The Glass Box Club

There is a sound of air decompressing as the steel door, split horizontally, slides into the top and bottom of the portal. Before it opened, a notice printed on it occupied my attention.

Do not stare at the other attendees

Do not touch the other attendees, even if they are undressed or self-stimulating

Do not attempt to get the attention of the exhibitioner(s)

Do not touch the glass

Do not, under any circumstances, share the identities of the exhibitioner(s) or the other attendees (initials:__)

We reserve the right to remove you from the premises at any time and for any reason, which may include physical handling by our security representatives

If you have any concerns, please press the HELP button on your lanyard remote at any time, and a team member will be at your service

Underneath the notice, there had been a small screen that encouraged me to sign and assured me that my identity would be encoded, stored digitally on site, and protected with extensive cybersecurity measures. I had used my finger to trace the letters of my name. Before the door opened, I had waited as my fingers fidgeted soundlessly while I tried not to hold my breath. My eyes occasionally drifted to the words "self-stimulating" on the notice, an overwhelming feeling rising in my chest and warming my stomach.

Now, sterile light pours into my waiting chamber through the open portal. I breathe in sharply and curse myself for the sound it makes. The chamber is white, with small square tiles on the walls and floor. Every few feet, a drain is visible on the floor. I look up and locate the sprinklers installed in the ceiling, which have undoubtedly sanitized this room countless times since it was built just one year ago.

I blink from the brightness as I glance quickly around the room at the other figures emerging from their portals. I make sure not to look too long so I cannot be accused of staring. How long is a stare? Is 3 seconds a glance? 2? Flitting my eyes around, I see five other figures.

A tall, thin older man with gray hair and sharp features wearing a tailored suit walks toward a velvet armchair placed beside a small table bearing a crystal glass filled halfway with amber liquid. A small, skinny man in khakis and a plaid button-up has his spectacle-magnified eyes fixed on the large mirrored box in the center of the room, apparently too nervous to move any closer. His drink is a pink, pulpy liquid that fills a tall, curvy glass with a sprig of herb floating inside and slice of citrus fit on the rim. He doesn't seem ready to approach it, much less drink it. A well-built bearded man in athletic wear is somehow already positioned about 3 feet from the box, jaw set and foot tapping impatiently. Next to him is a circular stone column that comes to his elbow, with what looks like a vodka soda perched on its smooth surface. I glance beside the next character instead of directly at him to avoid the threat of his eyes on me from behind the ink-black sunglass lenses that hid them. He wore all black, including a plain t-shirt, jeans, leather watch strap, and boots that seemed Italian. I wondered irritably how they would know if he was staring while he wore his shades, and quickly moved on.

The next figure had taken their time, slowly and silently gliding out from the shadow of their waiting chamber. My mouth popped open slightly as my eyebrows raised involuntarily and I again berated myself internally for losing my cool. She is tall and slender, wearing a structured black pantsuit, contrasted by a flowing cream-colored silk blouse with an open collar that rests just above her curving breasts and below her sharp collarbone, tucking loosely into her waistband. She has on cherry-red velvet pumps that peek out from underneath the hem of her wide-legged pants and showcase just the smallest glimpse of her strong ankles.

My gaze drifts upward again past her wide, sharp shoulders and long, graceful neck adorned with a simple silver chain to her angular jaw, full lips touched with the same cherry red as her shoes, and almond-shaped eyes. Her eyes are such a color that you cannot determine her irises from her pupils and the whites are bright and clear. Her round, high cheekbones are touched with a rich red blush, slightly more pink than her lips, that compliments her skin tone perfectly. She has tightly-wound, close-cut curls that frame her face, silver hoops delicately dangling on either side. She leans on her drink table with one elbow and gazes expectantly at the mirrored surface in front of her. I am surprised to see that the liquid in her tall glass is iced, still, and clear. It's far too full to be vodka, so it must be water. I glance over at my own plain table beside me that supports an old-fashioned in a cut crystal glass and wonder how she could attend such an event without even the slightest influence of substance.

I refuse to look toward her again, knowing that I am already risking expulsion. I paid far more than I should have on my ticket to this event and wondered if the others could tell that this was my first time attending The Glass Box Club.

(to be continued...)