by Chuck Austen
“Anyone seen Psylocke?” he asked me.
“Morgan, what…”
“Warren,” he said rather sternly. Then wandered off without another word.
It was a lot like the first time I learned Mimsi was gay. Suddenly you’re no longer allowed to be a homophobe because you’re faced with it being someone you know and care for. Their sexuality may still make you a bit uncomfortable, but from now on you’ll keep it to yourself, learn to understand, and be supportive of the one you love. Or, in Morgan’s case, at least someone you like hanging out with.
Ironically, Morgan claimed to have spent the next three days trying to get under the blue body-paint of a ‘hottie in a Nightcrawler suit’. But on the final evening of the convention, when she at last relented—likely because nothing better than Morgan had come along—he couldn’t get past the idea that Nightcrawler was a guy, even though it was a woman portraying him, Peter Pan-like.
Somehow, even after it was apparently quite obvious that she was genuinely a woman once he’d gotten her costume off, and she was mostly naked right down to her painted, blue skin, he believed that by her pretending to be a guy, his being attracted to ‘Kurt’ called his own sexuality into question. Why it should make a difference once she was mostly naked and willing I honestly don’t know, but Morgan has attained a level of homophobia that clearly sets a new standard for the term.
Amazingly, our friendship had survived all this, and Morgan had—in his own way—been as good a friend as he was capable of being. Which wasn’t much, but I was, obviously, not picky.
“You should write fan-fic again,” he said as we prepared to climb into our cars and head home for the night.
“Nah,” I sighed. “I’ve said all I had to say about superheroes and their intimate sex lives.”
“But you were so good.”
He was genuinely complimenting me, and I was touched by his sincerity, if not his judgment.
“Thanks,” I said appreciatively. “But no.”
“We could make another movie. I could be Archangel. The real Archangel, not that wimpy guy from X-Men three. People would love it!”
Not likely. Morgan and I had wasted a lot of our time, first studying how to make movies, and then, ostensibly, making them. Unfortunately for us, no one else wanted to be in them, and there’s only so much drama you can get from watching a guy wander around by himself picking things up and putting them back down again.
It’s a sad day when you realize Ed Wood, or Doris Wishman may actually have had more talent than you.
“Maybe,” I said, not meaning it.
“You just gotta do it,” Morgan said. “You can’t care what people think.”
He stared at me for a long time, waiting. Then, in a last, supreme effort to be honestly supportive, he told me, “Just because a couple of assholes online said you sucked, doesn’t mean you do.”
I said nothing. We’d had this debate before and there was no winning it. Not for Morgan anyway.
Morgan dejectedly got into his little, beat-up Toyota, I got into my recently detailed BMW, and we drove off in very opposite directions.
I pulled my car onto Vale Place and passed through the gates at number 1. The familiar feel of gravel crunching under my wheels as I approached the oaken entry doors told me I was home. Safe. Warm. Grandfatherless. I could hump all the water bottles I wanted to here and no one would complain. Except perhaps the Sparkletts man, but he could be paid for his silence.
I live in a very exclusive neighborhood known as Epsoms Roads in a house with more rooms than cells in my body. It often amuses me to think that I could be thoroughly dismembered, every piece of me hidden in a different room, a separate part of the house, and it would take specialized CSI people years to find them all and put me back together again.
Yes, I have a dark side. Who doesn’t?
As I stood in my foyer surrounded by all the opulence; lavish furnishings, very expensive first issues of exceedingly rare comics, and original art lining the walls at regular intervals, I, once again felt eternally grateful to whatever fluke of genetics had made me very rich.
And, as you might imagine, I wanted to stay rich. I would go to the comics convention. Something completely asexual and uninteresting. Let someone else examine Ms. Nuckeby and her nonclothing. My odds were far better never seeing her again and hoping they hired someone who would have less luck with controlling his urges than I’d had. Having seen Ms. Nuckeby, I knew that to be damn near impossible for anyone; anyone interested in women that is. And his foregone failings would forever cement my position as voyeur du jour at Wopplesdown Struts, purveyors of fine briefs. But…what if they hired a gay man? Or—God forbid—a straight woman? Promoted Agrapanthila? Moved Mervin over from men’s underwear? Ms. Nuckeby wouldn’t have near the same effect on them that she had on me.
Damn. I needed a drink. And those Frezee-Pacs I’d bought. “Woodruff?” I called.
Woodruff is my butler. His job is to wait on my every need, and he does so reasonably well, mostly because I have very few needs. He’s a little long in years and not the best manservant around. In fact, if it were anyone but me employing him, he’d likely be dead in a ditch by now at their hand.
“WOODRUFF?”
Nothing. He might be sleeping in a corner somewhere. He had a habit of doing that—stopping and dropping off—sometimes in the middle of a sentence.
“Mister Wopplesdown, your bath is—zzzzzzzzzzz…”
One got used to it.
I opened my evening paper hoping to forget my woes by focusing on someone else’s and tossed my coat onto a nearby divan from the eighteenth century, but which held a discarded coat as well as anything made in the seventeenth century—damn those snooty, seventeenth-century people.
I noticed in the headlines that there was something of worldaltering political significance going on in some other part of the globe and promptly skipped past it to the sports and comics sections. Those annoying political things take up a vast amount of valuable newspaper space that would be better left to athletics, funnies, and crossword puzzles if you ask me.
I was still trying to figure out the latest Opus cartoon, and confused as to why I never found it funny, when Woodruff wandered in carrying my evening drink with the shirttail of his tuxedo hanging out. As I took the offered libation, I found myself wondering if he had enjoyed his own adventure with a water bottle today as well. I folded away Opus and made a mental note to set it on fire later (something not to be filed under ‘Things To Promptly Forget’).
“Woodruff? How are you this evening?”
“Still breathing, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen. I’m going out of town tomorrow and staying through the weekend at least. Could I trouble you to pack me a bag, please?”
There was a momentary pause as Woodruff stared at me blankly.
“You could trouble me,” he said hopefully.
“Yes,” I said more pointedly. “I could.”
“Sooo…” he said, giving up rather quickly I thought. “…a week? That’s a good deal of luggage, sir.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“I just did. It’s a lot of luggage, sir. So—you’ll be needing that first thing in the morning then?”
“If I plan to take it with me, yes. That’s the idea. Is there a problem?”
He stared blankly again; he seemed right on the verge of saying something else, but finally changed his mind. “No, sir. No problem.”
He stared a moment longer. Then, as though he saw death about to overtake him with its swinging scythe of…em…death, the old man shuffled off in the direction of the stairs. There are a lot of them. Stairs. And within minutes that seemed like hours, I heard the methodical THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Of the ancient Woodruff ascending. I took a sip of my organic grape-apple-cranberry juice blend and smacked in deep satisfaction.
“Oh, and Wo
odruff. I think I’d like to take a swim this evening.”
The thumping on the stairs stopped. There was a longer pause.
“Will you be bathing anytime soon, sir?”
“Now, I think,” I said and heard him sigh heavily. I took another sip and considered. “Yes. Definitely now. I need the relief after the day I’ve had.”
He sighed again.
Another lengthy pause.
Nothing.
Then finally, “Very good, sir.”
THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Woodruff descended. After a number of thumps equal to the ones for the ascending, Woodruff turned the corner once more, looking for all the world as if he might at any moment suffer a welcome coronary. Apparently exhausted, he leaned against the doorjamb and breathed heavily.
“Indoors…or outdoors… sir?”
“The pool? Outdoors. It’s summer, Woodruff.”
“It all…blends together…sir. Will you…require…a bathing suit?”
“No. No, tonight will be au naturel, Woodruff. Just a towel for me, thank you.”
“But…the neighbor…sir…Mister…Weebimix…”
“To hell with Weebimix, Woodruff. Let him take in the glory that is me this evening. A bracing dip in the altogether is just what the doctor ordered.”
“Your doctor, perhaps, sir. Not mine.”
“Oh, and can you put this in the freezer, please?”
I tossed him a bag containing the recently purchased ice packs. He looked inside then glanced up at me, curious.
“Injured, sir?”
“A little swelling. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“I wasn’t concerned, sir.”
And with that, Woodruff departed like molasses over sandpaper, oozing down a corridor that led to the outside pool.
There’s nothing like the gentle sensation of cool water flowing freely over one’s testicles. Take it from someone who has them.
I had just enjoyed my third or fourth lap in the pool, much to the immense irritation of the man Grandfather makes me let live in my guesthouse, Bailey Weebimix, whose upstairs office window afforded him a full-frontal view of my swimming. This was my little method of payback for his dog’s endless incontinent episodes on my various lawns. Or perhaps that was his payback for my endless late evening skinny-dips. Once in full motion, it was often difficult to tell where the cycle of life began.
To be honest, though, my thorough enjoyment of this evening’s naked float had less to do with annoying Weebimix than it had to do with reminiscing about Wisper Nuckeby. There was something so captivating about her, so utterly enchanting, so blazingly sexual, that in spite of (or perhaps in conjunction with) the terror of potential loss of home, possessions, and livelihood, mere moments into reimagining her in my mind’s eye I was forced to turn over and swim face down so as not to expose more than even I was comfortable revealing to old-man Weebimix. Let’s just say the human rudder began to put up some rather fierce drag.
Fortunately, that drag had a rather sensual quality, not unlike the actual ‘act’ itself, and before long I was frog-kicking my way toward ecstasy, praising the name of Ms. Nuckeby very loudly in silent prayer, for the first time actually thanking whatever perverted gods might have caused her to arrive half-naked before me earlier that day.
Rather quickly, illicit thoughts of her combined with the flow of water to become a rather potent combination. So much so in fact that I felt the need to finish out the obvious, and had concluded that swimming alone might not be sufficiently stimulating.
As I passed the filter pump, noisily floofing theoretically cleaned water back out into my pool, a brilliant idea flowed over me like warm honey. Or perhaps not so brilliant. But when the human male is nearing climax, sticking his most precious body part into a machine whose primary function is to remove foreign objects from the water surrounding them will oddly seem somehow brilliant. It’s only after the paramedics have been called that the truth becomes rather obvious.
Consequently, I swum my way over to the wall where the jets were blowing warm, frothy liquid in a steady stream so that I might engage in what was now, in my altered state of consciousness, how the original designers had always intended their jets to be used. I rested my arms on the brick ledge, positioned myself appropriately, and leaned back to let Ms Nuckeby do the things to me in my mind that even Grandfather would have had to admit clearly made me a heterosexual.
The experience was intense. Glorious. Amazing. The most fantastic sexual experience I’ve had since—well—since actual sex I suppose. What made it so magnificent, though, I knew, was the mental image of the elegant, sensual, and willing Ms. Nuckeby. As I was nearing culmination, I realized the only thing that could make this experience any better was the actual Ms. Nuckeby.
Which is just about when she showed up.
“Mister Wopplesdown?” Ms. Nuckeby asked quietly. “Yes, Ms. Nuckeby?” I purred sensually.
Then, deftly realizing that her voice was coming from outside my head rather than inside it, my eyes shot open and there she was, just as she had been mere moments ago in my mind’s eye. Except not naked or straddling me.
I jerked so hard, I convulsively drove my ‘thingsis’ deep into the jet tube, far beyond the manufacturer’s recommended limit (I’m sure there is one), and for the second time that day found myself stuck in something I really shouldn’t.
“Ms. Nuckeby!” I repeated with more awareness. “What…? Who…? How…?”
She held out her hands to calm me and the bouncing of the braless breasts under her shirt did just the opposite. She was wearing far more than she had this afternoon—jeans, top, shoes, jewelry—and yet she was sexier than ever. I felt additional swelling below the surface and realized I might be stuck there for several days.
“I’m sorry, Mister Wopplesdown. I didn’t mean to intrude. Your butler said it would be all right.”
“Oh, did he? Well, he’s going to get the surprise of his life the next time he’s naked in the…” I paused, realizing she might not as yet be aware of the fact that I was, in every way, naked. Or—that I had my wanker shoved someplace that was likely to void my pool service contract for life.
“…tub.” I finished, correcting myself, barely in time.
Unfortunately, as you can probably figure out for yourself, the ‘correction’ created a whole new set of problems.
My ill-conceived choice of word, together with the lobotomized look on Ms. Nuckeby’s face, struggled valiantly through the waxy build-up that protects my brain from the avoidable twin traumas of understanding and reason, and kicked in the door marked ‘No solicitors, no peddlers, no intellejent thots. Deliveries in rear.’ Having stormed the Castle of Debatable Intellect, my words and her expression together knocked down my mind, tied it up, waterboarded it, and forced it against its will to sign a confession stating that it was, indeed, stupid.
Unable to face the truth, my brain fainted.
“In…in…in the…uh…the tub,” I said, foolishly continuing as if more brainless words were either needed or helpful.
I tried desperately to kick my mental engine back to life, but only managed to get my foot caught in the gears. “Because…that’s when I…or rather when he…would be…uh…you know…naked. As opposed to in an…uh…outdoor pool, where one should always…and by that I mean always…wear clothes,” I said. “Always.”
“Really?” she said, genuinely surprised. “I never do.”
Bloop.
Without a doubt, I would die, stuck here.
“And anyway,” she continued, “why would you want to give him the surprise of his life in the tub—and when he’s naked?”
“Because he never uses the pool.”
I could see by her lost expression that the best method of clarifying this line of thought might be to stop talking entirely. “What can I do for you, Ms. Nuckeby?”
“Well, I apologize for comi
ng by unannounced, but I really felt the need to explain my behavior this afternoon during the garment viewing.”
“Oh, really, Ms. Nuckeby. That’s not necessary. Your behavior was entirely appropriate. My behavior, on the other hand…”
Slowly, horribly, a groaning noise had begun to build from some machinery behind the shrubs that did pool-related things. Never having seen, let alone touched, any of them in my life, I only vaguely knew where they were, and what their true purpose was. But even my limited experience told me they were, at this very moment, having difficulty overcoming some obstruction in the pipes.
“My behavior, on the other hand,” I continued, speaking more loudly and pretending the noise and whatever was causing it did not exist in my world, “is what requires an apology. You see…”
Behind the bushes something began to grind, and was apparently making serious inroads toward blowing up. A furious amount of bubbles began to rise up all around me as if I were having the indigestion episode of a lifetime. Ms. Nuckeby was beginning to show the strain of splitting her attention between me and the nowdeafening noise that I—apparently—could not hear.
“YOU SEE,” I shouted to be heard above the clanking bangs that had joined in the chorus. “I’M NOT EVEN SURE HOW TO BEGIN…”
“MISTER WOPPLESDOWN, THERE SEEMS TO BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR POOL EQUIPMENT!”
“YOU THINK? INTERESTING. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHAT.”
“SHOULD WE CALL SOMEONE?”
“TO FIX IT? DO YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO WORKS NIGHTS?”
“NO. MAYBE YOUR BUTLER DOES.”
“MY BUTLER DOESN’T WORK DAYS, MS. NUCKEBY. BUT IF YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO ASK HIM—OH! YOU MEANT HE MIGHT KNOW A POOL MAN. EXCELLENT IDEA. WHY DON’T YOU GO AND CHECK WITH HIM, WHILE I CONTINUE TO MONITOR THE SITUATION FROM OUT HERE.”
I gestured toward the house, indicating that she should feel free to run inside and away from my nakedness. Slowly, showing herself to be unsure whether there might not be something seriously wrong with the chemical balance of my brain, she peeled herself away and headed for the door. I watched her go, my eyes wandering places they really shouldn’t for a man trying to counteract disadvantageous swelling, and did myself absolutely no good in aiding the extrication process.
