William-Adolphe Bouguereau. The Birth of Venus. 1879.

Tiffy shed what remained of her clothes at the director's request with a shrug. Yes, it was just a deodorant commercial, but hey—this was Europe.

"Very good, very good!" the director said with a clap of his hands as her dress puddled at her feet. "Now go stand on the clam."

Tiffy approached the half shell, past her equally nude co-stars, who were either lounging in a shallow pool with a couple of dolphins or fresh-from-the-womb babies strung up by nearly invisible harnesses and hovering overhead, sans diapers. She prayed she wouldn't get pissed on, or worse. Stripping down for deodorant was one thing, but her threshold for golden showers was nonexistent.

"Places, everyone, places!" The director gesticulated vaguely as if trying to instill trust in his peers he knew what he was doing. Still, as per his instructions, places were taken, clackers were clacked, and "Action!" was called for.

With all the confidence in the world, Tiffy lifted her arms overhead, entwining her fingers in her hair as she jutted her left hip out.

"Sure!" the voiceover shouted upon Tiffy baring her freshly shaved armpits.

Her costars shrunk away, elbows in close as they gazed enviously toward Tiffy.

"Unsure!" sounded the voiceover.

"Cut!" the director commanded. "That was perfect. Just fifty-two more takes!"

Tiffy stifled a yawn as her hands dropped back to her sides and she did a couple of shoulder rolls. Hopefully this would be a quick fifty-two takes; she had an audition for antiperspirant later and was sure it'd be her big break.

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