” but someone from the audience yelled that it was okay for her to relieve herself.

And with that, I saw something I never expected to ever see, a woman squatting over a bucket, relieving herself before a crowd of her peers and teachers, sighing in pleasure the way we all do when we piss our full bladder away in the privacy of our toilets.

She finished the rest of her story still letting her urine drop into the bucket, and I felt the uneasy shock from everyone around me. I wanted to turn to look at Greta, to see how she was holding up at this outrageously embarrassing moment, but I didn’t dare to. The cringe was way too strong.

But the shocking moment was only beginning. As the young Greta, as naked as the day she was born, squatted above a bucket, she said “hmm, what’s this?” and suddenly began pulling at something at the entrance of her vagina.

“Oh my God!” Crystal exclaimed after it became clear what Greta was pulling out of her – a used condom.

“Whoops,” Greta said, standing up holding the damp and battered rubber. She started mumbling under her breath. “Sorry, this must be from last night. Oh wait, Jared didn’t use a condom last night. So that must mean, uh, I don’t even remember what that guys name was.”

She sat on the bed then, addressing the audience, who had to have been pretty shocked, if not outraged at the change in tone and tenor of this performance.

“I know, I know. The whole peeing thing, casual hookups and lost condoms. This is all pretty gross,” she sighed, sitting Indian style on the bed, with her teddy bear in her lap, finally covering her breast and vagina. “Seems everything about our vulva’s are gross. Childbirth and menstrual and yearly exams and squirting. Yuck. ”

She had anticipated our response, and had a whole monologue about the sexual health and activity of young women, as well as the disgust people seem to have with women and their bodies.

“But I wish we didn’t think ‘yuck’ when we saw a woman’s vagina. I wish we didn’t see vaginas as things to be ashamed of. Even in the medical literature, we use the latin term pudendum to describe female genitalia. And in latin, that literally means “a shameful thing.”

She looked down at her childhood teddy bear, named Mr. Wiggles, and asked him if he thought a vagina was a shameful thing. When the bear didn’t respond, she looked up at the audience and decided to ask them. “What say you?”

She got a variety of responses, mostly positive, but a few people, women I believe, screamed out something about it “depending on the context.”

Greta just shrugged.

“My women’s studies professor from freshman year once said that if people were more educated, if sex education wasn’t so lacking, then people wouldn’t find our bodies so gross and shameful.”

She looked at us all then, quietly, carefully, as if she was experiencing a great eureka moment.

“Well, I am already naked,” she said before slowly setting Mr. Wiggles aside, sitting back, and spreading her legs wide so she could provide a sex ed lesson.

Watching her spread eagle on the bed took my breath away. It was a natural position that felt entirely unnatural dropped in a theatrical setting.

With just a cute patch of trimmed bush decorating the spot above her pussy lips, she gave her audience an explicit, intimate view of something that should have only been reserved for either a lover or medical professional.

But here we were, her audience, taking in the sight of her spread legs, a view that she had designated open for public consumption; a usually wanton position she saw fit to be called artistic and educational.

The rumbling in the audience was loud. But she seemingly paid it no mind.

She gave everyone a full anatomy lesson while in that position, touching herself deliberately and educating us on her body.

“This is my vagina, or more clinically, my vulva,” she said, exhibiting herself. “There are lots of slang words and euphemisms used to describe this ‘shameful thing’. Let’s see, we have pussy, cunt, muff, va-jay-jay, cooter, twat, lady bits, essence, poontang. Um. Any others?”

“Beaver,” someone shouted at the stage.

“Oh yes, the animal names. Beaver and kitty. And the food euphemisms, cookie, honey pot.

More names were shouted at her – cha cha, snatch, ponnani, coochie, box, nookie.

She had to stop them from from overwhelming her with more terms to describe her displayed vagina. “We can spend the whole show naming ‘naughty’ terms for this part of a woman’s body. Some sound silly, some sound disgusting, most sound like drunk clueless men came up with them. Personally, I prefer ‘cunt’ when I’m feeling sexy. Vagina any other time, though.”

There was some rumblings from both audiences, as Crystal and Norma chimed in with their agreement. Simone and Jane said they prefered ‘pussy’ when they were feeling sexy.

I quite liked both terms, I thought, while I looked down at my crotch, again becoming fully aware of my pussy/cunt sitting out in the open like this.

“These are my outer lips, called the labia majora,” the voice from the TV said said, bringing my attention back to the screen.

She moved on to her inner lips, touching them softly before going over a shorter list of terms to describe her inner and outer folds – pussy lips, big lips, little lips, flaps, curtains, camel toe, meat and beef.

If people weren’t already feeling a little skeeved at her glossary of pussy terms, she pushed them further by spreading her slit open to point out her urethra, making sure to mention that girls peed out of there, not their vagina openings.

“And speaking of waste management,” she said before spreading her legs wider and scooting up. “This is an anus guys. An asshole, butthole, shit hole, poop chute, brown eye, rosebud. It’s not part of the vulva, okay? Don’t put it there unless she asks. The last guy I hooked up with had a hard enough time with this concept so I thought that I should mention.”

I nearly fell over at this exchange. I could not believe how explicit, how dirty this college stage show at the world’s greatest institution of higher learning was. I shot a look to Greta, almost in disbelief that the woman I met tonight was the same women on screen showing off her butthole to a crowd that included her college professors!

Greta, the current day version, looked as if she was on the verge of either crying or dying of laughter, or both, as she held a range of emotions on her face. All of the artists in the room seemed taken back with various facial expressions on their face, but all equally mesmerized by what was taking place on the screen from one of their closest friends.

But the show wasn’t over, it kept trukking on.

She addressed her clitoris formally, holding the mic to her face with one hand, touching her clitoris with the other.
She touched her ‘sensitive nerve ending’ and at first it appeared as if the touching was as non-sexual as the other parts of her body she covered.

But as she described her clit as an organ that served no reproduction purpose, but existed “only for my pleasure”, it was clear that her touching had a sexual purpose, one that we were all witness to.

She lamented that the clitoris didn’t have a long list of slang terms because people seemed entirely unconcerned with female anatomy meant to give her pleasure.

The touching of her clit became more rhythmatic, more intense, as her legs spread wider, all while she tried and failed to address the crowd with an educational voice.

“The…clit….has…double the…nerve endings….of the penis,” she stammered through moany breaths as her clit swelled for the audience. “When….ah, aroused….it becomes erect….like this. Filled…with…blood.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was watching Greta masturbate in a bed on stage. I knew going into the performance that it was going to end in an orgasm, but I never configured a coherent sequence of events in my head that could lead to it. It was why I had been so curious to see the tape.

But I was more than curious now. I was…desperate to see Greta cum from this outrageous coming together of public nudity and exhibitionism. I wanted to see her get off, and hear the audience reaction, and see her reaction. If Greta or Lewis would have gotten up to turn off the tape, right at this moment, I was sure I would have jumped up to fight them.

I needed to see this.

“For…centuries…cultures have debated….the importance of…… the validity…even the existence of an organ created…or evolved…to give a woman an orgasm,” she breathed heavily, her fingers working furiously on her pleasure spot. “It’s this direct stimulation….not penetration…that gives most women…an orgasm…sorry guys.”

Suddenly her breathing became strained, and she dropped the microphone on her belly, as one hand provided clitoral stimulation and the other massaged her nipples.

“Oh shit,” I heard someone from the sofa across from me say, but I didn’t know who, didn’t care who, as my mouth was dropped, and my eyes were wide, watching Greta reach for climax.

She threw her head back, shut her eyes, and screamed in ecstasy, the mic only picking up some of the intensity as she had a bed rocking orgasm right there in front of everyone.

As a woman, a feminist, I figured I should have been freaked out, maybe even offended at what I was seeing. What was the point of masturbating for an audience of unsuspecting people? How was that artistic or theatrical or necessary?

I felt as if I should have been having those thoughts, and while they were there on the periphery of my mind, what actually took root in my consciousness was the recognition of some nuanced mixture of all six core emotions that she had described. Happiness, sadness, disgust, surprise, fear, and anger.

There was a tremendous amount of second hand embarrassment and arousal that I got from watching Greta splayed in public surrender like she was on the screen.

My mind was racing, struggling to process the surprise of the rush of emotions that flooded through me.

But I knew I felt incredibly happy getting to experience the deep, all encompassing arousal that was ever present; a physical and mental stimulation that gave me butterflies, and put a smile on my face, and made me feel so alive.

But sadness wasn’t far from the feeling, as I felt envious of her. It sucked having to experience these feelings second hand, knowing I wanted to be the one on that stage, on that bed, naked, rubbing my clit, squeezing my nipples, moaning and shaking with pleasure in front of everyone, not sitting on the sofa watching someone braver than me do it.

Those feelings alone were overwhelming but those emotions were just the tip of the iceberg, below that was another layer, even more difficult to navigate. It started with the disgust I had for this obvious public debauchery.

Performance or not, masturbating to orgasm like a whore for a college audience was unambiguously perverted. And I saw Greta in a different, more slutty light after seeing her plump titties jiggling like balloons as she shook violently from self-pleasure gone too far. How could she reduce herself to such a lowly state of being?

I felt guilty for having any negative thoughts about a woman that only chose to indulge herself for a purpose. But I was a product of my culture, and I couldn’t help feeling like she had been knocked down a peg in status, reduced to the cheap thrill of getting off to the male gaze.

And with that shameful judgement came the fear I felt from having to admit to myself that the woman on screen was the woman I was going to become if I kept indulging these fantasies of mine. And then I would be the one being judged. Rightfully judged.

But here I was, half naked, at the height of my own arousal, watching the look of raw pleasure on her face, and still wishing I could take her place, even if it meant being judged, even it meant being reduced in status.

The Greta on screen took a long moment to come down from the high of her public climax, just breathing naked on the bed until post-orgasm clarity set in.

She looked horrified at what she’d just done, but bravely, she didn’t run away or hide. She gathered a breath, wiped her sticky fingers on the bed spread, and grabbed the microphone.

“Nearly 200 million women around the world will never be able to do what I just did,” she said, still not completely recovered from her orgasm. She sounded a lot more sober and aware of how embarrassing it was that she was still completely naked on the bed.

She talked about female genital mutilation, a true buzzkill of excitement, but connected it to the greater point of disgust and fear that people have regarding a woman’s sexuality, desires, and pleasure.

She eventually made her way to the center of the stage where she gave a final monologue wrapping up her show, again bringing up the goal she laid out at the beginning of making us feel six core emotions with her.

Consider the mission accomplished.

We gave Greta a standing ovation while the crowd on screen gave their own applause. Lewis gave his wife a big kiss, as if he was still very proud of something she did 25 years ago. It made me think of Darren once again, but only briefly, since Greta started talking and I was dying to hear what she had to say about what she had done when she was my age.

“Hold up, hold up,” she laughed at the questions and feedback being shouted at her from her friends. “Don’t judge me too much, I was an art student with nothing but time on my hands. I wrote that performance at a time when I was overwhelmed by the desire to be seen, heard, and bold. When I thought every booger I picked out of my nose had artistic value. This is my first time ever watching the playback and I just have to say – I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sarah said. “This was a great performance.”

“It was powerful,” Cy added.

“It was cringy!” she shot back, taking a page out of my book and not embracing her praise.

“I was there,” Ari said, jumping into the conversation. “There was a tremendous buzz around campus after the show. People had their different opinions of the performance, but no one thought it ‘cringy. The only thing that might have been cringy was Darren coming back to the dorm and being unable to stop talking about it for like a week.’”

We laughed. Darren only shrugged. “What can I say? It was a moving piece of art.”

“Uh huh,” Simone teased to more laughter.

“What even possessed you to write such a performance?” Jane asked, moving the teasing away from Darren and back to the performance itself.

“Yeah I’m really curious about that,” Crystal agreed. “This predates The Vagina Monologues by a few years.”

“I wanted to do something shocking and progressive with my body,” Greta admitted. “I’d seen enough street performances to know that nudity sells tickets and gets people talking but I felt like that wouldn’t be enough. I had to really push the envelope. Back then, I thought being edgy was the true path to artistic glory.”

“But that was more than being edgy, Greta,” Dustin said. “You talked about some tremendously personal topics. You allowed yourself to be really vulnerable in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.”

“You guys are right. It was more than being edgy. I truly did want to have a message, give people something to talk about, using my body as a starting point. There were so many subjects I was learning about, so many books I was consuming. I wanted to just encapsulate everything inside of me and lay it all out there to be consumed.”

“And damn if you didn’t accomplish that,” Simone said. “You laid it ALL out there, girl.”

“I know, I know,” Greta shook her head. “I wrote the peeing and orgasm part when I was high, thinking it would be an incredible and bold way to talk about female bodies. Even my professor thought it was good. But I remember being sick to my stomach for like three days straight before I was set to perform. I thought about calling if off every hour of the day. I told the people in charge that I was sick – vomiting, couldn’t keep anything down. It was true, but it wasn’t food poisoning or the flu, just my nerves.”

“But you managed to do it anyway,” I said out loud, though I had only meant to think it.

“Well yeah. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say nevermind, I’m too sick, I can’t do this today. But I know myself. If I would have cancelled, I never would have rescheduled it and that would have ate at me for the rest of my life. I don’t like living with regrets. That’s why I chose art in school instead of medicine like my father wanted and paid the consequences of his wrath because of it.”

“So you would do it again if you could?” I asked.

“Yes, I would,” she nodded. “Yes it was embarrassing, yes I’m cringing right now thinking about what I did. But I’m still glad I followed the beat of my drum and gave an audience everything I was feeling at that period in my life. It was therapeutic to write and exciting to perform. I’m happy I didn’t chicken out.”

“You’re very brave, Greta,” Crystal said. “I think I MAYBE could have done the naked thing. But peeing in front of an audience?”

“Forget the peeing,” Normal interjected. “The orgasm!”

“Was it real?” Jane asked.

“You think I faked it?” Greta asked.

“I mean it looked real,” Jane said. “But you’re a performer.”

“It was very real,” Greta said.

Jane shook her head with a laugh. “I would have been way too uncomfortable to even relax enough to cum in front of people. I can barely cum for my boyfriend.”

“I thought it would have been difficult too, but I had been teetering on the edge the entire show. Looking at my friends and professors in the crowd…that did it for me. I had to struggle NOT to orgasm before it was time.”

“Was it easy every time you performed the show?” Joey asked.

“That was the one and only time I brought myself to orgasm,” Greta said. “There were complaints to the performing arts department after the show so the department heads had a talk with me. They were okay with the naked performance but basically said I had to cut the urination and masturbation – called it obscene.”

“Fuck, that destroys the last segment of your show,” Joey said.

“Yes, I had to rewrite around it. My drama professor wanted me to write a formal appeal to the college – to challenge what they said was obscene, citing my freedom of speech and artistic value or whatever.”

“You didn’t do that?” Landon asked.

She shook her head. “Honestly, I was relieved to not have to do those parts anymore. It took a lot out of me to stand naked on stage and tell those stories about my dad, and the night I was assaulted. I don’t think I could have pushed myself to pee on stage or masturbate again. Anyway I only did the performance three more times before retiring it. It lacked the same punch without the ending. Darren can tell you that.”

Darren smile, ignoring the snickers at his expense. “They were still great shows. You were funny, and clearly more sharp on the delivery of your lines. But yeah, the first time was special.”

I wondered if the big sister/little brother relationship I imagined between Darren and Greta was more incesteous than that.

Clearly Darren had a bit of a crush on her when he was in college, but I hadn’t imagined that their friendship had ever led to them hooking up.

Perhaps it was because Lewis seemed so cool with Darren being around his wife, or maybe I was just naive to how grown up relationships like this could thrive even with a sexual history. Free love and polyamory and that sort of thing existed as well.

I would have to ask him later.

“It did look like a special orgasm,” Simone remarked with a knowing grin.

“Yes, it looked like it felt reaaaaaaally good,” Jane laughed.

“Hey. You haven’t lived until you’ve had an orgasm in front of an audience,” Greta said, confirming their notions. “You know the excitement you get from a live performance? No closed sets, no retakes, no do overs. The nervousness you get from not wanting to mess up? The rush of adrenaline you get right before you take the stage? The euphoria you get while you’re on stage, lost in your performance? Then the relief and happiness you feel when it’s over before you know it and everyone is clapping? Imagine taking all of that energy, and all of those emotions and concentrating it on your clit.”

Sarah gave a “damn”, Jane and Simone both said “Mmm”, Crystal sighed and fanned herself, while I sat on my now painfully aroused pussy, biting my lip and squeezing my legs.

“That energy is partially why I chose to pursue live performance instead of film,” Greta said. “I’m always chasing that high.”

Everyone else that also pursued a career in broadway and theater agreed with her. I felt a little left out since I was the only film actress here, but that might have been the wrong feeling to let show on my face because Darren picked up on it and decided to speak up.

“You know, Jennifer is strongly considering a live nude performance in front of a very large audience,” he said, eyeing me. “She’s weighing if she wants to go through with it.”

I gave him a ‘shut up!’ look but it was too late now.

“So that explains her sitting here naked?” Crystal smiled.

“She’s not naked, naked,” Miguel corrected.

“Not technically, I guess,” Crystal said. “But it’s basically the same. We all saw what happened when she got up to do her Gena Rowlands dying swan.”

I felt my myself blushing again, as all eyes found their way to me, and I imagined everyone suddenly thinking about me flashing my unshaved pussy and backside at them.

“What is the performance exactly?” Sarah asked. “It’s not a movie role?”

“No,” I admitted. “Something a lot more…public.”

“Interesting,” Sarah followed up with a smirk.

I didn’t know what to say, what joke to make, or how to respond to everyone looking at me as if they wanted something. But per usual, Darren took it upon himself to control the action and direct the scene, even if I wasn’t ready for what he had in mind.

“If you thought Jennifer was great with her Gena Rowlands renancement, you should see her Elizabeth Berkley.”

I nearly panicked when I heard the name, throwing him a “oh hell no you did not got there!” look. He received my glare with a silent chuckle and returned his own look that expressed something I wasn’t able to understand in the moment.

“Her Elizabeth Berkley?” David asked. “What’s that?”

“From Showgirls,” Darren said, still eying me, as if to gauge my reaction.

“SHOWGIRLS?” David asked before the room started talking over each other.

“It’s one of her favorite movies,” Darren said, no hesitation on his part, truly dedicated to ‘going there’ and outing me for some plan or purpose I wasn’t privy to. “What did you call her Showgirl performance? I believe you said it was powerful and feminist as fuck?”

So much for me not looking like an idiot in front of these film and theater geeks.

“Are we talking about the same Showgirls?” Lewis asked. “The one with that sex scene in the pool?”

I decided to come at them in a different direction. “Wait, you haven’t seen any of my four Oscar nominated movies but you’ve seen Showgirls? SHOWGIRLS?”

“Everyone saw Showgirls,” Lewis smiled.

“Everyone saw and hated Showgirls,” Greta added.

“Only thing I remember about that movie was the bad acting, bad dialogue, and bad story,” Crystal said.

“Bad dancing too,” Simone added.

“And definitely not feminist,” Norma concluded.

I was vastly outnumbered. But having my back against the wall against a bunch of snobs only made me grow defiant. “I disagree.”

“Do you like that movie ironically?” Lewis asked.

Normally I would have taken the out and fallen in line with the ‘Oh yes, it’s so bad it’s good!’ backhanded compliment to shield my personal taste from judgement. But for some reason, at that moment, I didn’t care about being judged. I cared about being true to myself. That was the theme of the night.

“No, I like it unironically,” I admitted, looking him directly in the eye. “I think it’s a good satirical film exploring the predatory nature of showbiz. And I think Elizabeth Berkley’s over the top performance was overlooked and misunderstood.”

“But feminist?” Norma questioned. “With all of that sexploitation?

“Look at the metoo movement and Hollywood,” I shrugged.

“But it doesn’t just show the exploitation, it revels in it,” Normal argued.

“I think Paul Verhoeven just saw the thin line between showbiz and sexploitation and he chose to depict it explicitly in an over the top way to show how crazy it all is,” I said. “Just like the war propaganda in Starship Troopers, and the ultra violence in Robocop.”

Norma made a face that suggested she was willing to chew on my words, but I could see from Crystal, Jane, Greta, and Lewis that they weren’t buying it.

“But even if the script doesn’t ring true as feminist,” I continued, preemptively addressing what I assumed they would argue. “Elizabeth Berkley’s performance does. Like her or hate her, she commanded the screen. I should know, being an on screen actress and all – that shit takes fucking talent. You can’t sleepwalk through what they asked her to do. And she committed to it fully. She laid it all out on the line, putting her body, reputation, and career on display for an audience and industry that reacted like she literally took a shit in their popcorn all because she dared to star in a movie ahead of its time. Her performance was feisty, and sexy, and badass and I admire that kind of performance most from women. And what is feminism in film if not badass women inspiring other women?”

“I think you make some great points,” Sarah said from across from me. She had been sitting quietly, nibbling on some leftover pie. But her interest seemed sparked now. “Maybe it’s a generational thing, since I was too young to have seen Showgirls when it opened in theaters. I saw it much later in high school shortly before I moved to L.A. But I really enjoy the movie as well.”

I was glad to have at least one ally in this debate, even if it was the fellow millennial that hadn’t yet added Dr. to her name.

“I never knew you liked this movie,” David, her hubby said with a skeptical look on his face.

“When we would we have ever talked about Showgirls?” she rolled her eyes at him. “You’re too busy talking about the latest and greatest Park Chan-wook masterpiece to want to revisit 90’s Hollywood schlock.”

“Well we’re talking about it now,” David said to his non-submissive, Korean-American wife. “What do you like about that campy schlock?”

“First of all, I like that it’s subversive,” she said as if she was the ultimate authority on the subject, a confidence that I really took to as I listened. “It’s almost an inversion of German expressionism. Yes the characters, dialogue, and plot are cartoony and exaggerated. But they aren’t supposed to be realistic.”

All of the film school snobs, especially Darren, seemed to perk up at the mention of German expresionwhatever. I perked up because I had a smart person on my side.

“Those normally ‘human’ elements are supposed to feel unnatural in the movie because Verhoven is commenting on the unnatural lives these people in show biz live to achieve their dreams – lives that are stylized and colorful and glamorous but lacking a human touch.”

Sarah had introduced herself to me as a cultural critic, claiming she wrote about the intersection of politics and pop culture in her spare time while working towards her Doctor of Philosophy in Media, Culture, and Communication.

I could see the discipline at work in her defense of the movie.

“What do you mean by an inversion of expressionism?” Miguel asked.

“Well, that distorted, unrealistic, exaggerated mise-en-scene that gives us subjective insight into a character is the hallmark of expressionism, but in Showgirls, the setting of bright and glamours Las Vegas, and the stage of the Showgirls – and all that represents – that is the character. The exaggerated, unrealistic, distorted elements are the humans surrounding the setting.”

I watched as she pinched off another piece of pie. “Seriously, they manage to out-exaggerate Las Vegas! So much that watching Nomi eat burgers and fries is more of a spectacle than a topless stage show that normally serves as the highlight of Vegas nightlife.”

A few people laughed, I guess remembering that admittedly ridiculous scene of Nomi trying and failing spectacularly in her attempt to pour ketchup on her fries.

“It reminds me of how the Rockstar guys that make the Grand Theft Auto videogame series handle the satire of their American cities,” Sarah continued, though I’m not sure how well that observation went over. These people didn’t seem like the played many video games.

“I don’t recall a mainstream American film off the top of my head that accomplished it as well as Showgirls,” she said. “The movie is filled with neon lights, gaudy makeup, sleazy music, and skimpy costumes, with a red and purple visual style representing power, wealth, ambition, passion, and desire – but it almost feels mundane and muted compared to the colorful characters, from their motivations to their unbelievable sexual releases. It’s a unique aesthetic thematic coherence.”

When Sarah was done speaking, eyes drifted towards me as if to ask if I had anything to add.

I didn’t.

“Yeah, what she said,” I smirked.

After people finished their laughs – with me or at me I wasn’t totally sure – Ari shocked me by deciding to chime in. He had been pretty quiet for the majority of our discussion.

“Though well argued, I’m still unconvinced of the core points of defense for the film,” Ari addressed to me and Sarah before puffing his cigar. “But even if I concede there being some aesthetic thematic coherence to the visuals, and that the campy over the top aspects were intentional, I still have to disagree with you, Jennifer – Elizabeth’s performance was not sexy at all. If anything, I think that was the point, how anti-erotic her scenes were.”

“You really didn’t find her sexy?” I scoffed? “At any point?”

He shrugged and blew out smoke. “I’m sorry but I remember going to the theater with a group of friends. Sold out crowd, opening night. I expected it to be sexy, wanted it to be sexy, but I was just so turned off by her acting, her shoddy dancing, or faux dominant personality. If sexy was what they were going for, they failed in every aspect. People were laughing during the sex scene in the pool. And those lapdances? The fact that the guy had an orgasm from the lap dance? It was just too over the top to be considered sexy.”

More people chimed in with most agreeing with Ari that Elizabeth’s performance wasn’t sexy. Only Miguel, Dustin, and owen admitted to finding anything erotic about it. Even Sarah said she thought the film was intentionally unerotic – again citing the ridiculous orgasms during the pool sex scene and from the lap dance.

“Thanks guys,” I said to the men who copped to their Elizabeth Berkley induced boners. “The rest of you though, I don’t know what you were looking at if you can honestly say she wasn’t sexy, at the least, during her lapdances. And I totally bought she could make a guy cum in his pants from a lap dance alone.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the movie,” Lewis said. “What, nearly 25 years? There is always the chance I’d see it different on a rewatch. I just can’t see myself finding the time to rewatch it. Especially to see if a lapdance was sexy or not.”

Suddenly, my stomach knotted up. I knew what was coming. I shot a look to Darren, who was smiling, and I knew what he was going to suggest before he even opened his mouth. And just the thought alone sent a shiver through my bottom-naked body.

“How about you show them your Elizabeth Berkley?” Darren asked out loud, finally coming full circle with his plan for me to expose myself.

“Uh-uh,” I laughed, shaking my head even though I didn’t find it funny. “No way!”

“What exactly is your Elizabeth Berkley?” Crystal asked. “You memorized a scene of hers or something?”

“Which scene?” Sarah asked for all of the inquiring minds in the room, all confused on me.

This was a night of being honest right?

I took a deep breath and exhaled away the voice that told me to lie. “The first lap dance scene in the club. I memorized it for a boyfriend a long time ago. I didn’t take off my clothes for him or anything. But I did perform it to the music.”

“Aww that is so cute,” Simone said.

“Was it cute?” owen asked innocently before adding some bass and seduction to his voice. “Or was it sexy?”

“Oh it was sexy, owen” I responded as if I was a natural flirt. I kinda was.

That was like opening up pandora’s box. Flirting was like pouring fuel to the fire, and between me flashing my ass and pussy, and Greta stripping naked and masturbating to orgasm on the screen, the fire was already lit, heating us all up.

If I were around a bunch of people my age, I’m sure the night would have devolved into the horny bastards begging me to get naked already. But the people here were adults, grownups, mothers and grandfathers and members of the upper crest. They weren’t just going to fall out of character and start chanting “Tits and ass! Tits and ass! Tits and ass!”

At least not with those words. Instead, both the men and women started gently encouraging me to show them this ‘sexy’ performance. They framed it as something artistic, just another reenactment from a movie, no different from when Jane did the ‘Funny Guy’ scene from Goodfellas with Landon.

“Perhaps Elizabeth Berkley just didn’t have the chops to transform the scene,” Dustin, the handsome white bearded man probably old enough to be my grandfather said to me. “But an Academy Award winning actress, I’m positive your performance would be sexy.”

They were all being very nice and grownup about it but still, all I heard was “Tits and ass! Tits and ass! Tits and ass!”

Didn’t matter the gender or how old you were, there was something enticing about tits and ass. And it was my tits and ass they wanted on display.

I was a people pleaser – I often caved in to giving people what they wanted – and I also had a chip on my shoulder, feeling compelled to prove to people that I deserved my accolades, that I wasn’t overrated or overpaid, that while J-Law was a star created by the media, Jennifer Lawrence was a talented actress that could act.

But beyond that, as it was revealed tonight, there was an equal burning desire to be seen, exhibited, stripped, and vulnerable, and exposed. And to be allowed the space to experience all of the feelings that came with having an audience consume the sight of my naked body.

This marked the opportunity to explore each of those desires – to please, to prove myself, to perform like Elizabeth did.

“Jennifer we’re just fooling around,” Greta said after everyone else had made it known what they wanted me to do. I could see that she had my best interest at heart, even if this was her first night meeting me. “A little tipsy and worked up perhaps from my video and your earlier little flash. But you don’t have to perform a strip tease if you’re not comfortable doing that.”

I appreciated her giving me the release from peer pressure. And nine times out of ten, that would have been all of the excuse I needed to back out of doing something so sexual in front of so many people.

But all I could hear buzzing in my head was Greta’s words from earlier, where she recounted the conflicting feelings she had about her naked one woman show. When asked if she would do it again, she didn’t hesitate in saying that she would.

When it came to scary situations, there were two types of people in the world – those that chickened out and those that didn’t. Greta didn’t chicken out. And I wanted to live my life the way she had.

I looked at Darren; my ex boyfriend, my platonic friend, the one person I chose to admit my secret desires to, the instigator I trusted enough to strip me to my underwear and drive me away to a house full of strangers. A visionary that saw me showing up completely naked to the Oscars, an artist I wanted to please, and a man I had trouble saying ‘no’ to.

He had played his final card of the night, telling everyone about my Showgirls obsession, sparking the interest in them wanting to see me performance a striptease. I still wasn’t sure I totally appreciated his method of pushing me out in the deep end, but I had an idea of how to get him back.

“What do you think?” I asked the man I was still very much in love with, even if I knew we could never work.

“I think you should do what makes you happy,” he said, an answer that had more layers than anybody else in the room could have known.

I stood up, still holding my shirt down, for whatever good that was worth and looked towards Greta. “I think I need a wardrobe change.”