Show & Sell

Anders is silent, and I peer at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his face. Then I look out of the window solemnly as the town car brings us to the event.“I’m sorry, Aurora. I’m sorry for getting you into this mess and for pushing you so hard. I know it’s a big deal,” he admits.

“I know, Anders. Thank you,” I respond, and then I sigh. “We’re in this far already, and I’ve made up my mind. I’m going through with it.”

Our driver pulls up in the back alleyway of the venue.

“Here goes nothing,” I say.

I gather my Louis Vuitton bags full of makeup, clothes, hair products, shoes, and accessories.

I really didn’t know what to expect, so I basically threw a good portion of my closet into bags so I’d have options. Anders opens the door for me, and the person in charge shows us in at the back entrance.

Anders slides off to the auction room to find himself a seat while I inform the staff that I’m a participant in the auction. I’m guided to the dressing room.

As soon as I walk through the door, I’m greeted with a cloud of hairspray and the smell of burned hair and perfume. A couple of attendants grab my arms and pull me to an unoccupied chair.

I drop my bags to my sides once I’m seated and stare in the mirror as they immediately go in with a comb and start teasing my hair.

My nerves are starting to get the best of me again. My stomach is in knots, and my heart is just pounding in my chest.

I figure some other person in this room is nervous. They must be. They’re all virgins, too.

I peek around.

Everyone is talking to one another or talking with the stylists, and they’re all smiling and excited to get started with the auction.

The girl next to me is picking out her outfit. She holds it up to herself in front of the mirror.

“That would look amazing on you,” I say, in an attempt to be friendly.

She looks over at me and rolls her eyes, turning to her stylist and asking him to pick something else.

Ooookay. She’s not the one to chat with.

I look over to my other side. The woman in the seat is picking at her hair, moving individual strands around trying to make it perfect.

“Your hair looks great! It really frames your face,” I compliment her.

She gives me a look that makes me feel like I’m an idiot for even speaking to her.

As I continue to look around the room, I have a subtle realization: no one in here is going to talk to me.

I am, without a doubt, the prettiest girl in the room. And these women all hate me for it.

I stare straight ahead for the next few minutes in silence, tears pooling in my eyes. I’m so fucking nervous.

“Are you okay, hun?” my hair and makeup stylist asks.

I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye.

“Honestly, I’m just so nervous. I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

“Well don’t be, sugar. You’re a gorgeous lady, and you’re gonna knock this out of the park!” she says, trying to reassure me.

“I appreciate it,” I lie.

As conceited as it sounds, I know I’m going to do well after seeing the other girls lined up. But it doesn’t take the pressure off at all.

The wardrobe attendant rushes over a skimpy little bodysuit by Agent Provocateur. It’s sheer and lace, covering just the most teasing areas.

“This? I’m wearing this?” I ask.

“Try it on. Let’s make sure it fits right,” the wardrobe attendant says.

I take off my clothes and slip into the bodysuit. I look into the mirror and am immediately struck with confidence. I look fucking hot.

I have curly, long locks of hair. Half of it’s extensions, but whatever. It looks good.

The body suit covers my nipples with black lace but shows off the shape of my breasts. The entire torso is sheer. The bottom is black lace just over my pussy, but sheer right up to it. I turn around to see a perfect lace tease line over my ass as well.

“Hell yeah, girl!” the wardrobe attendant says. “You’re going to rock it. Just make sure your dancing is on point!” she adds before she walks off.

“Dance?!” I shout. “I can’t dance.”

In a panic, I immediately whip out my phone and text Anders. I’m so shaken up I don’t hear the announcement for the line-up. My nice hair stylist guides me into place while I try to plead my way out to my brother.

I want to leave. I’m supposed to dance, and I just can’t. Let’s go.

Don’t be such a chicken. You’ll be fine.

As I go to reply, the organizer for the event comes through. He’s touching the hand of just a few girls and having them step forward as he makes his way down the lineup.