Stay Naked - Camilla Basham

I always thought of myself as a girl with high morals, but there are times when a girl has to do what she has to do just to get by. It's been a week since I've had a hot meal, so when Jim told me about this I thought I would check it out. They call it an audition, but really, you just have to undress in front of a room of people and make fake orgasm sounds; seems easy enough. There was a time when I really dreamed of being an actress, before the city chewed me up and spit me out. There is only so much rejection a girl can take before she cracks. So, I stopped taking my parents phone calls from three thousand miles away, because I had run out of lies about how well I was doing and how my big break was just around the corner.

It was about a month ago that I met Jim and he first took me under the bridge. From what I could tell, it seems that an awful lot of people go there, some even seem to have taken up permanent residence there. Jim assured me this is where I would find the answer; that happiness and the answer to all my woes could be pumped into me via his shiny 28G1/2 steel instrument. He had tried pumping happiness into me in other ways, but he always came up short. I remember the first time Jim had me hunker down in the bushes with him and he told me he loved me and unbuttoned my thrift store blouse and guided the fabric over my shoulders until it fell to my elbows. He could have easily lifted it from the sleeve, but he loved losing his train of thought on the tracks that led to my breasts. He lifted my right arm and I felt the rubber snap around it. He raised the happiness to his mouth, pulled the cap off with his teeth and spit it out. That was the last lucid memory I have of that day.

That day was the beginning of the journey that led me here to this audition. A very rough looking woman with a clipboard motions me to come into the room. Number twenty-nine she calls me. That's all I am to her. Right now, that's all I am to myself. The room is cold and sterile and the lights are bright and blinding. Three fat greasy men each dressed in shirts unbuttoned to their navel; their hairy chests covered in gold chains; sit in director’s chairs, each about to burst from the strain of their fat asses. One of them tells me to get naked, so I do. I had stopped at Rite Aid and bought some cheap cover up on the way here and caked it onto my arms so the bruises wouldn't show through. So far it seems to be working. They tell me to turn around, bend over, and spread my legs. One wants to feel my breasts to see if they are real. I start to feel nauseas. Maybe it's the heroin wearing off or maybe it's my self respect kicking in. I can't be sure. And because I’m not sure, I sign on their dotted line, while one slaps my ass; trading in my dignity for a few bucks. I reach for my clothes and one of the fat guys laughs, "Hey, you belong to us now. Rule number one: you stay naked until we tell you its okay to dress". Just then it becomes clear to me that I've sold my soul.