Naked Stage Fright

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Shy married woman enters a nude karaoke contest.
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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.

"Les," he said, offering his hand.

I took it, responding, "Lauren."

"Beautiful name." His handclasp felt strong and self-assured, the way he presented himself. There was not a hint of flab on him; he was at least six foot one and looked about thirty-five with prematurely graying hair at the temples. His smile was friendly, not lustful as I had feared from this place.

"First time here?" Les asked me. I nodded and took a sip of my drink through the swizzle straw. It tasted like straight vodka but I didn't react.

"How about you?"

"I'm not what you'd call a regular or anything, but I've been here before," he said, with just a hint of bashfulness I thought.

The doorman interrupted our conversation. "Ma'am, are you ready to pick out your songs now? The drawing's about to begin."

"So you're going to favor us poor mortals with a performance, Lauren?"

I nodded sheepishly. "Wanna help me select some songs?"

"Sure." Les accompanied me to the Karaoke machine. I let him suggest the songs. He preferred standards, I was pleased to discover, and we agreed on all of them: Patsy Cline's signature song CRAZY, The Beatles' YESTERDAY, the Gloria Gaynor disco anthem I WILL SURVIVE, a country standard HELP ME MAKE IT THROUGH THE NIGHT, and for my big finale, Etta James' classic number AT LAST. I imagined the men mentally singing along in unison to that final number as they stared at me standing up there nude singing my heart out. And yet, I felt not a hint of stage fright. Only elation. Thank you, Doctor Prohuska.

Les and I returned to the bar; it was now so crowded we had to stand. We finished our drinks and Les ordered us another round. He said, "I confess to having an ulterior motive in my choice of songs."

"Really? What's that?" I was beginning to feel the pleasant but unaccustomed effects of the vodka.

"They're all long songs on this machine, longer than three minutes, and all but one are slow tempo. We'll have you up there for a long, long time entertaining us, Lauren." He grinned, proud of his own cleverness. I tilted my head and shot him an amused yet discomfited expression as if to say Naughty Boy.

The first contestant's number was drawn. General groans emanated from the crowd. It was a man. A man who couldn't sing a note, but launched into a flash Tom Jones number several tones off-key before doffing his shorts and showing us his jockstrap.

"This feels like a date somehow," I blurted out despite myself.

"You've no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that, Lauren," Les said. "I'm pleased you're comfortable with me."

I took another big pull on my second drink. Or was it my third? Had those flirtatious words come out of my mouth? Tom Jones turned into a talentless Eddie Rabbitt for his second number, then lost the jockstrap. His cock was small and uncut, nearly obscured by luxuriant black pubic hair. Boos echoed through the barroom.

"Speaking of comfortable, Lauren, you must have a broadminded husband to feel comfortable enough not to mind you coming here and performing strip karaoke. What's his story?"

"My husband has no idea I'm here."

"Neither does my wife. I won't tell if you won't."

"Deal." I giggled, then suppressed a horselaugh by downing the remaining contents of my doubles glass. Searching to make conversation, I asked, "What's your wife's name?"

"Margaret," he said.

"So Margaret has no idea Les likes his karaoke?" I teased.

"There are a lot of things Les likes that Margaret has no idea about."

"Such as?"

"May I speak frankly?

"Of course."

"Well, fellatio for one thing. She considers it a mortal sin, whereas I think it's a sin to go through life denying us both that particularly intense pleasure."

"Our church considers it a matter of individual conscience whether to engage in oral sex or not." God, I sounded like the moderator at a Methodist young married women's meeting!

"There's other things, too."

"Sexual things?"

Les nodded glumly, the brightened and said, "But let's not spoil the evening talking about absent spouses tonight. Are you ready to go up onstage when the time comes?"

"Buy me one more drink and I will be," I said.

I didn't have long to wait. My number was called second. I gulped my vodka double, kicked off my high heels and jumped off the bar stool, then took long steps to reach the stage, which was carpeted and tiny, no more than six feet square with a triptych of full-length mirrors like in a clothing store, positioned so as to afford the audience members unlimited views of every angle of the performer's body, front, back and side. All the men in the audience cheered. The women, not to be outdone, gave me a sisterly ovation of their own. I watched the prompter screen for my lyrics as the karaoke machine boomed out the opening rhythm and steel-guitar accompaniment of CRAZY.

I sang my heart out to them all, not even glancing at the lyrics after the first few seconds. I scanned the tables, looking into the eyes each man in turn, singing them a sad song with all the emotion I could reach down inside myself and offer up as a sacrifice. Midway through the song I noticed one of the women lean over to another and acknowledge, "She's good."

I drew out the last few words of the lyrics, then bowed my head and stepped back, arms at my sides, nearly touching the mirrors behind me. The whole place erupted in cheers and loud applause.

The time had come to remove my first article of clothing. I turned to look at Les still standing holding up the bar, then arched my eyebrows and pointed to my red v-neck blouse. He gave me the thumbs-up gesture and grinned.

Without any exceptional grace I wriggled out of my top, revealing my molded underwire bridal strapless bra. Someone hollered "Forty-six double d."

I responded, "You're two inches too big and a cup size too small. Nice try."

Now that I'd revealed my 44 DDD bra size to everyone, my next song began. I sang the wistful ballad as softly as I could, this time never taking my eyes off Les. It felt strangely comforting having him there to encourage me. Before I knew it the song was over and I was basking in another love fest of adulation.

I had an important decision to make. Would I slip off my shorts next, and stand there singing in bra and panties? Or be bold and go topless for the entire rest of my set?

I went for bold, reaching behind me to unfasten the rear closure, then slowly peeling off the satin cups for all to see. The men went nuts: some groaned, others whooped. There were even a few wolf whistles, which I've always found embarrassing, but there I was. Talk about loss of stage fright!

Suddenly the room went comparatively quiet. Everyone stared at my breasts, even the women, the latter a bit enviously, I thought. I've always been rather bashful and reticent about the size of my breasts, the nipples in particular. Before tonight I had never exposed my breasts to any man other than my husband and my steady boyfriend in college. Both men had breathlessly gone on and on about how big my nipples were and how they stood out, forever worrying and stimulating them to the point of irritation. It was almost restful and certainly empowering to be able to stand tall on that stage, throw out my chest (so to speak) and know that the rules for everyone were look but don't touch.

I took a few bows. The audience reaction was so intense it made me lose my place. Before I knew it I was doffing my Adidas shorts. Okay, so the outfit didn't exactly go together. Not only that, I had to change in the car to fool my husband about visiting the sick. There I stood in only my black silk cheekies, my ass displayed for eveyone's amusement in the mirrors behind me.

It was high time to sing I WILL SURVIVE. I did a complete about-face with that number, really selling it at the top of my voice without shame or fear, even throwing in some disco steps for the price of admission. At the big finish I struck a pose facing the mirrors, my back to the crowd. My body glistened with a luster of workout perspiration in the harsh stage lights. Looking at myself, I saw a whole new woman, one who would never be afraid of what anybody thought of her again, one who could belt out a song to a crowd of any size without trepidation or stage fright. And I saw something else in the mirror.

Actually somebody else. It was Chuck the assistant choir director come to catch my performance. Amazingly, he found a seat ringside and mouthed his hello as he admired my bare breasts and the exposed cheeks of my ass.

Hurrying to step out of my cheekies, I heard the intro to my next song. For the first time I reached for the microphone. The opening lyrics "Take the ribbon from my hair" seemed oddly appropriate for a woman standing there completely nude in public after peeling her clothes off. For his part, Chuck never took his eyes away from me.

I made the rafters ring with Kris Kristofferson's plaintive country ballad. The crowd gave me a standing ovation this time, as I stood there naked and proud of my body. Chuck raised his fist in the air and fired up the crowd even further. Everyone in the place was a charter member of my fan club tonight. When I finished my set with I WILL SURVIVE, many of the women sang along, some dancing on tables.

Collecting my clothes, I passed by Chuck, saying a quick hi.

"I've never seen you look this lovely, Lauren. You're stunning," he said. I touched his arm with gratitude at the heartfelt compliment. He followed me to the bar where Les was waiting.

"Lauren," Chuck said, "Have you met Les? Les is the owner of this club."

"Oh, really?" I said archly. "So you're not a regular but you've been here a time or two, is that right, Les?"

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