by Chuck Austen
“You don’t know her…”
“And you do? I saw your expression. You didn’t even know she had parents, did you?”
I lowered my head sadly.
“How long have you been acquainted with this woman?”
“Well, technically we met a couple of weeks ago, but…”
Grandfather glared, and I hesitated. When I finally spoke again, my voice was so shallow I was surprised he could hear me at all.
“Since this morning.”
“Since this morning, you said? This afternoon, more like. And not more than a few hours later, she’s naked—in a closet—with you. Proper women don’t behave that way.”
Aunt Helena sniffed. “Proper women have always behaved that way. ‘Proper’ society just pretends they don’t. Especially the proper men who stick their hot dicks into their even hotter holes.”
“You, of all people, have no business commenting on this.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Aunt Helena lost her smile and stopped talking immediately. Clearly, I was going to have to start paying more attention to family gossip.
“This woman is an opportunist,” Grandfather continued, apparently getting back to Ms. Nuckeby. “She saw a chance, and she took it.” He turned to me. “Whether to snag you into a sham marriage, or—more likely—simply to find an opportunity to sue for whatever she could get. It’s well known we Wopplesdowns are an easy mark.”
“And whose fault is that, Mister Hot Dick calling the kettle black?” Helena slid in. I was glad to see Grandfather hadn’t silenced her completely.
“We can’t help it if, genetically—with the exception of Corky, here—Wopplesdowns are oversexed.”
“Harassment has nothing to do with sex,” Helena snarled. “It’s about power.”
“Pshaw!” Grandfather said. It was something my grandfather said a lot. I was never able to find the word in any dictionary. “Women have all the power, my dear sister. And you know that better than anyone.”
Again, Helena was momentarily silenced. But with the opening she had created I tried to regain the upper hand—which I never had to begin with, but you know what I mean.
“How can you possibly know…?”
“Did you talk,” he interrupted, taking away even the illusion of an upper hand, finger, or nail, “you and this Nuckeby girl?”
I said nothing.
“Did you discuss family?”
The wind blew.
“Moral values?”
The house creaked.
“Current events?”
Someone far away coughed.
“Child rearing, religion, the environment?”
Who did first look at sheep, and…
“Does she enjoy watching people do strange things to animals with electricity?”
I wasn’t sure how anyone could possibly answer that one.
“Did you say, or do, anything that might give her any idea that you would be someone with whom she was, in any way, mutually compatible in a long-term relationship?”
I returned my attention to the carpet.
“No. You got naked in a closet. Hormones and intent. You had hormones, and she had intent. Take it from someone who knows all too well.”
Studiously fighting off the horrifyingly uncomfortable visuals of Grandfather bare-assed in a closet with anyone, I began to find myself wondering about Ms. Nuckeby. I really did know nothing about her, and—other than the fact that the tiniest breeze seemed to arouse a sudden stiffness in my loins—she knew nothing about me. Why was she attracted to me? Why would anyone be?
The downside of an argument like Grandfather’s was: it didn’t rely on logic or facts, and worked terrifically well on someone with profoundly low self-esteem. And my self-esteem hovered at, or near, a grasshopper’s gonads.
Consequently, for good or ill, I began to see Grandfather’s point, and it grated on me. My instincts in the closet were, somehow, correct. Cleary, someone as forward as Ms. Nuckeby had to be in it for something else.
“I think you’ve done all the damage you can do here, Cecil,” Aunt Helena said. “Why don’t you go and annoy someone else?”
Grandfather wanted to be angry with her, but he was obviously too pleased with his decisive victory over me.
“I should go see how Mindie Butterwycke is doing, anyway,” he said, and after a last parting smirk in my general direction, he moved to—and out of—the study door.
Mindie Butterwycke? See how she’s doing what?
Aunt Helena sat beside me, put a hand across my shoulders and pulled me, tightly, to her. She and I had always been very close, ever since my mother died all those years ago in that horrible chair-lift accident with her ski-instructor. We never did find their pants.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s just old and bitter.”
“No,” I said, sadly. “I’m afraid he might be right.”
I explained the situation in the closet, leaving out certain personally embarrassing details. The omissions shortened the story considerably. I described how Ms. Nuckeby had nearly left, then returned and become rather unexpectedly randy.
“But you said you two had made a connection in those previous few minutes. Made a date. Why shouldn’t she then feel more comfortable with you?”
“I don’t know. Something just felt strange about it.”
“Like she got greedy and was trying to score quickly?”
“Mmm.”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t seem the type to me. You don’t get in the face of the owner of the company if you’re just looking for a piece of his personal pie.”
She considered me a moment.
“I think you’re just being a man,” she said finally. “Men always want the horny slut until they either make some kind of personal connection or ejaculate. Then you want her to go home, or make you breakfast and go home, or have sex with you again, make you breakfast and go home. And once she’s gone, you decide you can’t have a ‘relationship’ with a horny slut so you run right out and find someone demure, boring, and utterly sexless because you need to impress your mother. Often not realizing that your own mother could set the standard for horny sluts.”
What an odd thing to say. Was she implying there might be more to that chair-lift accident?
“You’re the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever had,” I said.
“And look at what a horny slut I am,” she laughed.
I didn’t. She was old enough to be—well—Grandfather’s sister. And although she was eight or so years younger than he, worked out regularly and kept in shape, the image of her riding Pjuter roughshod, and enjoying it…
I suddenly flashed on Mr. And Mrs. Abrososa and shuddered violently.
“Oh,” Helena said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to gross you out. But someday I’ll tell you the story of how I met Pjuter. That will really make you shudder.”
I said nothing, and she pulled me more tightly to her. “Oooooh, Corky. You’ve always been so sweet, and,” she paused, searching for the right word, “non-threatening. I’ve always felt a deep connection with you too. But you’re a tad too naïve sometimes to see the world as it really is—particularly in things amour. Don’t give up on the naked girl as yet.”
“Seems Ms. Nuckeby’s impressed you.”
“She certainly has. That doesn’t mean I don’t need more time to properly evaluate—maybe see how she looks in clothes. It is the family business after all. But I admired her courage in facing down your grandfather, and I have no problem with the fact that she found you instantly beddable.”
“So, it didn’t concern you then that in your first experience with her she was naked?”
“And proudly so, I noticed. With good reason too. Hell, if I looked as good as her, I’d never wear clothes—or make-up. I’d even love to see the world follow my example—in spite of what it might do to the family coffers. I’m more progressive than you think. Fashion is such an elitist, arbitrary business anyway. I mean, it’s really funny when
you think about it, isn’t it? Do you feel strange when you meet someone on the beach and they’re wearing a scanty little bathing suit? No. But meet them in a shopping mall dressed exactly the same way and it’s somehow disquieting and ‘inappropriate’. Can you imagine dining at Sizzlers and everyone’s wearing a thong? Not a pleasant thought perhaps. But on a beach in Cancun, or Rio, or on the French Riviera . . . We see people naked in gym showers all the time. C’est la vie. But if we met them that way on a street corner—scandal!
“You remember my young friend, Wilhamina Morgenfraugen? She and I met in the office showers. We were both naked. She asked to borrow a tampon. And yet we’ve been friends ever since. In spite of the fact that her boobs are much nicer than mine. It’s all about context, Corky. Context and how much elasticity you’ve left in your skin.”
“But elasticity, tampons, and impressive breasts aside,” I said, “that’s far more socially acceptable than Ms. Nuckeby’s willingness to undress in a closet with a complete stranger. Two complete strangers if you count Woodruff.”
“Woodruff is two complete strangers all on his own,” she said, shuddering herself. “You never know, Corky. Maybe nudity and being open about her sexuality doesn’t mean to her what it does to you. After all, she does bare all in her profession on a regular basis, and clearly she’s more comfortable with it than you are.”
She waited—noticed I wasn’t quite buying it—then leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“Well,” she said. “It’s your life. But honestly, I’m convinced that unreleased semen interferes chemically with brain activity in males. So don’t make any rash decisions you’ll regret later until after you’ve masturbated and given it some additional thought.”
I laughed. She laughed. Then she got up to leave. I missed her comforting arm the instant she removed it.
“I will give your grandfather credit for one thing,” she said. “He’s right—it would help if you knew her better. Help you. The rest of us don’t matter. If you spent more time with her, you might find there were good reasons for her behavior that have nothing to do with being a gold-digger. In fact, the simple answer might be that she’s…”
She stopped. Her eyes widened. She seemed to think of something or remember something, and slowly smiled a rather grand and affecting smile.
“I have to go,” she said hurriedly, and raced for the door before I could ask her what she was going to say. She bumped into Mindie on the way out, and they bounced off one another repeatedly as each tried to squeeze through first.
“I’m coming in!” Mindie snarled.
“And I’m going out!” Helena responded, equally churlishly.
They struggled momentarily—Helena partially pinned by trying to avoid contact with Mindie’s rather massive breasts—until Mindie finally managed to shove past and into the room. Collecting herself and breathing hard, she glared a moment at Helena, eyes visibly red from crying, then turned with a huff and strode toward me, supported by Grandfather, who had followed her in past Helena.
“Where are you going?” Grandfather asked his sister pointedly. “We’re going to talk to Corky, now.”
“I have to see to something,” Helena said and then paused, looking at Mindie nervously. “Something urgent.”
Mindie was sniffing dramatically and leaking fluids from various facial orifices. Why was she so distraught?
“Corky,” Helena said to me, her smile vanished and she didn’t seem at all pleased. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret until you know more about your model.”
Mindie shot Helena a look of withering death at the mention of ‘your model’, as did Grandfather. Helena sneered back at them, then quickly darted out the door and disappeared.
I scowled, not getting any of this. It was a very confusing, and uncomfortable night.
I wanted to go back to thinking about sheep.
“Are you all right?” I asked Mindie.
“I will be,” she said, sniffling sadly. “And I forgive you. After all, a man needs to get a certain amount of wildness out of his system—as mother told me so many times when father worked late.”
“Men need to—what?” I asked, lost.
“But I don’t want you to see her anymore. You understand?”
“I…who? Ms. Nuckeby?”
“Don’t even mention that slut’s name!”
“Um, all right.”
“So you won’t see her again?”
I glanced at Grandfather. Then back to Mindie.
“I’m not seeing her now.”
She smiled at me, and some of the darkness that had enveloped her seemed to lift.
“Thank you,” she said and dropped into my lap, putting her arms around my neck. She adjusted to make herself more comfortable, and me less so, managing to wedge her substantial chest under my chin. Being as she’d never so much as even bumped into me in the past, this was a bit of a shock, and I looked at her like I’d been pithed. (It is a great word.)
Smiling a bit sadly, she looked back and forth from one of my eyes to the other as if comparing their sizes and relative positions on my face. Eventually she decided they were more-or-less where they were supposed to be, or could be with minor plastic surgery, and she turned to Grandfather.
“You can bring in the others, now,” she told him.
He smiled—seemed almost relieved—and quickly opened the door to my den, brusquely waving in the rest of my family. They filed past him, gleeful, and most of them were eating snacks they had likely not been offered by Woodruff. My older brothers in particular were ravenously working over some week old chicken legs from somewhere in the back of my fridge which were skirting that razorthin line between ‘leftover’ and ‘natural laxative.’
“I can’t really be mad at you, I suppose,” Mindie told me, smiling and sniffing. “You don’t even know the real reason for my coming here tonight, do you?”
“I…er…no,” I admitted. “Not really.”
“I’ve decided to accept your proposal of marriage.”
“My…my…my what? My proposal of what?”
Suddenly I felt more naked than when I’d been naked. I looked at everyone in the room, and most of them were—more or less—smiling. All except Morgan, who couldn’t manage it around another large lollipop he’d found. But he still gave me the thumbs-up.
“What proposal of marriage?” I asked.
“The one Morgan told me about. The one he said you’d been wanting to give me all these years, and I—Oh, God, Corky! I had no idea!” She hugged me tightly, and her boobs cut off my air.
As she scrunched me, vise-like, I turned to Morgan—who slurped, winked, and mouthed the words, ‘You’re welcome.’ He held his hands out and made the universal symbol for gigantic breasts, nodded briefly toward Mindie, then grinned even bigger, and gave another thumbs-up. Blue spit dripped on my carpet, plopping down beside my brother’s greasy chicken-leg fragments.
“I’d just about given up on you ever even asking me out, and then this! I was over the moon! I wanted to come right away, and see you— start making plans, discussing dates.”
“But I did ask you out, Mindie. Many times. You always said ‘no.’”
“When did you ask me out?”
“Well—there was the time I invited you to the air show. But you said,” I screwed up my face in an annoyed and dismissive expression—not unlike how someone might look if they were having their face shoved forcibly up a baboon’s ass—that, I’m sure, paled in comparison to the one she had actually given me at the time. “No! Get away from me!”
“Well, why would I want to go to an air show?” she said, capturing the expression far better than I had. “Dirty planes and engine noise. Smelly gasoline everywhere. A date involves dining, Corky. Dancing. Gifts. Two people being seen spending romantic time together. Not jet fumes!”
“Well, there was the time I asked you to stroll with me that evening in Monaco by the sea…”
“In the sand? It was cold! I was wearing Manolo Bl
ahnik’s, for God’s sake! A thousand dollars a pair! I thought you were being flip!”
“Not to my knowledge, no. I…”
“We’ll go on a proper date, Corky. Lots of them. I’ll show you what a proper date really is, and how much it should cost. Oooooooh, Corky.”
She kissed me. I almost managed to kiss her back before she pulled away and picked something off my chin that apparently offended her, maybe the thing that had shot from my sinus in the closet earlier. Then she kissed my nose, obviously unwilling to return to the infected area.
She smiled and turned to the others.
“Well,” she said, beaming. “Congratulate us!”
And they did. Even though, technically, I still hadn’t asked.
Amidst the pats on the back, the hugs, and the ‘welcome to the family’ greetings to Mindie, Grandfather pulled me aside.
“This should solve all our problems, son. Getting it regular at home will make it easier on you in the office. Especially since you seem to be so undersexed anyway. Can’t believe I thought you were gay. You’ll have to explain that damned video to me sometime.” I had. Repeatedly. “I imagine it’s far more embarrassing now, eh? Being straight and all.”
He laughed heartily and slapped my back. I wheezed.
“Grandfather…”
“Best of all, there won’t be any temptation from the Ms. Nuckeby’s of the world. Money grubbing little tarts! I’ll write her a check. Get her to sign a waiver. This will all be forgotten by next week. You’ll be engaged, Mindie’s somewhat attractive, and has huge tits, and that’s the end of it! Right? Good? No more closets?” He laughed. “Of any kind!” He laughed harder and returned to the others.
No more closets.
I watched him a moment, sadly. Then reached into the group and grabbed Morgan, dragging him out of earshot. I asked how all this had come about, and between sucks on what seemed an endless supply of drooly candy-on-a-stick, he explained.
He had called my grandfather, as I had suggested, asking to be allowed into the Garment Viewing Room. After a considerable amount of time reminding Grandfather who he was, Grandfather turned him down flat. Grandfather said the last thing he needed was two perverts running amok among the models, to which Morgan informed him I was too nice a guy to have done anything untoward— although the actual word Morgan used was ‘skeevy’.
