Maxie had always considered herself relatively good at getting naked. She had unhooked her bra mid-conversation, shimmied out of tight jeans in taxi backseats, and even once disrobed completely while holding a baguette and maintaining eye contact. But nothing had prepared her for the invitation she now held: "You are cordially invited to the Annual Striptease Soirée: Clothing optional, confidence mandatory."
She blinked at it. The paper smelled faintly of cocoa butter and audacity.
Held in a mirrored ballroom deep within the city's most exclusive cabaret club, the soirée was not merely an event. It was a rite of passage. Rumor had it that attendees experienced wardrobe malfunctions so elegant they were studied by fashion historians.
When Maxie arrived, she was greeted by a butler in nothing but cuffs and a bowtie who offered her a cocktail named "Shiver." It lived up to its name.
Inside, bodies shimmered. Everyone sparkled—sequins, glitter, oil. The dress code seemed to be "confidence meets clingfilm." A man in rhinestone suspenders was doing body rolls so hypnotic, Maxie briefly forgot how zippers worked.
At the center of it all was Delilah Déshabillé, queen of the undress. Her reputation for seduction through subtraction was legendary.
"Darling," she purred, appearing beside Maxie like a sensual fog. "Are you ready to dance your dignity off?"
Maxie grinned. "Wasn't using it anyway."
Delilah led her to a velvet-draped corner called the Strip Circle—a stage lit not by spotlight, but by a blush. Here, guests took turns performing their stripteases for the crowd. But it wasn't about nudity; it was about flair.
A woman peeled off a glove like it was a love letter. A man removed his belt with the reverence of a samurai drawing a sword. Someone unzipped their hoodie with such passion it caused a spontaneous group ovation.
Maxie, inspired, stepped into the circle.
Music cued: slow jazz infused with funk and just a hint of foreplay.
She started with her earrings. Deliberately. One at a time. Then came her scarf, which she spun like a lasso of longing. Her blouse followed—unbuttoned not from the top, but from the bottom, just to be cheeky.
The crowd gasped as she revealed a bra so ornate it looked like it had a PhD. She removed it with a wink and let it fly like a victory flag.
Her skirt slid down with the elegance of a diplomatic resignation. Her stockings—oh, her stockings—were removed so slowly the DJ had to loop the track.
By the time she stood in nothing but heels and confidence, the room erupted. Someone fainted. Delilah clapped with a single tear of pride.
Maxie curtsied.
Later, she was awarded the Golden Garter—the soirée's highest honor, bestowed only to those whose strip performance was described as "life-affirming."
Backstage, Delilah hugged her.
"You didn't just undress," she whispered, "you unveiled."
Maxie beamed. "Wait until you see how I fold laundry."
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Journal Entry:
> Step Eighteen: Undressed to impressed and somehow seduced a chandelier with my thigh-highs.
I think I might have invented a new form of interpretive disrobing. Also, pretty sure Delilah wants to adopt me.
P.S. Next year I'm bringing tear-away trousers and a smoke machine.