by Chuck Austen
“You see, Ms. Nuckeby…“ I said, the words hanging a bit in my throat, “if I were to ignore the combined wisdom of our many, highly paid legal counselors on this subject and be dangerously honest, I find you—truly—the most attractive women I’ve ever seen, in person or on the Internet. And your personality is certainly scoring some…eh…significant points in this closet.
“To expose myself further—I mean, legally, I mean, not…em…you know—I would love nothing more than to find some way for us to…uh,” my voice trailed off. The room was filled with quiet breathing. I slowly, cautiously, took her hand. It trembled slightly at my touch. “But—you see—I have this problem…”
And as if on cue, Woodruff finally reached the front door, and once opened, in burst my problem himself.
“Where’s Corky?” I heard Grandfather bellow from out in the foyer.
“I’m never coming out of this closet,” I said.
“Oh,” Ms. Nuckeby said, withdrawing her hand. “So, it’s true.”
“What? Oh, no!” I said, almost too loudly. “I meant literally ‘this closet’. That’s my grandfather just arrived. He’s the problem I have.”
“Oh,” she said again, her voice dropping to a safer whisper. She stifled a laugh. “I guess I don’t blame you. He seems a bit…difficult.”
“Word problems are difficult, Ms. Nuckeby. Grandfather is an uphill mountain mud-run dressed in cement.”
I could hear him moving around in the foyer, shoes clapping in circles as he undoubtedly tossed coat, gloves, hairpiece, and whatever else to poor Woodruff, who like as not wanted to toss them right back.
“Mister Wopplesdown is not in, sir.”
“Bullshit! His car’s right out front.”
“Mister Wopplesdown is…” Woodruff stalled. “…In another part of the building, sir.”
“Well, get him. I need to talk to him before the others get here.”
The others? What OTHERS?
“The others, sir?” Woodruff asked. Clearly almost as agitated as I, though for entirely different reasons I’m sure.
“Yes. The family’s coming over with a few guests. We have a solution to this Corky problem.”
Corky problem? Ms. Nuckeby gasped. Did they know she was here? The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Turned white. And fell out.
“Would you care to adjourn to the study, sir? I’ll endeavor to find Mister Wopplesdown, and direct him to you.”
“Good. And bring me one of those big tumblers from the kitchen. I hate those tiny glasses he keeps in his liquor cabinet.”
“Of course, sir.”
“If he spent half the money on glasses that he does on these damn funnybooks, he might have some grownup friends instead of retards like that Wiggen boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Woodruff agreed, a bit too cheerily.
The nervous clicking feet moved away and there was a momentary silence. Then Woodruff opened the closet and began hanging Grandfather’s coat between Ms. Nuckeby and myself—rather metaphorically.
“Your grandfather is here, sir. He…”
“I heard! Get me some clothes, Woodruff.”
“Very good, sir. What should I select from your rather expansive wardrobe? Would you prefer the cotton pullover, and tan slacks, or are you feeling more in the mood for the other cotton pullover and tan slacks?”
“Ha! Aren’t you the charmer this evening! Bring me anything, Chuzzlewit! Just get them now, please.”
“Very good, sir.” Having hung the coat, he closed the door on myself and my delightful houseguest.
For a long time Ms. Nuckeby and I stood in silence, and I didn’t hear anything from the outer rooms. Then, after a seeming eternity:
THUMP
Pause.
THUMP
“Oh, dear God. I’ll die of old age waiting for him.”
“At least I’ll be right beside you, taking care of you in your twilight years,” Ms. Nuckeby said in that smiling-voiced way of hers. I warmed and calmed all at once.
“You know, you could likely escape, now,” I said, not wanting her to. “Before someone else arrives.”
THUMP
“Probably a good idea,” she said. “Why don’t you take that coat and run upstairs? We’ll make a break for it together.”
“I’m better off waiting. If Grandfather catches me with my bare bits rubbing against the inside of his good coat, he’ll feed me to starving Pomeranians.”
THUMP
“He owns Pomeranians?”
“He’d buy some, starve them, then slather me in bacon grease and toss me all into a very small cage.”
“Kinky,” she said. Then sounding genuinely sad, “Well. I suppose this is where we say goodbye.”
My heart sank. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted to kiss her. Parts of me wanted to do a lot more than that.
Bloop.
“I…eh…suppose so,” I said, not kissing her.
She waited. Did she want me to kiss her?
THUMP
“Okay,” she said, still waiting. “Well. I guess I’ll go now.”
She reached for the knob. The one on the door, unfortunately.
“So, do you suppose…em…” She paused.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I…” She couldn’t bring herself to ask whatever was on her mind.
THUMP
Damn the bloody lines. “Ms. Nuckeby. Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
Not the most romantic way of putting it, I suppose, but honest and to the point. In the dark, I could feel her smile.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“We could go down to Bourdaine’s,” I told her. “I’ve never been. But I hear their coat closets are to die for.”
She laughed. I overheated and had to turn slightly sideways to avoid poking her in the ribs.
THUMP
“I doubt it will be as much fun as this one,” she said and opened the door.
Light flooded in and nearly blinded me. Or was it her stunning beauty?
Ha! I’m such a sap.
She turned and looked at me, then her eyes were pulled down by the gravity of my manliness, which I had forgotten was now exposed to the illumination from the foyer, and she grinned with obvious pleasure. It was an unexpected reaction, and a satisfying one. Better than screaming and throwing things certainly.
“Had I known, I might not have opened the door,” she said and smiled at it.
I nearly pulled her back inside. Then, for a brief moment, the thought flashed, We hardly know each other. But being a man, it faded almost instantly.
“It’s very hard,” she said, staring.
“Yes. It really is.”
“Is it bruised?”
“No. That’s just…um…the bad light in here.”
“Oh,” she said, still staring at it intently. “Kind of a waste not to take advantage of it, don’t you think?”
Incredibly, it got harder. And throbbed.
“Oh, my!” she said.
I gulped. “Um, Grandfather is in the next room.”
She looked up at me sadly and sighed.
“I suppose he’s in every room, really.”
She was right. He was like a ghost, haunting me, Jacob Marleylike complete with chilled bones, chains, and moans. I was an idiot. This was my home. I could have sex with a supermodel in my closet if I wanted. To hell with lawsuits. You aren’t really considered rich if you aren’t being sued anyway.
Unfortunately, before I could say or do any of the wonderful things my fevered brain was finally starting to imagine, Ms. Nuckeby reluctantly and very slowly—glancing down repeatedly and smiling, I noted—closed the door. As I stood inside, aching for her to return, I heard her tentative footsteps on the floor of the foyer padding for the exit, and felt the loss of her for the second time that day.
Then the doorbell rang again, accompanied by several laughing voices on the porch and Ms. Nuckeby’s tennis shoes squeaked harshly on the f
oyer floor. They squeaked again, squeaked a third time, then rapidly padded back my way until the closet door suddenly exploded outward. Ms. Nuckeby, sheer terror in her eyes, practically fell into the darkness beside me and closed us both in again with a slam.
She had seen my erection and liked it. Now she was back, Grandfather was in the building, and yet others had arrived.
Can you see how this might be leading to trouble?
Somewhere overhead I heard Woodruff sigh with annoyance.
THUMP
Pause.
THUMP
Pause.
THUMP
Coming down.
“My clothes!” I said, loudly enough for only Ms. Nuckeby to hear. She didn’t reply—only breathed heavily—apparently still recovering from her near miss with whoever had just arrived. And—maybe—just a little from thoughts of my magnificent penis. At least that’s what I wanted to believe.
After several more Woodruff THUMPS, the newly arrived whoever-it-was felt they’d waited long enough and opened the entry door for themselves, shuffling, clicking, removing coats, and talking amongst themselves.
“—Why doesn’t he decorate—I love this neighborhood—how did he get this house—he still has those damned comics hanging everywhere—is that smoke back by the pool?”
Several genders, mostly female. One was my sister, another my younger brother, and the third sounded oddly familiar—
“Hellooooo, Woodruff! How ARE you?”
“Miss Wopplesdown. Mister Wopplesdown. Mister Wiggen. Good to see you.”
Morgan? What was he doing here?
“And Miss Butterwycke. How delightful to see you, again.”
That’s why it sounded familiar!
I nearly choked. Mindie Butterwycke? My lifelong secret love?
Standing naked in a closet beside Ms. Nuckeby with what seemed my entire family just outside, you couldn’t imagine it getting more awkward—but you are sadly lacking imagination.
“What brings you tonight?” Woodruff asked, apparently waiting for an answer to the exact question that I, myself, wanted an answer to. He could only be this efficient by accident.
“Well,” Mindie began, sounding oddly giddy, “it’s supposed to be a surprise for Corky, so I can’t tell you. But I think you’ll like it. I really, really think you’ll like it!” Her voice practically sang out, cockatiel-like.
“Who’s that?” Ms. Nuckeby asked.
“My…uh…er…old family friend,” I said, trying not to sound in any way interested. Curiously, my erection died like a carnival goldfish.
“Really? Because you sort of stiffened up. And not in a good way.”
“Did I? Fascinating. Because there’s no reason for me to. None whatsoever. Zip. Zero. Nada.” I considered continuing, but I still hadn’t learned Swedish.
Outside, Mindie forged on, talking about how much she loved my place, how it had everything one could want, except a woman’s touch, and that someday someone would make me get rid of all those damn cartoon books and pictures messing up the walls. She laughed. Others laughed. I gulped.
“None whatsoever?” Ms. Nuckeby asked, somehow unconvinced. What was she, psychic? “So, she’s not…like…an old flame, or anything?”
“Hardly,” I said, trying to come off as shocked and annoyed, but sounded mostly like I’d sucked helium.
“So you wouldn’t be nervous that she might find us in here, together. You in your ‘state of undress’ and all?”
I snorted derisively and felt something fly out of my nose. Please, God, don’t let it have landed on Ms. Nuckeby.
Outside, as if on cue, Mindie laughed, loudly and overly enthusiastically. Like Brad Pitt had dropped ice down the front of her pants and was holding it there while licking her neck.
”Wouldn’t bother her in the least,” I said confidently. If there was one thing I was certain of, it was Mindie’s indifference to my body. “She might be amused by it, as you can imagine. But bothered? No. Oh, no. Not in the least.”
“Then she couldn’t possibly mind if we were both naked, now, could she?”
Gloop.
It was just an up-and-down kind of day.
“I…uh…what are you saying, Ms. Nuckeby?”
“Well, I was just thinking,” she said leaning closer, “that since it seems we might be stuck in here a good, long while and all, that there’s no sense in you continuing to feel awkward because you’re the only one naked.”
I heard a button pop, and she began doing things that, mere moments ago, I would have paid her to do. But somehow the timing, now, was…ehhh…not so good.
Outside, Woodruff was directing the guests into the study with Grandfather, and I knew he was mere seconds from opening the closet door, yet again, with additional coats and derisive comments.
“Woodruff’s coming,” I said.
“I’d rather you were.”
I gasped in a very unmanly way for a man, yet for some reason she still moved closer and popped another button somewhere. Inexplicably, I was truly uncomfortable with her newest idea. Why, when a woman goes from being cute and sensual to overtly sexual it should oftentimes give men pause, I’ll never know. Something I’d learned in college about a Madonna and her whore slithered through my mind, but left only a slime trail. As I said, the thinking cells simply fail us males from time to time.
Maybe it was my inexperience with romance. Or maybe it had something to do with the growing number of people one panel of wood away, coupled with the fear of being caught and ridiculed by said people. They were family, after all, and that’s what family does in these situations—laugh scornfully and then dredge up the material at each and every opportunity thereafter until the end of time. Parties, family gatherings, wedding banquets, Internet blogs. Familial humiliation lives on forever, and grows funnier and funnier (to them) every time it’s remembered publicly.
It was bad enough to think of Grandfather lurking around out there, and possibly catching me illicitly engaged with an employee then disinheriting my ass. At least he might keep it a secret out of shame and lawsuit paranoia. But Morgan? Mimsi? Rupert? Daniel?
And Mindie? Why in God’s name was I thinking about her at this particular moment as more of Ms. Nuckeby’s buttons exploded open?
“I’m sorry, Ms. Nuckeby, but I’m really not up for something like this right now.”
She grabbed hold of the thing that proved me a liar.
“Liar,” she said.
“Whoa,” I said, swallowing something and hoping it wasn’t my tongue. “Really. I have a heart condition. Or am considering getting one. I’m just not cut out for this kind of daring.”
“I think you need a little daring in your life, Mister Wopplesdown. A little spontaneity! A little fun!” She laughed, attempting to encourage what just wasn’t there. “You’re too damned repressed for someone so young, and so cute.” Then she squeezed me in a way that would have made any man spontaneous, and daring, and fun. Like a Wright Brother, Jon Stewart, and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer all rolled into one. I’m cuuuuuuuuuuude!
“Life is hard enough,” she said, laughing, “not to take advantage of a little harmless joy when it comes your way.”
Then, horrifyingly on cue, the door opened, and I had to use Santa to obscure my Christmas present for Ms. Nuckeby. She turned away and smiled at Woodruff.
“Could you give us a moment, Woodruff?” she asked. “We were just about to have sex.”
I nearly passed out.
“Very good, madam,” Woodruff said and began closing the door. I stabbed a hand out and pulled him into my small, dark, sex chamber from hell, accidentally knocking the coats from his grip as I shut him in with us. He stood immobile beside me, arms at his sides, and though it was hard to tell in the darkness, he seemed not the least bit concerned that I was naked and shaking various body parts dangerously close to him in such a confined space.
“Why didn’t you send them away?” I asked him.
“Would you like me t
o, sir?”
“Yes!”
Ms. Nuckeby rubbed a hand up the back of my thigh and I jumped. “We both would,” she said.
“No,” I corrected, my mind racing around its brain track, and narrowly avoiding mental oil slicks. “Take your pants off.”
“Okay,” Ms. Nuckeby said, instantly unzipping her tight-fitting jeans, and hula dancing out of them.
“Not you!” I said.
“Ah,” Woodruff said. “Me, then? Assuming we three are the only ones in here.”
“Of course we are.”
“Very good, sir,” he said and began unzipping.
“Leave your pants on, please, Ms. Nuckeby.”
“Too late,” she said, and I felt her bend over, and push them down to her ankles. Dear God. Bend over? Push them down to her ankles? “Why should you two have all the fun?” she asked, straightening up and stepping completely out of her Levis.
“It’s not fun!” I whisper-shrieked. “It’s funless! There’s no fun to be had here! I simply want to get into Woodruff’s pants!”
I could feel her studying me. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
“It’s a question I’d like answered as well, sir,” Woodruff said, “before I continue.”
“Continue,” I said. “I am not gay.”
“Then wouldn’t you rather get into my pants?” Ms. Nuckeby purred, holding them out to me. “It would be easier. They’re already off.”
I began to have difficulty thinking. The image of Ms. Nuckeby standing beside me—pantsless—possibly not even wearing—Dear God—not even wearing—there had been no visible panty line…
“Are you…wearing underwear, Ms. Nuckeby?” I asked, the words vibrating, frog-like.
“Just a thong,” she said, and I knew she was smiling. “But you can have that too if you want.”
“Does this mean you won’t be needing my pants, sir?”
Things had gotten terribly out of hand here.
“Please put your pants back on,” I said.
Woodruff began refastening his.
“No, not you! Off! OFF!” I said.
“Very good, sir.”
“Ms. Nuckeby, please…”
“You should know,” she purred, “being in the clothes biz Mister Wopplesdown: It draws unflattering attention to oneself being the only person overdressed at a party,” she laughed. “And the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself.” She had become entirely too giddy. Maybe the air was getting thin in here.
