Pictures at an Exhibition

Thomas Dean: Pictures at an Exhibition

It was a chilly night. I was working the parking lot and grounds which surrounded the six-story glass and steel monument, a pleasant reserve in the midst of suburban sprawl -- o -- polis. I knew that I'd soon receive this call. Did I dread it? Should I have?

The Shower sirens in the security shower used to chant that in National Service, you get beaten in, and beaten out. "Women inducted, enter with nothin," the security gals in the shower would sing, "Cold, stripped naked to bare skin and women redux - ed returned bare ass naked once again." Tonight, however, I didn't mind the invitation out of the cold into the Rogue's Gallery in the first-floor atrium as much as I should have.

Oh, though I preferred to work alone "out in the field" what we called the parking lot, many times I had been called inside, to sit among the host activity's webcast's audience in a formal gown, to fill up gaps in the audience if attendance was unexpectedly low or sometimes to watch the audience if it were unexpectedly large. I was called inside to sit in the audience often enough I could recite the Emcee's opening script in my sleep.

Up front, an Emcee would jump onto the stage to begin the introduction. "Welcome to the Puzzle Palace. For those of you unfamiliar with the webcast, under the grid, above the stage," he pointed to a large computer board, "is the puzzle. Under each square, concealing the puzzle, is an item of a contestant's clothing. ..."

Tonight, the crowds were gone. I'm sure even my fit appearance in uniform might not save me from the wrath of the webcast audience. What reaction would I face from my immediate boss?

Entering the host activity, glass and steel tower, I found myself in the atrium which reached up two stories above the security check point. Busy checking the night crew in, Agnes the freckle faced security officer on duty gave me the nod to proceed to the right. "Roger's waiting," Agnes warned me. Was that evil smile on her face as she directed me to enter schadenfreude?

As I entered the Rogue's Gallery, the gallery lights clicked on and on came a mellow symphonic tune. I passed from darkness into light. I found myself in a forest of rotating blocks ten feet high, each bearing a promo photo for inspection of the patrons on their way to enter the grand auditorium to view the filming of host activity's signature webcast as part of a live studio audience.

Finding Roger in the gallery among strategically placed promotional pictures on rotating vertical beams was a pleasant relief from work outside patrolling the frigid parking lot and checking in the host activity's laundry and maintenance people on the night crew.

When among the forest of rotating pillars I located strapping Roger, his shock of blond hair sticking up from a bullet GI cut, men in security wore, his blue eyes were rivetted on a picture I was featured in, Roger smiled when I joined him.

"Enchanting tune," I commented on the subdued fanfare of French horns playing in the symphony in the background.

"`The Promenade' I heard the tune called by patron of the webcast. It's about," Roger replied, "a stroll through an art gallery, I'm told. I'm surprised the researchers never included questions about the tune in the quiz show.

"Lives up to our audiences pretenses that such a sophisticated tune would be adopted by our Rogue's Gallery," I declared.

Pointing me out in the poster he studied, Roger commented, "You and your friend Joe came here to the tenant activity as college test subjects participating in a psychological experiment. Yet, you seem to have gotten featured on many if not most pillars in the Rogue's gallery. How did your face end up on all these publicity photos in our Rogue's Gallery?"

"Just a pretty face, long legs and a cute round butt, all the qualifications to fit the bill for a recruiting poster," I replied as Roger and I stood in front of a photograph of me among other college girls, test subjects in the experiment presented in stage in the shimmering silver robe of starlets in the host activity's webcast. I repressed a chuckle. Host activity? Recruiting poster? Military terms had so infiltrated Puzzle Palace security lingo that even I thought in those terms.

"My first few moments of fleeting acclaim presented on stage for participating in the Mission to Mars gave" I exclaimed as I recalled my debut on the webcast camera for an interview, "a giddy teenager following her boyfriend a feeling of a high adventure."

Snorting at the word adventure, Roger snickered, "Adventure --huh--you mean to say masturbate -- physically as well as intellectually, no doubt "

"The concept of an interplanetary mission sounded noble, glamorous even," I rationalized my initial enthusiasm for the isolation experiment, "When it turned out to be locked in a room for six months with little to do but take college courses, exercise, or ..."

"Yet you signed on for a second tour?" Roger my security chief suggested.

"My boyfriend Joe, a big strapping guy, was more afraid of National Service than the petit freckle faced girls like Agnes who used to taunt me in the security shower at change of shift," I recalled.

"Why was your friend Joe afraid?" Roger questioned, "both National Service and the experiment depersonalize the individual and force them to coalesce into a group. How much worse could National Service be?"

"Hard to say. I don't know about the guys," I replied, "reception in National Service for the gals is a bit stark ... so sing the shower sirens like Agnes, `Coming off duty and coming on, they strip you down to bare skin, beat you out and beat you in, enter and leave with nothing.'" I allowed my voice to trail off as I wondered how much exaggeration or bragging entered the tales the veterans spouted off as they squirted soap at each other in the shower.

"Small wonder," Roger commented, "So many on the security staff come out of National Service that our ranks, our uniforms, even our lingo takes a military form. You weren't in National Service. How did you end up in security?"

I admitted having been fortunate. "I was only a week or two into my second tour locked in an isolation booth on the -- humph -- mission to -- eh--Mars, when I was seconded into security."

"The tenant activity must have squawked," Roger interjected, "at losing you."

"When Carla the film director pulled me out of the cage," I recalled, "she, pulling her clothes off to enter the gym, bitched about having to strip naked to ask the CEO for permission to remove me from the tenant activity's program."

"Feigned modesty?" Roger suggested.

"Carla complained of the inconvenience," I described the incident, "as she hobbled on one foot and then the other to pull her boots off, `Get undressed,' Carla ranted as her dungarees and panties followed her boots into a heap at her feet, `to meet the CEO,' Carla's leaned forward to pull her sweatshirt off. Bare but for her frilly bra, Carla paused. `Stripping off to see the CEO is more of an annoyance. And why? A bare assed beauty doesn't make his temperature rise much less maker his projectile come alive. And,' righting herself she griped, `hopefully you'll find your clothes where you left them.' Turning her back to me, she asked, `Steph, unhook my bra for me, will you?' She was so angry her soft white bobbing boobs bled into a crimson red."

"Like the tart Carla is,!" Roger exclaimed. "Carla, our dear film director can be a terrible bitch," Roger supposed, "when she's angry. I guess she expected a fight. Did she intend to assert the host's needs as a priority?"

"The host needed a tall, photogenic, athletic girl to stand for pictures." I recalled. "I was tall, lean, strong. I fit the bill. I would look sharp in the dress blue security uniform. So, I had to be taken before the CEO for approval."

"CEO requires all requesters, be they great or tall, present to him," Roger snickered "in the natural state. Bodies unadorned by the distractions of pride and plumage, says he, fosters equality, honesty and trust. Thus nudity is a must!"

"The CEO, surrounded by bare round butts pleading him for time on camera, was standing with Adrienne, the established star of the web cast gave me the once over. Running her hand over the stubble on my head, Adrienne commented, ` needs a wig but otherwise tall, nice rack, clean bush, passable.' Grabbing my jaw, Adrienne held my face in her grasp as she shot a penetrating glance in my eyes. With the uncomplimentary remark,` no threat from her.' Adrienne recommended approval of the transfer."

"CEO, remarkable guy," Roger declared, "surrounded by beauty -- male and female -- doesn't raise his mercury a millimeter."

"With the star's blessing," I reminisced, "I ended up out of the test subjects' cage with an offer a job in the host activity's security."

On a different pillar, Roger and I inspected a group photograph of representatives of different sections in the host activity. "I admit I looked sharp in that dress blue security uniform," I noted, "I wore the round security cap to cover my head because my hair had been reduced to stubble when I was in -- processed to the tenant activity's program."

"Oh," the security chief reminisced as he admired the photograph, "Part of a recruitment film shown to prospective job applicants to introduce them to work here producing the host activity's webcast."

The still photograph on the pillar in front of us depicted a group hug. A woman from wardrobe dressed in a suit with a measuring tape around her neck stood arm -- in -- arm with a girl from make up in a pink smock over jeans. A female from art and scenery in a grey smock locked arms with a gal from research and scripting in a dungaree jacket over a white blouse with a tie. An orderly in scrubs stood with a tall lean nurse magnificent in her starched whites. A member of the camera crew in sweatshirts and jeans hugged a maintenance person wearing the utility uniform."

"And here you are Stephanie," Roger pointed me out, "Tall, lean and strong, resplendent in your dress blue uniform, and a female executive, a fem -- ex in the prescribed executive department pin -- striped suit. How did the line go in the promo?"

I chuckled, "`Regardless of your job assignment of the moment and the attire that you're issued to perform your task of the day, we're a team producing a performance for the screen and you will be an equal in it -- if you're equal to the task.'"

With the rotation of the pillar, the scene dissolved into a group hug of naked girls linked arm -- in -- arm presenting full -- frontal nudity. "To include you," Roger reflected, "Carla the film director placed matching wigs on all the girls. Costly shot!"

The females shaved clean of body hair were a contrast to the image of the CEO, the lone male in the shot who stood dead center in the middle power pack loosely dangling.

"The CEO has an open door policy. Any employee may present in the natural state to make a request or report a grievance in the clothing free gym," Roger noted. "CEO believes encounters in the natural state unfettered by finery promotes candor."

"Getting it off your chest," I quipped, "has taken a new meaning."

"Could you expect different in a host activity," Roger pondered his words carefully, "dedicated to the exploitation of the human form for profit?"

"In terms of dollars and sense, that's not accurate. The host activity puts a premium on marketing," I replied, "more money is made on sales of clothing and accessories to women than on sales of the webcast itself. The attraction to women is from the skin outward, soaps and perfumes, lingerie, and suits and separates for the well-heeled young female executive, the fem-exec."

"And the attraction of bare bodies of beautiful women to men is unimportant?" Roger prompted me.

""What good is a man?" pointing to the CEO's limp member, I cast my supervisor a seductive smile as I recited lines I rendered on a tour as a stand -- in for Adrienne, the seductive webcast star, "Lazy, surly, smelly, sweaty, failing in reason, watching football day and night, a total cretin, member softened, no lady pleasing. What good are men? They come too quickly and go off hither fading away into a catatonic slumber long before you're ready to be done with them...If they can't warm the bed, what good are men!"

"You filled in for Adrienne the starlet of the webcast a number of times before you faced her in the quiz show," Roger observed, "You and Adrienne were a perfect match."

"Adrienne," I drew on my first impression, "embodies the essence of the show, beauty and brains."

"Even though much of the quiz show is scripted," Roger asked.

"When I first met Adrienne, I was a participant in the Mission to Mars isolation experiment. I saw immediately Adrienne fed on the part," I recalled my first visit to the auditorium.

"You were immediately drawn to admire Adrienne," Roger challenged me.

"I was hard not to." I lauded Adrienne's ability to project her presence, "During an intermission in the webcast, the audience having filed out, a bare-chested Adrienne, frozen in place with her two opponents at their lecterns for continuation still photos, brazenly exploited the neat contours of her lemon shaded breasts. Her feet apart, hands aggressively gripping her hips, Adrienne, though stripped down to her heels, thigh high net stocking and black thong, defiantly thrust her champaign glass shaped breasts out."

Backstage during the intermission, I was allowed to speak with Adrienne. A sheer, shimmering silver ankle length robe, like the one I wore as an honorary starlet, was knotted at Adrienne's narrow waist. Black mesh stocking legs jutted out of the robe as she peered in the mirror in thought. When I approached, she turned to me. The robe hung loosely fit over her chest revealing a profile of a rounded breast, off white with that same yellowish tinge of her arms and neck, definitely no swimsuit lines under there.

"Tough call on that question, " I commiserated, "`What sporting event prescribes a white dress code?' Your answer `tennis' should have been accepted."

"I appreciate your support, honey," A dreamy look came over Adrienne's face. "Some in the audience booed the judge's decision." She leaned back in her chair, before she continued, "But, listen to the question: `sporting event' not `sport.' I was technically incorrect. The correct answer was Wimbledon.'"

"That is a fine point," I protested.

"It's theatre," Adrienne smiled as her blue eyes stared into mine, "the audience pays to see a fabulous woman plucked to bare skin. The further you go along with the act, the more you find yourself willing to do," Adrienne sighed and glanced at the other contestants, "You're paid well, darlin`," Adrienne reflected, "just to get undressed on stage and then come in the back to demurely lay around all covered up. What does the EMCEE say in his warm-up: `The Puzzle Palace is a challenge pitting beauty against brains. Think on that one day when you make it to the set."

"Adrienne is your inspiration," Roger suggested.

"Think of Adrienne and me as a match, If it's all acting, that makes sense," I told Roger. "whether you're out in the field, on patrol, or up on the stage playing a role, you're playing to an audience."

As the rotating pillar turned to another facet, Roger chided me, "You might have thought it was back in the cage when they took your uniform away for the nude shot," Roger chuckled with an evil smile. "Like the fem-execs once promoted out of the ranks of the starlets, become prudish."

Now in front of us was a picture of nude fem-exes presented standing in a curving line

"Hmm, the transition was hardly so stark," I laughed, "Carla, the bitch of a film director, worked backward from a group in the nude. I think she wanted to inspect the bodies of all the fem-exes to see if they could be used in underwear commercials."

"Ah," Roger closed his eyes and shook his head as he reflected, "Some fem-execs use their professional status to exempt themselves from morning exercises in the gym."

"The bitch Carla was empowered snarling with a relish when she made all of the fem-execs strip for the camera and placement in the revue," I replied, "Two or three were deemed acceptable for camera time, to discuss on stage in a see -- through nightie, their life after the spotlight."

The pillar rotated onto the scene of three pregnant gals holding bulbous bellies and bloated breasts. "These three," I noted, "were selected for the stage as a reminder to take heed. Regardless of position or place whether you follow or lead, the status to which you succeed, your body is propertied, subject to the host activity's needs."

"Quite educational," Roger commented as we passed to the next pillar.

The photo on the pillar coming into view depicted me sitting on a workout bench clad only in a thong. "Carla wanted topless curls. I suggested a little tease with a bath towel," Stephanie recalled, "hanging around my neck barely covering my boobs."

"A tease," Roger prodded.

"Sitting on the workout bench next to my friend Joe, doing curls with weights in unison," I recalled, "with every jerk of the curl, Joe's eyes will widen. The towel will flop against my chest allowing our audience its perk a quick peek at my twin peaks. That's what the audience comes here to seek."

"Quite a tease," Roger affirmed.

"Joe's shot with me during a workout was," I reminisced, "cute and sweet. Adrienne, the starlet intended for the part got herself injured -- and Joe and I was available."

When the pillar rotated, the image dissolved into one of me pulling Joe to his feet to slip his shorts off to unleash a burgeoning erection. Roger voiced an exclamation in an elevated octave, "I'll bet Carla herself might have liked to have been impaled on that spike."

"After Joe completed his second tour on the mission to Mars," I recalled, "I got him a job in maintenance. Pointing to his erection, I exclaimed, "High tide!" I sighed.

"Since then, Joe occasionally gets scenes which require muscle bound men."

As we passed onto another revolving pillar, depicting me in Afternoon Delight, taking it doggy style in front of a naked man tied to the bed. "It was hard for Joe to accept that women make the most money doing it with a guy. It's only a performance, no emotional attachment. Joe was not around, off duty, I think, that morning. I was on hand available. I was on duty in the parking lot..." I sighed, "You either take opportunities when they come your way or allow them to pass you by."

"Afternoon Delight has a strong story line of utterly wanton, capricious behavior," Roger replied. The pillar rotated from a couple in an intimate moment with me securing a naked man's limbs to the four corners of a bed. A rotation brought the scene of me in a dark dress studded with glittering sequins. I danced with a man and a woman in a bar. Back to home in front of the bound man on the bed, I did an oral on the woman, while her man came up from behind me.

"Complex story of tease and denial, love lost and betrayal," Roger commented.

"It boils down to dollars and sense. Men," I point to the male in the photo, "can't compete with women for money in the host activity's web productions except -- doing things many testosterone driven men would prefer to avoid."

Moving to the next pillar, Roger chuckled, "for someone who never intended to become a star, your photo ended up on display on nearly every pillar in the gallery."

"Being there," I remarked as Roger and I approached a pillar depicting naked women in a shower, "when Carla the film director was casting for a short or casting for ideas, she slipped into the security gal's showers at change of shift to listen to the girls freely trading impromptu wisecracks."