Chapter 1: The Unwilling Contestant
The air backstage tasted like sweat, cheap champagne, and adrenaline. Neon strips, flickering with a persistent buzz, cast everything in a sickly magenta and electric blue. Tiffany navigated the labyrinth of half-open doors and sticky floors with the confidence of a general, her toned arm hooked through Becky’s.
“See? Not so bad,” Tiffany said, her voice a mischievous whisper cutting through the thrum of bass from the main room. She grinned, a flash of white in the erratic light. “Just a bunch of girls getting ready for a party.”
Becky’s nervous eyes darted over the scene, her mind refusing to process it as anything close to a party. Everywhere she looked, there was skin. Miles of it. Under the harsh, unflinching glow of makeup mirrors, women in delicate lace and sheer mesh leaned close to their reflections, applying glitter to breasts or adjusting g-strings. The clink of champagne flutes was a constant, fragile soundtrack to the hushed, electric chatter.
“This was a mistake. A huge, monumental, possibly life-ruining mistake,” Becky muttered, trying to shrink into herself. Her conservative black dress felt like a nun’s habit here.
“Life-enhancing,” Tiffany corrected, shoving a numbered contestant sticker into Becky’s limp hand. “Pin that on. Come on, the dressing room’s this way. You need to get out of that sad sack.”
“Tiff, I can’t. I seriously can’t.” Becky dug her heels in, but the floor was too slick. “You registered me for a Miss Nude contest. I don’t do nude. I don’t even do ‘standing in a brightly lit room’ nude.”
Tiffany stopped, turning to face her. She placed both hands on Becky’s shoulders. “Look at me. That guy, Derek? The one who said you were ‘cuddly’ and then ghosted you? He’s a worm. This,” she said, gesturing to the vibrant, pulsing chaos around them, “is about remembering you’re a goddess. In all your cuddly, gorgeous glory. Now move.”
She propelled Becky through a final doorway, into a larger, steamier room.
The wall of heat and noise hit Becky like a physical force. The space was a kaleidoscope of moving bodies, the scent of talcum powder, coconut oil, and perfume mingling into something overwhelmingly intimate. Mirrors lined the walls, fogged with breath and reflecting endless fragments of limbs and laughter. This was the heart of it. The final prep before the velvet curtain went up.
Becky’s gaze, wide with panic, swept the room. It landed, stuck, and her brain short-circuited.
In the far corner, on a low stool directly under one of the brighter lights, sat Professor Zoe.
Their Philosophy 302 professor. The woman who graded on a vicious curve and had once reduced a senior football player to stammering apologies with a single, icy glance. Zoe was completely, utterly nude.
The stern, perpetually frowning academic was gone. In her place was a stunning woman with generous, heavy breasts and strong, curvy hips. She sat with a practiced, unselfconscious ease that Becky could never fathom. One leg was propped up on another stool, and Ms. Zoe was meticulously, methodically rubbing glistening oil into the thick, dark bush of her pubic hair, making the curls shine under the light. Her expression was one of deep, focused concentration—the same look she wore when dissecting Kant.
Becky made a small, choked sound.
Tiffany followed her stare. Her devilish smile faltered for a half-second, then returned, wider and more delighted than ever. “No. Way.”
“Is that…” Becky whispered, unable to finish.
“It is,” Tiffany breathed, a laugh bubbling in her throat. “Well, I’ll be damned. Guess ‘Critique of Pure Reason’ includes a critique of pure clothing.”
Becky couldn’t look away. The cognitive dissonance was paralyzing. The cold, demanding voice that lectured on existentialism was coming from this… this breathtakingly carnal figure. Zoe finished her task, gave a satisfied nod, and then stood, stretching her arms overhead with a grace that seemed to rewrite every memory Becky had of her in a tweed blazer.
As if sensing the weight of their gaze, Ms. Zoe turned. Her eyes, sharp and discerning even across the crowded room, found Becky’s. For a terrifying second, there was no recognition—just the impartial assessment of one contestant for another.
Then it clicked. A slight arch of one dark brow. The barest tightening at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. A confirmation. A challenge.
She knew.
Becky felt her face burn with a heat that eclipsed the room’s temperature. She was instantly transported back to her last essay, covered in red pen, with the notation, “Lacks conviction.”
Tiffany recovered first, snapping into action. “Okay. New plan. We are not being out-professored by Professor Zoe. Especially not at this.” She grabbed Becky’s wrist and dragged her toward an empty corner near a rack of feather boas. “Off. Dress. Now.”
“Are you insane? She saw me! She’s going to fail me!”
“She’s about to walk on stage with her bits out, Becky. I think the power dynamic has officially shifted.” Tiffany started unzipping Becky’s dress with ruthless efficiency. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. Now, do you want to hide in this corner, or do you want to go out there and show that terrifying, magnificent woman what you’re made of?”
Becky stood, shivering in her sensible bra and underwear, surrounded by a riot of confident nudity and the looming, surreal presence of her professor. The pulse of the music vibrated up through the soles of her feet. She looked at Tiffany’s fierce, encouraging grin, then stole another glance at Ms. Zoe, who was now calmly applying a dark red lipstick, her eyes meeting Becky’s again in the mirror.
A strange, tremulous feeling rose in her chest. It wasn’t quite confidence. It was something rawer. A spark of defiance. Maybe it was the champagne vapor in the air, or the electric hum of exposed vulnerability all around her. But for the first time all night, Becky’s hands didn’t shake as she reached for the clasp of her bra.
“The oil,” she heard herself say, her voice quieter than the music but steady. “Can I borrow some of that oil?”
Tiffany’s smile turned triumphant. She handed over a small, warm bottle. “Atta girl.”