Coming Out

I'd never wanted to exploit my Gifts for commercial gain. It seemed to demean what the Great Goddess had granted me. Oh, I never had any illusions. I knew that if I took advantage of what I could do, I could accomplish just about anything. Hell, I could rule the world, if that were my ambition. But it isn't.

No. I just wanted to be left in peace. To find a way to make a quiet living and stay out of the spotlight. For one thing, I never relished the idea of ending up as some government experiment as the bureaucrats tried to figure out how I can do the things I can do. And I'm afraid of surrendering to the government more than to the papparazzi.

Unfortunately, circumstances were forcing me in the other direction. My business had fallen off to alarming levels. The economy was good enough, but the companies that formed the core of my clientele had decided to cut back on outside help. I was one of the easiest budget items to sacrifice. After all, they reasoned, I'm "only" a writer. What I do they could do themselves. Not true, of course, but how do you argue with a manager who doesn't understand the difference between a good job and a mediocre one -- and therefore can't justify paying for the good one?

Complicating matters, I had underestimated my tax liability that year, and much of what I had set aside as a reserve against lean times had gone to satisfy my tax obligations.

So I was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I had to come up with some way to stem the tide.

Oh, I had lots of choices. I could capitalize on sheer sex appeal and blatantly play the men's game -- but by my own rules. <laughhhhh> That would have been easy. At 6'2" and with a considerable arsenal of attractive traits, I'd never had any trouble captivating both men and women as the situation demanded. The men were actually more difficult. So many men have fragile egos, and their insecurities left them afraid of me. Too bad, too. I'm pretty uninhibited for anyone who cares to find out.

But despite three decades of feminist legacy, many men found both my intellectual and physical prowess extremely difficult to deal with. My ex-husband had been one of the worst examples. He thought that in any relationship, the man should be able to dominate the woman -- intellectually if possible, but certainly physically. The fact that I could summon many times his physical strength became more than he could tolerate. That and the fact that women were more attracted to me than to him. And -- oh, yes -- I was unafraid to take the initiative in any situation. Yes -- any situation.

So I had the tools. But if I planned to take advantage of what I was, I could not confine it to the mundane. Nor did I intend to be subtle. Subtlety is a state of mind totally foreign to my nature. Just ask anyone who knows me.

Besides, by the time I finally decided to act, my financial situation had approached the desperate. I had to do something quickly or risk plunging further into debt.

Eventually, Fate took a hand. Walking downtown one afternoon I spotted two guys running down the street carrying bags -- money they'd stolen from the big bank on one corner. The security people were far behind. The "boys" were going to get away.

I couldn't let that happen. I felt I had no choice. Their car wasn't parked 50 feet from me. I waited until they got in, ran up to it, put my fist through the drivers' window, then pulled the door off and crushed it as though it were made of so much paper.

The driver looked at me in horror. His buddy started to fumble for some kind of a weapon. I grabbed the running board and lifted the left side wheels completely off the ground. Both men lost their balance and with it their chance to escape from me.

I said to the driver, "That door wasn't very sturdy. I wonder if your head would be harder." I watched the color drain from his face. "You guys going to go peacefully? Or am I going to have to persuade you?"

They quickly, almost desperately, began to throw the money out to me. The bank guard had caught up to us by then and took custody of it and our friends. Not wanting any more publicity than I could manage, I left. I figured that would be the end of it. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The newspaper contained eye-witness accounts, but fortunately nobody had come forward with any pictures. I was home free.

Then I saw a news broadcast by the bank president. Seems that the bank's bonding company pays a 10% reward for any sums recovered from a bank robbery. The thieves had absconded with nearly 1.2 million dollars. That meant I had claim to $120,000. Nice stake, if I could take advantage of it.

The catch of course was that I had to accept it publicly and I had to prove I was the person at the scene.

I contacted both the bank and the bonding company, pleading with them to allow me to accept the money without the publicity. No dice. They thought of it as a great human-interest story -- and great advertising besides.

I needed the stake. I needed time to figure out how to use what I had been Given. This solution had been thrust upon me, but that didn't mean I had to do things entirely their way. I told the bank's people that I wanted control over what pictures got published and how. They agreed, although reluctantly. Still, enough people had seen me. I had worn little on that hot spring day. A tank top and white shorts, along with my customary white socks and running shoes. With the embellishments added by the eyewitnesses, I was Circe herself.

They figured my insistence simply meant that I wanted to make sure they used the best pictures, that I looked right in them, and so on. My agenda was a little different.

A lawyer friend of mine drew up some agreements for the photographers. On the surface, they seemed relatively innocuous. Oh, the penalty clauses seemed severe, but if no one violated the contract that wouldn't matter.

I arranged to have all photographers and videographers who would be present sign the agreement in advance. No other cameras would be permitted. Also, I insisted there be NO live audience. No sense in exposing me to any more scrutiny than necessary.

We'd chosen a soundstage. It offered the most facilities with the least hassle. A large car sat unobtrusively in one corner of the stage. An assortment of crowbars and other metal objects lay strewn nearby.

I arrived a few minutes early. I wore a yellow wraparound that showed off my charms to good effect. I caught a number of compliments (charming as well as crude) as we readied for the big event.

I noticed the number of cameras set up. No one knew what to expect, but since they already signed contracts to publish any pictures my way, they wanted to be sure they got some I would like.

The bank president stepped up to the podium and the cameras began to roll. I sat behind him as he extolled my virtue and bravery. (I blushed. It didn't take a lot of bravery. I know what I can do.) Then he introduced me, and in my mind I could hear the canned applause that would accompany the broadcast when it hit the airwaves.

As I stood up, my dress fell to the floor in an instant, leaving my totally nude body on display for all to see. I did a few casual flexxes just to show off, then walked up to receive my reward.

The bank president stood there with his mouth open. He said quietly, "You can't do this. It's indecent!!"

I smiled demurely. "I am doing it. And indecent? I contend that if G-d wanted us to walk around naked, we would have been born that way." It was his turn to blush. "What's more, by our agreement, any published pictures must be unaltered. No blurring out the "naughty" bits. They can be cropped -- that's all. Anyone who violates my conditions -- well, remember some of you thought the penalties a bit harsh."

The president flushed, then frowned. "Considering all the publicity this episode has already received, you leave me no alternative."

I pantomimed a curtsy, its irony not lost on him. I then resumed a relaxed demeanor and turned to him. He scowled.

He began. "Ms. Samuels, your accomplishment last week was extraordinary. You risked your life to catch those men. [HAH!! Risked my life?]

"In recognition of your deed, and in keeping with longstanding bank and bonding company policy, we reward you 10% of the recovered funds. Are you sure I heard you right? You wanted it in cash? It's still not too late to cut a check."

I replied that I wanted the cash.

He continued, "Although several of the witnesses have identified you as the person at the scene, there were no photographs. You'll understand if we would like additional proof of what you did that day."

I knew that was coming. He'd wanted a circus. He hadn't planned on my pulling a "Lady Godiva", but he kept a straight face -- much to his credit.

I felt like a contestant on a game show. He led me to the pile of metal, picked up a tire iron and handed it to me. "How strong are you really?" he asked skeptically. I took the two ends of the iron and bent them effortlessly into a pretzel shape. He gasped, but continued.

The next metal bar he handed me was more substantial, but I had no more trouble bending it around into a doughnut shape. Hey! He wanted a show. He was going to get one. His discomfort began to permeate the stage. He had no idea what to make of me. Like so many men I meet, he couldn't decide if he was incredibly attracted to me or simply terrified.

I couldn't suppress a smile. That didn't help him as the beads of sweat began to pour from his forehead.

"Ms. Samuels, you are without doubt the person the witnesses described. I don't need any further proof. But I can't resist. Will you lift the car?"

Now I really did chuckle, a delicious look of triumph on both his face and mine -- although for different reasons.

I milked it a little, beckoning to the cameras and playing the free spirit that I am. Give 'em what they want! If this was to be my fate, let me do it the best I can. So I casually walked up to it, put one hand under the chassis under the front bumper (I'd long ago learned that if you pick a car up by the bumper, all you get is a bumper. This is more -- dramatic.) and lifted the front end of the car as though it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. The gasps that followed were genuine, emanating from every human being on the set.

He handed me the suitcase. I thanked him politely, stopped to retrieve my dress (I put it back on when I was out of camera range. I didn't want them to get any clothed shots they could use) and left. I knew well what I had done. I hoped I wouldn't regret my decision. But my choices were go public or forego the money. I can be an altruist up to a point, but -- after all -- a girl still has to make a living.