Intimations of Mortality - 9
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future -what's left of it - may hold.
The Club Chairman left me there, went back into the corridor.
I looked more closely around the shabby room. The lino floor was worn, cracked in places. None of the furniture matched. Some pieces didn't quite manage even to match themselves. There were no windows. The air had all the attributes of a long undisturbed storage cupboard.
Surely I wasn't the first "model" to grace this room.
I thought about running away. Quite seriously. I owed them nothing. All I had to do was follow the Chairman out, turn right rather than left. Head for the exit door and freedom.
And then I thought about the money. I thought about my escape plan. All I would leave behind. All the dreams I could make true.
Slowly, I undressed, carefully hanging each garment on the clothes rail. My jacket, first, on a hanger. Then stepping out of my shoes. My miniskirt, my blouse, both on hangers. Wearing only my underwear, I checked my figure in the cheval glass. Then my make up in the lighted dressing table mirror. I would do.
I unhooked my bra, let it slide from my shoulders. Suddenly, the room was colder. This felt very different. I quickly slipped my panties down, stepped out of them. I didn't want to risk changing my mind now.
I reached for the sheet, wrapped myself in it from the neck down. I noticed it smelt clean.
Clutching the sheet around me, I opened the door marked Stage and walked through.
I was met with an array of cameras fixed on tripods. Maybe a dozen in all, in an arc around the stage, an area approximately ten foot square raised six inches off the floor of the old rehearsal room. Each manned by a crumpled grey/brown figure from Middle Earth, busy with the technicalities of 35mm SLR photography. All pretending to be too dedicated, too professional, to notice the arrival of the day's main attraction.
I should make it clear that, at this point in my little adventure, I had never been actually naked in front of a man. I don't want you thinking I was some sort of teenage floosy. I did have a range of sexual experiences dating back to when I was thirteen but I had only recently lost my virginity. In the course of these experiences I had removed certain strategic items of clothing, as appropriate, from time to time and according to the weather - many encounters were, of necessity, al fresco.
Here, now, only this flimsy sheet hung between me and the hard glassy stare of the twelve lenses.
The Club Chairman left me there, went back into the corridor.
I looked more closely around the shabby room. The lino floor was worn, cracked in places. None of the furniture matched. Some pieces didn't quite manage even to match themselves. There were no windows. The air had all the attributes of a long undisturbed storage cupboard.
Surely I wasn't the first "model" to grace this room.
I thought about running away. Quite seriously. I owed them nothing. All I had to do was follow the Chairman out, turn right rather than left. Head for the exit door and freedom.
And then I thought about the money. I thought about my escape plan. All I would leave behind. All the dreams I could make true.
Slowly, I undressed, carefully hanging each garment on the clothes rail. My jacket, first, on a hanger. Then stepping out of my shoes. My miniskirt, my blouse, both on hangers. Wearing only my underwear, I checked my figure in the cheval glass. Then my make up in the lighted dressing table mirror. I would do.
I unhooked my bra, let it slide from my shoulders. Suddenly, the room was colder. This felt very different. I quickly slipped my panties down, stepped out of them. I didn't want to risk changing my mind now.
I reached for the sheet, wrapped myself in it from the neck down. I noticed it smelt clean.
Clutching the sheet around me, I opened the door marked Stage and walked through.
I was met with an array of cameras fixed on tripods. Maybe a dozen in all, in an arc around the stage, an area approximately ten foot square raised six inches off the floor of the old rehearsal room. Each manned by a crumpled grey/brown figure from Middle Earth, busy with the technicalities of 35mm SLR photography. All pretending to be too dedicated, too professional, to notice the arrival of the day's main attraction.
I should make it clear that, at this point in my little adventure, I had never been actually naked in front of a man. I don't want you thinking I was some sort of teenage floosy. I did have a range of sexual experiences dating back to when I was thirteen but I had only recently lost my virginity. In the course of these experiences I had removed certain strategic items of clothing, as appropriate, from time to time and according to the weather - many encounters were, of necessity, al fresco.
Here, now, only this flimsy sheet hung between me and the hard glassy stare of the twelve lenses.
61-69, F
