Christmas Shopping: Exhibitionists Diaries

The mall is loud in that padded, echoing December way—holiday music bleeding together, carts rattling, kids tired and loud, couples arguing quietly about gifts. It’s gray and wet outside, so everyone’s inside. Shoulder-to-shoulder traffic.

Macy’s is packed.

Kaylee blends in.

Mid–late 20s. Put together. Confident without looking like she’s trying. Long hair down, light makeup, clean and intentional. She’s wearing a deep red, very low-cut top tucked into a short denim skirt, simple boots she can walk in. No coat. Her posture is relaxed, like she has nowhere else to be.

She browses cosmetics first. Chats briefly with a clerk. Laughs once.

Kaylee: “Thanks—yeah, that’ll work.”

Normal. Forgettable.

Then she drifts toward women’s clothing.

The fitting rooms are busy—attendants juggling hangers, shoppers cycling in and out. Kaylee picks a small stack of tops and shorts and waits, weight on one hip, phone in hand. When her door opens, she steps inside without hesitation.

The door closes.

A short pause.

Clothes slide to the floor.

Kaylee listens. Footsteps. Bags rustling. A voice down the hall.

She opens the fitting room door just enough to look like a mistake.

She’s completely nude, body angled toward the mirror, one hand on the door, the other resting casually on her thigh. No rush. No tension.

An older woman walking past stops cold.

Her eyes flick down. Then up. Then away.

Too late.

Her husband, a step behind, sees more. His wife grabs his arm and pulls him forward, whispering sharply. He stumbles, still looking back for a second longer than he should.

Kaylee closes the door.

Inside, she exhales. Not smiling—just settled. She dresses quickly, movements efficient, controlled, like this went exactly as planned.

Outside, the fitting room attendant looks unsettled.

Two nearby shoppers whisper. One shakes her head.

Shopper (low): “That’s not okay.”

The attendant steps away from the desk and lifts her radio.

Fitting Room Attendant (quiet, tense): “Yeah—can I get security to women’s apparel? Dressing rooms. We’ve got a situation.”

Moments later, Kaylee steps out of the stall fully dressed. She adjusts her top once, smooths her skirt. She doesn’t look at anyone—not out of fear, but restraint.

The crowd keeps moving. Christmas music keeps playing.

A radio crackles somewhere nearby.

And that’s when you get the call.

The mall doesn’t ease up after the first call. Families keep flooding in with bags stacked on arms, kids restless and loud, Christmas décor glowing off polished tile. A donation bell rings somewhere near the entrance. By the time the first complaint is logged and left her with a warning, she’s already crossed into the shoe department.

It’s a different layout here—wide aisles, clear sightlines, benches spaced just close enough to feel exposed. She knows the kind of traffic this section pulls. People waiting. People watching.

She picks up a pair of boots and walks to the counter.

Kaylee: “Hey—can I try these on? And the same pair in a half-size down?”

The clerk nods. Mid-20s, polite, a little nervous. He disappears into the back.

Kaylee sits.

Crosses her legs.

The skirt shifts higher than it should. She doesn’t correct it.

She pulls out her phone, scrolling without really looking, shifting once like she’s settling in. Casual. Controlled.

The clerk comes back and drops to one knee to set the boxes down.

He looks.

Then looks away.

Too late.

His face goes red.

Shoe Clerk: “Uh—sorry—these should be the right ones.”

He sets the box down too fast and straightens up.

Kaylee notices. She always does.

She lifts her foot and rests it on the edge of the bench, opening her posture just enough to remove any doubt.

Kaylee: “Thanks. I’ve been walking all day. These malls are brutal.”

Two men down the row stop talking.

One coughs. The other leans back, eyes lingering until a woman comes up beside him and he snaps forward.

The clerk backs away, muttering something about being at the register.

Kaylee slips one boot on, then off again. No hurry. No reaction.

Across the department, a woman leans toward another shopper.

Shopper (low): “She’s not wearing anything under that skirt.”

Someone flags down a floor associate.

A radio crackles.

Floor Associate: Speaking quietly “Security to women’s shoes. Same description as earlier.”

Kaylee stands, smooths her skirt, expression flat—like whatever just happened already stopped mattering.

That’s when you get redirected, hurrying to catch up with her before she leaves that area

After you pull her aside and warn her for the 2nd time, the mall keeps moving like nothing happened. Music, crowds, the constant noise of people spending money.

Kaylee heads straight for the food court.

It’s busy. Lines backed up, tables full, people eating fast before getting back to shopping. She picks a table near the edge where foot traffic passes close but not close enough to bump into her.

She sets her tray down and sits.

Then she props her feet up on the empty chair across from her.

Casual. Comfortable. Like she’s been sitting that way all day.

From where she is, anyone walking past gets a clear view. Anyone sitting nearby can’t miss it. She doesn’t adjust or rush to cover herself. She just eats.

Fork up. Bite. Chew.

She watches people react without looking straight at them. Reflections in metal railings. The way heads turn and then snap forward again.

One man a few tables away notices and keeps staring.

Kaylee catches it immediately.

She looks right at him.

Kaylee: “Problem?”

Her tone is flat. Not flirty. Not defensive.

The man looks away fast, suddenly very interested in his food.

Another person walking past slows, clearly clocking the situation. A woman mutters something under her breath as she passes.

Kaylee keeps eating.

Feet still up. Posture relaxed.

She doesn’t escalate. She doesn’t move.

She just sits there, daring anyone to make it an issue.

And a few moments later, your radio goes off again.

She doesn’t leave the mall. She follows you pretending to be just another shopper moving the same way, head down, pace steady, eyes catching reflections in glass and metal.

The service hallway behind the stores is quieter. No music. Just lights humming and footsteps on tile.

She waits until you unlock the security office.

Then she slips in behind you before the door closes.

Kaylee: “So this is where you take people.”

She shuts the door herself.

The room is small. Desk. Monitors. Charging radios. A couple of chairs against the wall. It smells like old coffee and warm electronics.

She looks around once, like she’s taking inventory.

Then she looks at you.

She sets her purse on the desk. Takes off her jacket and drapes it over a chair. The movements are calm and deliberate, like she already made up her mind.

Kaylee: “You’ve pulled me aside 3 times now.”

She steps closer, stopping well inside personal space.

Kaylee: “So what’s next?”

Her hand goes to the hem of her top. She looks at you.

Kaylee: “You keep telling me what not to do.”

She pulls the top off and lets it drop with the jacket. She doesn’t rush. She just stands there, shoulders back, eyes steady.

Kaylee: “I want to know what you’re actually going to do about it.”

Behind you, the monitors keep cycling through camera feeds. Shoppers. Hallways. Christmas crowds moving like nothing is happening.

She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t raise her voice. She just waits. For the first time all day, there’s no crowd, no noise, no audience.

Just the room.

And the decision in front of you.