You'd think being married to the minister of our local Methodist Church, not to mention acting as choir director every Sunday, would be more than enough to make me comfortable getting up in front of a crowd of people and singing. You'd be wrong.
I love to sing. Any vocal music turns me on, whether choir, classical, gospel, or popular. My problem has always been stage fright. I dread hearing anyone ask me to sing a solo in church because of it. Even though I've often been told I have a beautiful voice, the abject terror I feel when standing in front of a group and being expected to sing alone paralyzes my vocal cords and causes me to shake uncontrollably. The expectant looks on everyone's faces always turn to uncomfortable and embarrassed grimaces and pursed lips each and every time I have tried to step up and sing a solo in front of our congregation.
Gary my husband, whom I refer to as "Reverend Gary" everywhere but in bed, has never once complained, but I know he has quietly suffered professional disgrace because of my one neurotic fear. Fortunately, our choir is large enough—we even have an assistant choir director, Chuck—that there is never a shortage of soloists, but being minister's wife/choir director and unable to sing alone in public has always been a badge of shame for me. Paradoxically, my panic intensifies to the point I even fear the congregation members might think of me as conceited because I can't—or won't—sing in church. I hear the unspoken question on all of their minds: "What's wrong with Lauren? Does she think she's too good for us or is she just stuck up?"
One Sunday after services, having seen me rebuff yet another invitation to sing a solo at an upcoming church meeting, Chuck took me aside and said, "Have you ever considered hypnosis? I hear it works wonders with phobias like yours. Gagging at the dentist's office, fear of flying, and stage fright are all easily and completely curable."
"I don't know, Chuck: what will the older ladies think of a preacher's wife going to a witch doctor?"
"The guy I have in mind is no witch doctor, Lauren. Far from it. He's a medical professional who really knows hypnosis and uses it all the time in his practice. May I tell you something personal, in confidence?"
"Sure," I said without hesitation.
"In only three sessions in his office, this doctor totally cured me of an embarrassing little temporary problem I had after my divorce."
"What problem is that?"
"It's called performance anxiety," Chuck said, reddening.
"Oops, it's also called none of my business."
"Don't say that; I certainly don't mind talking about it, especially to a friend like you, Lauren, and more especially in the past tense. And this doctor made my problem a thing of the past."
"You keep saying 'this doctor.' What's his name?"
Chuck slipped a professional card into my hand. Doctor Valdemar Prohuska, M.D. His office was ten minutes from church. I resolved to call him on Monday for an appointment.
Doctor Prohuska proved to be a warm and welcoming man who personally ushered me into his comfortable, well-appointed office that Monday morning before ten AM. He listened patiently and empathized while I explained the distressing reason for my visit.
"Quite a simple problem, actually, easily resolved. As Chuck may have told you, misinformation abounds on the subject of hypnosis. For example, the false notion that one can be compelled to do something in violation of one's own moral code or values, like a zombie in other words, or surrender control of the actions of one's own body. No, the hypnotized patient is fully awake and alert, merely in a physician-induced hypnagogic state of relaxation."
"Mind translating that into plain English, Doctor?"
"In plain English, I propose to hypnotize you right here, right now, and cure your stage fright. Interested?"
I nodded eagerly. Doctor Prohuska dimmed the lights except for a single high-intensity blue beam that shone directly into my eyes. I remembered the Bible verse about removing the beam from your own eye before trying to remove the speck from your brother's eye. Doctor Prohuska incanted some relaxing phrases and passed his hands over my face several times, blocking the light. The next thing I knew, he was ordering me to wake up.
"I'm sorry, Doctor; I must have dozed. What you must think of me," I stammered, attempting to rise from the couch.
"The first session is an unqualified, success," Doctor Prohuska reassured me.
"So should I test it out, or what?"
"I would say take it easy, but yes. Try singing for a smaller group of strangers at first, in an unfamiliar location. Follow your own impulses and stay in your own comfort zone. You will discover that there is far less anxiety, maybe no anxiety at all. However, see me again next week and the week after for what I call booster sessions in order to effect a complete cure. Good luck, Lauren!"
On my return home I felt strangely exhilarated and full of energy. I cleaned the entire parsonage by three PM and took a break to read the paper. In the entertainment section I noticed an ad for a new club downtown, offering something I had never even heard of before: Naked Karaoke.
Although I returned to my housework and started dinner, the very idea intrigued me and took hold of my imagination. How does one perform naked karaoke? What kind of people sit in the dark and watch other strangers sing while standing up on stage nude? And the most captivating and irresistible idea of all: What would happen if I tried it? Sitting at the kitchen table, I picked up the phone and called the club's number. Although I had expected a rough man's voice like a gangster's, to my surprise a woman answered, a grandmotherly type judging from her manner of speech.
"I—I'm interested in the ad in today's paper," I began uncertainly.
"The karaoke. Yes, it's been a big draw since we opened. Lots of good clean fun for everybody involved. You should stop by and check us out, Dear. You might enjoy it."
"Are they really...naked up there?"
"Of course they are," the woman said easily. She might have been reassuring a child that a pet dog wouldn't bite. "And believe me, no one's offended. Quite the contrary, they're very encouraging, if you know what I mean. Especially the gentlemen."
"You mean both men and women get up and sing? Do they take their clothes off ahead of time, or strip in front of everybody?"
"There's always more performers than there are sets, so we draw numbers. Once your number is drawn you get up onstage. You pre-select your own songs from a list; there are five songs per set, so just over fifteen minutes per contestant. On a good night we can accommodate more than thirty performers. You should try it yourself, Honey. You have a lovely voice."
"I just may do that," I heard myself say, like an out-of-body experience. "What time do you start?"
"Show starts at seven."
"What—what do they wear, these performers?"
"Well, it's like this: you start off fully clothed, and then after each song you take off one article of clothing, your choice. But by the final number in your set you have to be completely nude. So I guess wear a simple outfit: no more than four articles of clothing."
"So no underwear?" I feared I was wasting the woman's time, but she continued to answer patiently.
"Shorts, top, panties and bra are the usual, Dear."
I absently began playing with my nipples through my starched white blouse. Shocked by my own reaction, I broke the connection and replaced the phone. What was I thinking? Me a minister's wife, having to live a life above reproach, avoiding the mere appearance of impropriety at all times, contemplating going naked tonight and singing in front of a bar full of drunken lecherous men.
The idea enthralled me. I felt literally mesmerized, no pun intended.
The club was easy to find; the hard part had been getting a babysitter for our three young kids and handing Reverend Gary a lie. I told him I was visiting a sick parishioner.
Never in fourteen years of marriage had I been in a bar. Not since college, actually, so finally feeling the handle in my hand, pulling open the front door and going inside was a challenge. The smoky spilled-beer smell of the place and the noise of the club jukebox hit me first. There was a man ten years younger than me collecting cover charges, but it was ladies free.
Nearly choking, I said under my breath, "I'm here for the, the..."
"The karaoke contest? Going after the five hundred dollar prize? That's great, Ma'am. Good luck to ya."
"How do I, what do I sign or whatever?"
He offered me a fishbowl, not unlike the fishbowl I feared the club would become for me as soon as I strode up onstage to strip for all the men. Looking around at the groups of men seated at tables near the stage and milling around with drinks in their hands, I felt a bit more relaxed. These men were not the grubby perverts I had imagined. Most appeared to be young professionals or family men on a night out with the boys. There were a reassuring number of women customers present as well, many dressed casually, as I was, in the four-piece uniform of the strip karaoke contestant. Would they be my competition for the evening? Reaching into the bowl, I drew a number: 313.
"Mind sitting at the bar tonight? All the tables get jammed early by the guys."
"Not a problem," I said, affecting nonchalance. All eyes were on me as I walked toward the bar and seated myself on a vinyl-covered stool nearest the waitress station. Several men began moving deliberately toward me before I had a chance to order a drink.
"Vodka and grapefruit juice, please," I said, remembering my college days.
The bartender, a fit young man with close-cropped blond hair said, "Salty Dog coming right up."
"I hope not," I replied, trying a laugh.
"Put the lady's drink on my tab. Doubles ok?" a dark well-dressed man asked, deftly sliding onto the stool beside me. Instinctively I looked for a wedding ring. There was none. I had forgotten to leave mine at home, and hid my left hand under the bar.
"Let's live dangerously," I said with what I hoped would sound like breezy carefree banter.
