Naked

Her grandmother worked as an accountant at a meatpacking plant and often brought her granddaughter along. Among the endless rows of document shelves, there was always a spot to hide. And it was far safer there than in the pedagogical dungeons of that era, where the self-righteous daycare matrons shamelessly tormented their defenseless charges, yanking them by the hair and calling them names. Like when you couldn't fall asleep because you desperately needed the bathroom after lunch—while the teachers, just to flex their authority, only allowed bathroom breaks on a rigid schedule, and strictly BEFORE meals.

Anyway, surrounded by adults busy shuffling through accounting reports, she was bored to tears. Besides, having already devoured a decent dose of fiction, she was rapidly skipping through the usual phases of puberty. She craved romance and adventure. Boys her age seemed hopelessly stunted, while a thirst for thrills beckoned her.

And so, she came up with the idea of wandering along one of the massive stairwells in her grandmother’s building (it was a monumental, multi-story structure) with her little dress hitched up and her panties pulled down. A true Nabokovian muse.

During working hours, the stairwell was deserted, and an intoxicating rush of adrenaline washed over her. The sheer mischief of it—and her absolute right to commit it—made her head spin. After all the bans and restrictions—freedom! At least in this one thing. Her makeshift stage was right by the window (the grounds below were completely empty). But that hardly mattered: if someone did spot her, the "cancan dancer" would simply bolt.

Perfect! The bust of Lenin in her grandmother’s office knew everything, and that was a good thing—she had a co-conspirator to wink at, someone to share the secret. And then one day... Yes, of course, it happened—one day.

One flight up, a young man materialized, leaning over the railing. Caught completely exposed, the star of her own private theater—whose audience had so far been entirely imaginary—stared in shock into the intense, wide-open eyes of a real spectator from above. It felt as if the beads of his masculine sweat were about to drip right onto her.

The tension reached a fever pitch (as Freud wrote, sometimes nature awakens early), and the little hooligan darted straight back into the matriarch's office, just managing to catch a glimpse of her startled spectator heaving for breath.

Ever since then, she gets a thrill out of being watched: she enjoys the raw exposure of her image and her thoughts. That’s exactly how one becomes an exhibitionist, right? The heroine still carries the "banner of sensual freedom" she hoisted back then, and that guy apparently became... Well, they certainly left an indelible mark on each other, even though they never crossed paths again.

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel