The Gallery

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A woman's life-changing experience at a popup dating service.
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Tasha was completely over being single. The whole "single" part of it was already thoroughly depressing, but to add insult to injury, it seemed like every other week there was some new and novel way of hooking up with random strangers via technology - or at the very least, new ways to put you in contact with varying degrees of sexual predator. It seemed like the dating world demanded of her more confidence than she had to give, and significantly more trust than she was willing to extend.

So she had to give a wry smile at the latest invitation that had dropped into her inbox, promising a "free all-inclusive platinum pass" to "the ultimate pop-up express matchmaking service". It sounded like everything she hated about contemporary dating and the world in general. But it was a freebie, so it stayed out of the trash for now. She sent a quick text to Bonnie, one of her more adventurous friends.

"Want a freebie to 'The Gallery'? Apparently some kind of speed dating popup thing..." :

Bonnie: "r u sure its legit? Caitlin backed on kickstarter for big $$$$"

"So what's it all about? I googled it and can only find very vague high praise":

She was not exaggerating, there were hundreds of positive reviews, none of which said anything more illuminating than describing the experience with hazy platitudes to the effect of "life-changing". As she scrolled the results, her phone buzzed.

Caitlin: "u need 2 keep The Gallery invite u lucky bitch ;) Best night of ur life. Promise. :D"

"Even though I'm the most cynical person ever when it comes to this?" :

Caitlin: "Srsly. u may not find mr future husband or whatevs, but it will change ur life. Or u know, free booze if nothing else"

Tasha chatted back and forth with Caitlin who was tight-lipped on any details - but in spite of that began to feel as though she might actually check it out. It was definitely a real thing that people were apparently willing to part with large sums of cash to be part of, it came highly recommended and if it really wasn't her thing, there was always free booze and snark on offer.

"Tell you what - if you don't mind dropping me off at the sketchy warehouse address provided, then I'm in." :

Caitlin: ":D:D:D:D:D Soooooo excited for u. Just let me know when"

Feeling resolved to do something that might be exciting, but would most likely be disappointing, Tasha clicked through to the sign up page, filled in her details, paused for a second, and then clicked 'Submit'. Frustratingly, it didn't let her choose a date, with the website explaining that once submissions had closed, they had some algorithm to bundle like-minded singles together on the same night, and that they'd be notified a week in advance. She didn't know what was worse - the presumption of such a flexible social calendar, or the fact that it was true.

-

The intervening weeks went by pretty quickly. For the first few days, Tasha was curious and scoured the web looking for some kind of spoilers, as well as trying to find sneaky ways to get intel out of Caitlin, but the only factual information she could turn up was that any attendees of The Gallery have to sign a NDA on entry. Feeling stumped, she successfully put it out of her mind, forgetting all about it until the confirmation of date dropped into her inbox.

"Caitycait, my Gallery booking is finally up - is Friday night good with you?" :

Caitlin: "Sure hun. b at ur place round 8 ;)"

Friday could not come soon enough. Tasha spent the week overthinking anything that could be overthought. She bought an outfit - and then returned it when she changed her mind. She thought about getting a haircut - but didn't. She hit the gym hard - feeling more self-conscious about her figure than usual. Eventually Friday came, and after a work day that dragged on to eternity, she got home, ate a quick meal, showered, then pulled on some nice underwear, a dress she'd worn once to a garden party and a fitted trench that she could hide in if she started feeling like a commodity being paraded for the men in attendance.

The plan was to relax with a couple of glasses of wine in front of the TV until Caitlin showed up, but that turned into a frustrating hour long tussle with her hair, which just wouldn't do what she wanted it to - and ten minutes of huffing from Caitlin who had let herself in.

"We really need to get going, Tash," said Caitlin with more than a hint of impatience. "They won't let you in after 8:30, and you *cannot* miss this. Besides which, your hair is fine. Better than fine. I am completely envious of your hair, and any guy who knocks you back based on your hair is a shallow dickbag with no taste who doesn't deserve you. Let's go already!"

She was probably right, thought Tasha. So she give an ironic twirl and struck a pose. Caitlin just gave her a big smile, grabbed her hand and started dragging her to the car. On the road, Tasha thought she'd try one last time.

"So no spoilers, advice or anything else you might want to share?" she asked teasingly from the passenger seat.

"Girl, just have fun. Be confident, be you and just take it allllll in," drawled Caitlin. "Keep an open mind, and anytime you feel the urge to snark, have a drink."

"I've played that drinking game before," joked Tasha. "It did not end well."

Caitlin just raised an eyebrow and changed the topic. They chatted until the car's GPS chimed that they'd reached their destination, a completely non-descript brick warehouse, poorly lit and vaguely ominous. The only sign of life was an impossibly large security guard at the gate who was accompanied by a petite woman in a cocktail dress.

"This is us," said Caitlin, reaching across to give Tasha a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

"Thanks for the lift, Caitycait" said Tasha, leaning across to kiss her friend's cheek. "Can you stay close for a bit? I'm still not entirely convinced."

"Sure sweetie," Caitlin replied. "If it helps, the big Hodor looking guy over there is not your date."

"Gee thanks," said Tasha, rolling her eyes as she hopped out of the car and closed the door. "See you tomorrow? I'll get a taxi home."

"Ciao, beautiful," waved Caitlin. "Now go before they lock you out."

Tasha smoothed her dress down on her thighs and walked off toward the mismatched pair at the gate. She took a quick look back at the car and Caitlin gave her a semi-sarcastic thumbs up. Despite the flippant response, she felt really grateful to have her friend nearby. Her heart was racing now, and she was already regretting the heels, which felt even wobblier than usual.

As she approached the gate, Tasha took a better look at the pair awaiting her arrival. If anything, the guy seemed even bigger up close - he was a gigantic bald human with the silent, monolithic presence of a Moai, but looking briefly into his heavily lidded eyes, she could sense a keen perception and sharp wit as he almost imperceptibly scanned the hazy darkness behind her. The woman, on the other hand, didn't seem quite so tiny. She was a few inches shorter than Tasha, bookishly pretty with a loose pony and glasses. She gave a welcoming smile and greeted Tasha.

"Natasha?" she asked, with a slight crack of nerves in her voice.

"Just Tasha is fine," she replied, the words sounding more brusque than they had in her head.

"Oh sorry," apologised the hostess, clearing her throat. "Of course. That's what it says here," looking down at a tablet device in her hand. "My sister is Natasha, so I guess my brain is wired to the unabridged version. Anyway... I'm Melanie, I'll be your hostess tonight at The Gallery."

"Thanks Melanie. Did you need me to find my booking reference?" said Tasha, fishing around in her purse to find her phone.

"No, that's fine. We aspire to give a red carpet treatment to all of our guests," explained Melanie, motioning for Tasha to follow her. "Sans carpet of course. Joseph there is already conspicuous enough, and as I'm sure you've heard, we're very secretive about what we do and where we are."

"Should I be concerned? Will I wake up in a few days, ready to kill anytime I hear Frankie Goes To Hollywood?" quipped Tasha.

"Wellllll, I can't promise anything," bantered Melanie. "But at least we're not CRS, right?"

Tasha just kind of stared blankly. She knew it was another movie reference, but it just wasn't coming to her. And by the time the gears in her hand had ground for a few excruciating seconds it was too late to politely laugh as though she knew. She opened her mouth to say something, but Melanie got in first.

"Sorry," said Melanie with a theatrical grimace. "How about I just tell you what we actually do! So, as you would have read, we're 'the ultimate express matchmaking service'. What we offer is something a bit beyond your typical dating service, but that each step of the process should seem entirely familiar and intuitive to you. All we ask is that you keep an open mind - you'll enjoy the experience so much more that way."

"To help you contextualise things", she continued, "we try to match by two main criteria. Mutual physical attraction and completely independent of that, interpersonal chemistry. If you and any potential partners choose each other on both criteria, we'll put you in touch. Of course, the devil is in the details. Hold on a second."

Tasha looked back to the road as Melanie craned her neck toward some kind of scanner near the door. Caitlin's hand emerged through the driver's side window, giving a quick wave as she pulled away. Tasha gave a quick wave back and then turned back to Melanie who was almost comically leaning forward and back, swaying left and right trying to align her face to the scanner, which seemed to be beeping impatiently at her. She smiled, somewhat pleased that her hostess seemed somewhat "unpolished" and endearingly awkward.

"Duh," said Melanie after a minute of shimmying with the scanner. "Glasses." She took them off, shaking her head, and the scanner almost immediately gave a happy chime while the door clunked mechanically.

"As you can see, we are all consummate professionals," she said wryly over her shoulder as she swung the door open. "Welcome toooo... the waiting room!"

"Waiting room" was not really a fair or adequate descriptor for the sumptuous cocktail bar that Tasha had just stepped into. A *very* well stocked bar ran the length of one wall, behind which a team of mixologists plied their trade. The rest of the floor was taken up with an eclectic collection of lounges and coffee tables while the whole space was lit by a couple of extravagant chandeliers that hung in sharp contrast to the unfinished industrial ceiling above.

"We're supposed to call it the 'Mingle Room'," said Melanie just above a whisper, "but from experience, it's where the ladies sit down for a drink and make awkward small talk while silently wondering where we keep the menfolk. Since you're the last one to arrive, you won't get much mingle time - but I will definitely get you a drink. Take your coat?"

Tasha shrugged it off and passed it to Melanie who departed, siding up to the bar to put in an order. Meanwhile, Tasha looked around the room at the other guests. They really didn't seem much different from the crowd she'd see out at the pub on a Saturday night. Most of the women in attendance were around her age, a few looked barely old enough to be there, and the rest were varying degrees of older. Peppered amongst them were various hostesses, wearing the same uniform cocktail dress. There certainly wasn't much mingling going on. Some women chatted to the hostesses, some chatted to each other, but a good proportion were unabashedly assessing their "competition".

"Kind of a reality TV vibe, huh?" asked Melanie, returning with a tall drink.

"I can't wait for the degrading bikini sports match," joked Tasha, taking the drink from Melanie and drawing a long sip from the straw, her eyes widening slightly as she did. "Wow. Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Just thought you could stand to catch up a bit," explained Melanie. "Buuuuuuut, just before you do, have a read of of this NDA. I promise it's the only bit of paperwork we'll ask you for, and then the night is yours."

Tasha took the tablet device that was offered to her and started reading through the non-disclosure agreement - which was boringly conventional, contrary to the pervasive secrecy of the whole operation. It seemed legit, and was keeping her from her drink, so she took the rubber tipped pin Melanie was offering, signed on the line and passed the tablet and pen back.

"Michael Douglas, The Game!" she exclaimed suddenly, the penny finally dropping on the movie reference from earlier. "Would you do it? Knowing that it would drive you to your lowest ebb, take away everything you have, but make you a better person on the other side?"

"Hell no," responded Melanie decisively. "But I would totally sign up for 'The Man Who Knew Too Little' experience, if such a thing existed. Incidentally, I'll need to take any of your personal items and lock them up. In particular, your phone."

Tasha unshouldered her bag, handing it to Melanie who wandered off behind the bar. When she returned, the two found a seat and chatted for a few minutes before a chime over the intercom brought the room to silence. A toneless, yet strangely soothing female voice followed.

"Attention patrons. The Gallery is now open. Please make your way through the marked door. Repeat. The Gallery is now open. Please make your way through the marked door."

"So this is where we part ways for now," said Melanie with a smile. "Head on through that door, where menfolk await. I'll see you before the next phase."

"Thanks Melanie," said Tasha with genuine gratitude as she downed the rest of her drink. She was feeling much more at ease, partly due to the half-dozen shots that went into her cocktail, but mostly because Melanie was someone she instantly clicked with. The two stood up and meandered toward the door with a flashing light above it, not rushing as the crowd of other women converged on it.

"So one last piece of advice?" offered Melanie to Tasha, who raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry if your first instinct is to laugh, because what we do is absurd. Laugh, move on, and dive in head-first. But don't be a cynic - just imagine you're Andy Serkis. You're in a spandex bodysuit with ping pong balls stuck to it, and everyone around you is pretending that you're a giant ape. Or a regular sized ape. Or a tiny hobbit... thing. Maybe there's a bearded man waving something on the end of a stick a you, and claiming it's something that it's clearly not. Whatever the situation, just go with it, embrace it and make it your own."

On that slightly bizarre parting note, Melanie ushered Tasha into a nondescript corridor that the other women were meandering down. More than a few were struggling to walk in a straight line, and Tasha began to feel her buzz kicking in too. Surprisingly, it was making her *more steady* on her feet because she'd stopped being self conscious about walking on heels. She felt super chill, in the zone. She had to actively resist the urge to exaggerate her hip sway as she walked. Holy shit, that long island ice tea was amazing.

At the far end of the corridor, the other attendees were filing through another door, and alternately laughing, shrieking with delight or otherwise letting their surprise be known. Tasha's anticipation welled within her like a nagging thought as she approached. As the small crowd in front of her pushed through, she got her first glimpse of 'The Gallery'.

She stepped into the first of a series of interconnecting rooms, more like a museum of art than what she thought of as an art gallery, and in contrast to the bohemian 'Mingle Room', The Gallery was stark, well lit and finished in a clean, modern style. As forewarned, she did indeed let out an awkward laugh as she saw the 'art' on display. In individual glass boxes, and atop small podiums, an array of men stood, in varying degree of comfort. They all wore large, cumbersome looking headsets over most of their faces, and on closer inspection, seemed to be entirely oblivious of their surroundings. Tasha suspected it was some kind of VR setup, probably designed to keep the 'artwork' from interacting with the clientele.

Aside from the headsets, all of the men also wore sleeveless black and grey jumpsuits that left little to the imagination. It had suddenly become abundantly clear why the veil of secrecy kept all of this under wraps. This was a glorified meat market, completely objectifying and degrading. Maybe even more detached and dehumanising than any of the other dating apps and sites she vaguely detested. With Caitlin's voice in her head, she decided it was time for a drink.

No sooner had the thought entered Tasha's head, a waitress stepped up to her with a tray of tall champagne flutes. She took one with a wry smile and knocked off half of it in a single gulp. She felt disappointed. She'd never fully formed an expectation of what this night would entail, but what she now saw in front of her did not seem worthy of the effusive praise from all corners. Still, there was an open bar, she was feeling mellow, and the vast majority of other attendees seemed to be having a great time moving between the exhibits and sizing up.

Fuck it, she thought, downing the rest of her champagne before swooping on the waitress and swapping her empty for a fresh one. Not really wanting to socialise just yet, she strode through a few rooms where the crowd had yet to stray, taking glances along the way at the men behind the glass. They seemed like a diverse lot - some short, some tall, some obviously older or younger than others. Some were athletic - one in particular was receiving a lot of interest back in the first room - and some were clearly not. Her intuition was telling her that each of these men was supposedly an ideal match to each of the women in attendance. So it stood to reason that one of these guys was just for her. Despite the cynicism, the thought did make her tingle a little.

So Tasha decided to play a slightly perverted version of 'Guess Who?' and see how well the matchmakers knew her tastes and proclivities. Heading as far through as she could, she started her search in the eighth room, and with four men per room, that meant thirty-two potential matches. Or was one of the glass cubes empty? Nevermind. She looked the first quartet up and down. She ruled out three pretty quickly - too short, too old and too soft around the middle. The last guy was tall and rangy with dark curly hair - not bad, but didn't exactly set her heart a-flutter either. So that left twenty-eight. Ish.

The next four were average, with one exception. Even with the podium, one of the guys was still fractionally shorter than Tasha, but ridiculously built. Every now and again, he'd flex his pecs, making them dance. It was kind of hypnotic, like watching a cat sleep twitch. He lost out on multiple criteria, but she stayed and watched him for a few minutes, sipping her third champagne. By now the crowd had moved beyond the first couple of rooms, and a tiny, dark haired girl very clearly lit up at the sight of the guy, so Tasha decided to keep moving.

In the next room, she found two more likely candidates. Tall... tick. Broad shoulders... tick. Biceps... tick. Superficially, both measured up. They both radiated physical strength, one in a more lean, refined way, the other bigger, but slightly gone to seed, like an athlete out of training. Both had large hands, but on close inspection, the leaner guy had grimy nails and fingertips. He looked as though no matter how hard he scrubbed, they'd always stay that way due to whatever he did for a living. Disappointing. The other guy had some noticeable guitar callouses on his left hand, catapulting him to the top of the leaderboard, and giving Tasha dizzying thoughts. She'd always had a thing for musicians.