The Volunteer

by D. H Jonathan

  When the elevator door opened, four girls’ jaws dropped at the sight of me. I smiled and stepped inside, turning to face the doors as they slid closed.

  “Umm, did you forget something?” one girl asked.

  “Shh,” someone else said. “She’s the naked girl. Didn’t you see her getting interviewed downstairs yesterday?”

  “It’s all right,” I said, turning to look at them. “I know this is strange, but I think everyone will get used to it soon.”

  “But how do you get used to it?”

  I shrugged. “Once you get past the fear of it being so taboo, it’s not that bad.”

  The elevator doors opened, and I burst out into the lobby, eager to get some distance between myself and the girls behind me. I sauntered through the foyer, not slowing as I glanced over at the love seat where I’d had my interview and my stimulating photo session the evening before, grinning slightly at the memory. I hadn’t thought Blake was that attractive, but imagining him copying the pictures of me onto his hard drive and looking at each one turned me on. I had to stop thinking such things. Looking down at myself, I was dismayed and embarrassed by the pink color of my vulva and that my labia were still poking out like they had been last night. But I couldn’t stop now. I had been naked all day yesterday, and my photos and video had been taken more times than I could count. Quitting now would be a waste of my only opportunity for a college degree. And the fact was, I was enjoying this, as embarrassing as it would be if certain people back home found out about it.

  The morning temperature was still in the sixties, and goose pimples popped up on my arms and everywhere else as I walked away from the dorm. The concrete felt cold against the bottoms of my feet. I skipped down the steps and started walking toward the Commons, thinking to myself that the area outside the dorm building was unusually crowded. It was then that I realized that all these people had gathered just to wait for my appearance. Flash bulbs blinked everywhere as I turned to walk on the concrete path, and the chatter of the crowd increased. There was even a smattering of applause. I wondered what they thought of my glowing pink vulva. Could they tell I had been playing with myself in the shower? That thought made me feel a deep sense of shame as well as excitement. Confusion reigned. Was I losing my mind?

  I was acutely aware of the jiggle of my buttocks with every step I took away from the crowd. When I took a quick glance behind me, I saw that about half of the group was following me from a distance, most of them with their phones raised, taking video of those jiggling buttocks. I wondered where my assigned research assistant was. Greg had had the early shift yesterday, and I hoped he was back there somewhere now. How could I go anywhere and carry on with a normal day with a crowd like this following me all the time? I wondered if this was how movie stars felt, with people panting after them everywhere. At least they got to wear clothes when they went out in public.

  This was only the second day, I reminded myself. They couldn’t keep this up. After all, they were all college students too with their own classes to keep up with. At least, I hoped they were all college students. The campus was generally open to the public, so conceivably, anyone could show up. I looked back again, trying to see if any of the people following me looked to be over college age, but I couldn’t pick anyone out.

  I walked fast, not caring that my breasts were bouncing almost obscenely. The people I was walking away from couldn’t see them anyway, although I did see some eyes widen on the faces of the few oncoming pedestrians as I passed by. My nipples were pointy and erect both from the cool temperature and the arousal at being so exposed to so many people. I was beginning to think I should email Dr. Slater to get the name of a psychologist, maybe a professor in the psychology department, who could help me through this. And if she did set me up with one, would the consultations be confidential or would they be included in the sociological study. The life of a naked guinea pig, I thought and sighed.

  I passed the science building that I had used for my little escape last night, and I put my head down in shame, watching my feet slap on the concrete. The chemistry building was just past that, and I turned and bounded up the steps to get inside and to my class. So far, the level of scrutiny and the number of people seeing my naked body had been worse than yesterday. Would tomorrow’s newspaper article help or hurt that?

  I walked up the stairs, glad that only two people, both guys, had followed me into the building. They took the stairs behind me, and I wondered what they could see when they looked up and ahead at me. Maybe later on I could get someone to follow me up some stairs taking video just so I could know how much of myself I was exposing with each step, but I couldn’t think of anyone to ask.

  “Holy shit!” someone said as I scurried into my chemistry class and took my seat at my regular desk, pausing for only a fraction of a second to drop my butt towel into the chair.

  I took the Kindle out of my binder, turned to the current chapter in my chemistry text book, and then looked up. Everyone was staring at me. I decided to play dumb, and just said, “What?”

  “Did the campus dress code change or something?” the guy next to me said.

  Before anyone could answer, Dr. Biden, our middle-aged but still nerdy professor, swept into the room. He set his stack of books on the instructor’s desk with a sigh, looked up at us, and stopped when his eyes fixed on me.

  “Um, good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” the class said in response.

  “I trust everyone had a nice relaxing spring break. Or a fun filled very active break. Whichever you were shooting for.”

  There was a smattering of laughter before Dr. Biden went into his lecture. Normally, he was a very good speaker and kept his eye contact floating from student to student, but today, his eyes never left my breasts. A couple of times, he realized that I had caught him, and he smiled sheepishly and looked down at his lecture notes. I thought his reaction was both sweet and funny, but his eyes kept returning to my breasts.

  I don’t know what came over me toward the end of class. I do know that that ever present tingling sensation was stronger than usual because of Dr. Biden’s stares. To his credit, he never wavered from his lecture or even stumbled over any words. As the class continued, I slid my towel forward on my chair. I’m sure Dr. Biden thought I was trying to hide my breasts under the desk, and he did try to look at other students for a few minutes. But when I spread my legs and gave him what I thought was a clear view straight at my vagina, he froze and dropped the pen he had been holding.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, bending down to pick the pen up and getting an even better view of my spread vulva.

  I should have felt like such a slut and been ashamed of myself, but Dr. Biden’s stuttering for the last ten minutes of class was both funny and endearing. By that time, I was impatient for class to end. The way I was sitting wasn’t very comfortable, and part of my butt started going to sleep. I was having too much fun to change positions though. My right knee started bouncing, hoping to keep the blood flow going. I could feel the wind from the air conditioner vent hitting me right between my legs, making me want to escape again like I had last night. I had never thought of myself as being horny before. I was still a virgin after all, so I didn’t even know what it was like to have a man inside me. But I did have to admit that right then, I was horny. Being naked was making me constantly horny, I think.

  ‘We’ll have a lab Thursday afternoon,” Dr. Biden said, “so be ready to experiment with crystals. I’ll see you next time.”

  The class gave a collective sigh as everyone started packing up and heading out. I had a survey of American literature class next. Unlike my MWF British lit class, which was an advanced class for English majors, this one was a sophomore level class required on almost every degree plan in the university. No one said anything to me as everyone filed out of the class, but I could feel their eyes on me.

  “Miss Keaton,” Dr. Biden said just as I was about to leave.

  “Yes sir?” I sa
id, cringing. How could I have taunted him like I had done? I still had to sit in his class for another two months. He probably thought I was such an incredibly shameless slut.

  “Lab,” he said. “I’ve been asked to excuse you from any lab work for the rest of the course. Could you explain why?”

  “Um. I don’t know.”

  “Specifically, I was asked to exclude you from any activity that required the wearing of a lab apron or coat. Which is pretty much all of them.”

  I hadn’t even thought of lab coats. I wondered what would have happened if I had shown up to lab and put one on, although I probably would have stopped to ask Dr. Slater if I was permitted to wear anything required by the safety regulations of the university. It looked like she was trying to eliminate those issues before they even came up.

  “Um, I don’t know who would have asked that,” I lied.

  “I think you do. But, be that as it may, I have agreed to the request as long as I could assign you make up activities. Is that all right with you?”

  “Sure. I think so.”

  “All right. I’ll email you your lab make up assignment tomorrow.”

  “OK,” I said, hoping that the make-up work wasn’t going to be more difficult than the actual lab. “Thank you.”

  “See you Thursday,” he said as I hurried out of the room.

  I bounded down the stairs and out the front door. At just a few minutes before 9:30, the temperatures had risen into the upper seventies, with a nice breeze that tickled every inch of my skin. If everyone knew how good it felt to be naked outside, more people would do it, I thought. My literature class was in the building diagonal to the Chemistry building, so I cut across the lawn, enjoying the feeling of the still damp grass on my feet and between my toes.

  “Naked!” a guy yelled from somewhere.

  “Wow!” I heard someone else say.

  “Will you marry me?” another voice asked. I just shook my head and kept walking.

  Pausing at the entrance to the building, I took a quick look behind me to see if I could spot one of Dr. Slater’s research assistants. Were they really following me like she said they would? Or have I been left out to dry, naked and alone? Out of the people walking or standing within sight, ninety percent of them were looking at me. I probably blushed, but that tingling sensation intensified. I felt like covering up, but I also felt like turning and giving everyone a full frontal view. I did neither. Just before I was about to turn and enter the building, I spotted Ginger, the large girl who had helped me pack my clothes yesterday morning. She nodded to me when I smiled at her.

  My American lit class was taught by a young TA still working on her PhD by the name of Karen Armstrong. She hated being called Ms. Armstrong and insisted that we all call her Karen. She was already at the lectern when I walked into class, and her eyes widened. I smiled at her and took my regular seat. Karen preferred classroom discussions to regular lectures, so she started her intro to our last reading, “Bartleby, the Scrivener” by Herman Melville. I had read the story on the plane back from spring break, and at the time, I didn’t think my reading of it would matter as I had expected to lose my scholarship. I pulled the story up on my Kindle and skimmed it as Karen talked.

  “So Danielle,” Karen said. “Could you tell us your thoughts on the story?”

  Wondering if my nudity was making me a target for the discussion and being in the middle of skimming the story, I thought I would be a bit of a smart ass and give the quote most often given by Bartleby. “I would prefer not to.”

  There was a smattering of laughter, and even Karen smiled herself. But still, she waited, so I felt compelled to continue. “I mean, it’s a reflection on freedom. How free are we to do or not do what we want? Bartleby just prefers to not do anything, and how people react to that says more about them than it does about Bartleby.”

  “Hmm. That’s interesting. Do you apply this to yourself in any way? Like, why didn’t you wear clothes today?”

  I shrugged and smiled and said, “I would prefer not to.” I thought I was lying, but the more time I spent naked, the more part of me enjoyed it. Still, I longed to wear clothes like everyone else, hated that I was being singled out in the prohibition of clothes, while still enjoying the attention I was getting. Insanity must be setting in, I thought.

  The discussion on Bartleby continued, from topics of clinical depression to the use of force against an individual. I tuned it out as I noticed my male classmates continually looking at me. I still felt ashamed of the way I had exposed myself to Dr. Biden, so this time, I folded my arms over my chest as I tried to listen to the discussion.

  Karen usually ended the class early, so we got to leave at 10:30 with our assignment to write a report on the Bartleby story. I stayed in the room while everyone left, checking my phone. I’d had four missed calls and two voice mails. The first voice mail was from my mother, wondering how I was and why she couldn’t find my Facebook profile any more. The second voice mail was more interesting.

  “This is Matt Moore calling for Danielle Keaton. I got your name from Dr. Slater. I teach figure drawing in the art department, and the model for my eleven o’clock class cancelled today. I was hoping you would be available to model. The class is three hours and pays twenty-five an hour. You’d have to fill out some paperwork in the art department office, but we could take care of that after class if we need to, and if you are available.”

  Matt recited his number. It was the same as two of the missed calls I had received, so I called him back immediately. Twenty-five dollars an hour was more than double the rate I had been making at the print shop. I figured it was nude modeling (and given my participation in Dr. Slater’s study, it would have to be nude), but at least I would be naked where a person would normally be expected to be.

  “This is Matt,” he answered.

  “Um, hi. This is Danielle Keaton. I just got a voice mail from you.”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m sorry; I just now got out of class. Do you still need a model?”

  “Yes, I do, very much so.”

  “OK. I’d love to do it, although I’ve never done anything like this.”

  “It won’t be too bad. We start with a bunch of short gesture poses, about one minute each, then three twenty minute poses, and finish with a one hour long pose. But you can have a break or two during the long pose, and the whole class has a break after the first hour to hour and a half.”

  “OK.”

  “I can give you some pointers on the poses too. And it’s nude, or course. Are you OK with that?”

  I laughed out loud. “Yes,” I replied.

  “Well, all right. I’ll see you soon. We’re in room 210 in the Fine Arts Building. Bring a robe if you’ve got one.”

  “I don’t think I have one.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We have one in the studio. Talk to you later.”

  He disconnected, and I laughed again. Twenty-five dollars and hour for three hours? That was going to help a lot. Dr. Slater had mentioned something about the possibility of a higher paying campus job, but I hadn’t expected the pay to be that much. I put my phone back into the binder. The room had cleared out, so I sprayed myself with sunscreen right there by my desk. A guy with red hair and glasses walked in, apparently for the next class, and just stopped and stared.

  “Did I just die and go to heaven?” he said.

  My body was glistening with the sunscreen, the smell of coconut wafting through the room.

  “Nope, not yet,” I said. I popped the cap back onto the bottle of sunscreen and replaced it in my binder.

  “Who are you? And why are you in here naked?”

  “I’m Dani, and it’s a long story. But, if you read tomorrow’s school newspaper, you’ll learn more.”

  The guy’s hands shook as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Could I get a picture of you?” he asked in a shaky voice. “Nobody will believe me when I tell them this.”

  “Ok,” I said. His nervousness
was kind of endearing.

  I stood by the desk as he pulled up his camera app and snapped a photo. I smiled and said, “They still may not believe you,” and stepped next to him, putting my arm around his waist. “Now, take a selfie with both of us.”

  He held the phone high and snapped a couple of pics. I didn’t let go of him until he had checked to make sure they had turned out well. I looked at them too and saw our smiling faces along with my bare breasts.

  “Thanks,” he said, as I turned away to grab my binder. “I’m Rusty, by the way.”

  “Rusty? I’m Danielle. Nice to meet you.”

  “So, you just decided to be a nudist one day?”

  “Yeah, kind of. Check out tomorrow’s paper.”

  I walked past him and started back to the dorm. I still had half an hour before the art class, and I wanted to leave my binder in my room. I didn’t know how much my Kindle was worth, and I didn’t want to leave it lying around while I was stuck up on the platform in art class.

  The sun was shining brightly, and the temperature had shot up into the lower 80s. My bare feet made plopping noise on the walkways, the concrete not yet too hot for bare skin. Like yesterday and this morning, I was aware of the looks and stares I was getting, but I didn’t mind anymore. Was I even growing to like them? The way everyone looked and snapped photos of me with their phones made me feel like some kind of movie star. All I was doing was walking across campus. I didn’t have any special talent. I was just in my natural state, not wearing clothes. Why, in a warm weather environment like this, were we as a species so compelled to wear clothes all the time? God, my thoughts were starting to sound like Dr. Slater’s speech to me the previous morning when she introduced this crazy project to me. My feelings toward her went from anger to amusement, just as my feelings about being naked in public went from fear, embarrassment, and humiliation to liberation, exhilaration, and maybe even euphoria. I was one confused naked girl.

  Holcombe Hall had apparently acquired a dedicated group of squatters. Several people, mostly men, were sitting cross-legged on the lawn beside the street in front of the dorm building. They rose in unison as I approached. I turned away from them as quickly as I could, cutting across part of the lawn to get into the building.