Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

  “I can take care of that,” I said, pushing back the envelope.

  “No, no, I insist,” she said, returning it to me. “You never know. Something unexpected might come up, and I’d rather you had it just in case.”

  Then she cocked her head to one side and began to whisper, conspiratorially, turning bodily away from the others while speaking out of one side of her mouth and not moving her lips. It made her completely unintelligible.

  “Crky. Ijswanedooknowivyewnoo,” she began.

  “What?” I asked. “I can’t understand you. What’s wrong with your face?”

  “Nothing. Sssh. I just wanted to see if you knew…” she paused, eyeing me carefully. “You never actually asked Mindie to marry you, and—are you sure about this?”

  I looked past her to Mindie, sitting in the middle seat with Wendy, talking in animated tones. I wondered how long it would be before Min learned the truth about the kind of movies Ms. Waboombas really made and the whole thing came unglued like a space shuttle.

  “Of course, I’m sure,” I said, scoffing. “You think I’m some kind of spineless airhead who would go along with a marriage he didn’t want just because he was afraid of confrontation?”

  I laughed. She didn’t. It hurt.

  “Well, I’m not,” I said.

  “I see,” Aunt Helena replied sadly, lowering her head a moment.

  After a bit of studying her toes as she gently pushed driveway gravel around, she looked up and fixed me with an almost frighteningly intense stare—as if she could read things through my eyeballs that were printed on my brain. Things that were misspelled.

  “Ms. Nuckeby was fired from her agency this morning. Did you know that?”

  I was struck. “No, I didn’t. Because of that business yesterday?”

  “Yes. I think your grandfather had something to do with it.”

  I found myself suddenly growing very angry. He had no business…

  “Damn him,” I sputtered. But after a moment, I softened a bit. Anger was difficult for me to sustain. “Well, I suppose it had to happen.”

  “Corky! She didn’t deserve that!”

  “I don’t know. She did show up at my home unannounced…”

  “She liked you!”

  “She didn’t even know me.”

  “Sometimes you can just tell about someone,” she said warmly, as if remembering a time she could ‘just tell’.

  “Or maybe she could ‘just tell’ that I lived in a multimillion dollar home…”

  “Corky! You can make negative judgments about her without knowing her, but she can’t make positive ones about you without knowing you? You know what that is?”

  “Umm—savvy?”

  “Sexist. Misogynistic. At the very least, just plain unfair.”

  “But with a certain wisdom of experience, Grandfather might have a point…”

  “On the top of his head. And now I’m beginning to see the same point on the top of yours. Genetic, obviously.”

  “Aunt Helena…”

  “How does Mindie make you feel, Corky?”

  I looked again over her shoulder at Mindie in the car, laughing vivaciously, chatting up Ms. Waboombas, obviously certain that she was on the brink of becoming a major Hollywood star—the kind who doesn’t have to perform oral sex on camera.

  Aunt Helena continued without waiting for an answer. “And how did Ms. Nuckeby make you feel?”

  I hesitated, then admitted in a soft and faraway voice, “Wonderful.”

  “Then don’t you think, Corky, that she deserves at least a little time for you to make a proper determination of whom she is and what she really wants from you? Before you ‘Next’ her?”

  I gave it some thought.

  “I know you, Corky. You’re hoping that someday, somehow, Mindie will be nice to you and love you like you deserve to be loved. And you do deserve to be loved, my dear. But wouldn’t it be better to find someone who already likes you— maybe someone you already like, as well?”

  Did love work that way? Two people genuinely interested in one another with no ulterior motives? Hard to imagine. But if it did…?

  I looked down at my own toes digging in the gravel, then stopped, looked up at her and spoke with a confidence that surprised even me.

  “How can I find her?”

  Helena sighed a heavy breath of relief, nearly laughing. Why was she so certain about Ms. Nuckeby?

  “She lives near the town where you’ll get the car repaired. The Duesenberg gets you to her without alerting or upsetting Mindie. Anything you do beyond that will undoubtedly anger your—quote— ‘fiancée’, quite a lot.” She said ‘fiancée’ as if it were a nematode that lived parasitically off other creatures.

  After a moment, she took my face firmly in her hands. “You have to decide if it’s worth that risk,” she told me.

  “Short of preventing the deaths of millions of people, it’s hard to imagine anything worth upsetting Mindie.”

  “Really?” asked Aunt Helena. “Not even true love?”

  The drive down was long and hard for all the men in the car— including the pastor—in every sense of the word. We were in the front, the pastor and I, Morgan in the third, far-rear seat, with the ladies in the middle seat between us. I missed having Morgan closer to me. He was a far better distraction than the pastor, and when disaster struck—as it inevitably would—I would feel better about using him as a human shield than I would a man of God.

  “When you said ‘ lap snorkeling’,” Mindie ventured of Ms. Waboombas, her voice dropping into a near-silent register so she could give the pastor the option of pretending he couldn’t hear, “you meant like—oral sex on a man’s thingie—that type of thing, right?”

  Just by the way she said it I could tell I was never getting any in my lifetime. Another dream shattered on the harsh and forbidding shores of the Mindie Islands.

  But now Ms. Nuckeby’s gentle sands lay only ten miles or so ahead, and with them—hope. I found myself looking forward to this trip more than I ever could when it was just a comics convention, or a chapel shopping expedition. Helena was right. I needed to give Ms. Nuckeby a chance. I mean, really. I already knew she looked good naked. We were ninety-nine percent there.

  “What did you think I meant?” Ms. Waboombas asked. “Oh, well, that is what I thought you meant, of course,” Mindie said. “I was just confirming. I had always assumed actresses might be confronted with that sort of thing, anyway, even though they claim the casting couch is no longer an issue. I just wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t hurt my chances if I decided—you know—not to engage, as it were.”

  “Not really. As long as you do the job on camera, skipping the rest just costs you money is all. Some don’t wanna and make less. It’s all good.”

  “Well, that’s excellent news,” Mindie laughed. “Excellent.” She hesitated, then leaned closer to Ms. Waboombas. “I take it you do engage? Sexually, I mean?”

  “Sure. But only with the hot ones, or the ones who are hung.” “Hung? You mean like—with large weenies—that type of thing?” “Is there another meaning of the word?”

  “Well—I suppose not. But…how can you tell? I mean, before.”

  “You can see it. When you’re dancin’, guys get into it, and— boom. If you can’t, it’s a good indicator he’s not worth squattin’ on. Then you pass. And lemme tell ya—the stereotypes? S’all true.”

  “Is that right? Interesting,” Mindie said, not the least bit interested. “So at these—I don’t know, parties or whatever—where you’re dancing with the—what are they? Executives?”

  “Executives. Businessmen. All kinds. Construction workers.”

  “Really? Hmm. I guess they have to keep the unions happy,” Mindie laughed. Ms. Waboombas didn’t. “So…um…you dance with them, and then you…what…find a back room?”

  I couldn’t believe Mindie was even curious. Why would she be curious? Sex for her had always seemed to be on equal footing with major dental wo
rk; if she ever had it, she’d put it off as long as possible, prefer it with Novocain, would cry and struggle the whole time and want a lollipop afterwards.

  “Back rooms are usually provided by the clubs,” Ms. Waboombas said.

  “Ooooh. Exclusive, eh?” That seemed to appeal to Mindie. “Like the Viper Room?”

  “I don’t know. Never danced there.”

  “You have to be somebody. Sooooo—you make a connection, you go into a back room—how do you know whatever the executive is going to honor his end? After things are—you know—complete?”

  “You get it up front.”

  “Oh! Before you even start!”

  “Yeah. Maybe a tip after. Can’t do it any other way.”

  “Aaaah. That makes sense. Then isn’t the pay from the movies themselves any good?”

  “It’s all right. Some girls become stars and make a lot more, obviously.”

  “Well, obviously. But in the meantime…”

  Was Mindie considering this? I couldn’t imagine. Then why was she asking so many questions?

  “…dancing rounds out the income,” Ms, Waboombas finished for her. “Yeah.”

  “Interesting,” Mindie said, contemplating. “I’d never heard of this ‘dancing’ thing. I suppose they think it makes the industry look bad.”

  “Some girls pretend they never have to do it, yeah. But it’s the main part of the business. It’s been around longer than the movies. Though the movies are what bring more guys to see you. Like advertising.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “And myself? I like the one-on-one of a live performance.”

  “Oh, you perform at these as well?”

  “I consider dancing a performance.”

  “Ah! Of course. You treat it all as a performance then.”

  “Even the sex sometimes, yeah.”

  “Ha, ha! Of course! So you don’t mind that then?” Mindie said, obviously surprised. “The, em…sex…part of it, I mean?”

  “Nah. That’s fun. I like sucking and fucking, and…”

  “Soooo—Mister Wopplesdown,” Pastor Winterly interjected— loudly—to eradicate whatever else Ms. Waboombas enjoyed in the back rooms of strip clubs. Apparently he could no longer be satisfied with pretending not to hear. Now he had to actually not hear. “Haven’t seen you in church since you were a little boy. We’ve missed you.”

  “You have?” I asked, genuinely stunned.

  “Of course we have. Church is our communal family. God brings us each together because—combined—the parts of us form a whole that is greater than any individual. The family is the most important unit in civilization. When one of us isn’t there, it diminishes the rest.”

  I had a hard time believing my absence diminished anyone, but I supposed anything was possible. “I’ve meant to come, really, but…”

  “Mindie is there every week, and often during Wednesday evening sermons. Right in front. Singing loudly.” He paused, as if remembering a bunion. “So, I suppose you’ll be accompanying her regularly from now on.”

  “I suppose,” I said, assuming he knew I was lying.

  Ms. Waboombas voice cut in. “If I didn’t like to fuck so much, I’d never do the movies.”

  “HAVE YOU HAD ANY THOUGHTS ON CHILDREN, MISTER WOPPLESDOWN?” the pastor said, entirely too loudly, as if he wanted to make certain God could hear that he was talking about something not sexual in this blasphemous car.

  “Eventually,” I said, only half-listening and trying to hear the conversation he was talking over in the back seat as I feared it was beginning to unravel, and wanted sufficient warning so I could leap to safety.

  “So there are nude scenes then, in these movies,” Mindie concluded, annoyed, but amazingly still apparently willing to make the sacrifice for stardom. “I suppose that’s to be expected for a newer actress.”

  “Well, duh,” Ms. Waboombas sneered. “That’s kind of the point. You can’t fuck anybody if you’re not…” she held up her hands, and made quotation marks in the air with her fingers, “‘…nude.’”

  “DO YOU LIKE CHILDREN, MISTER WOPPLESDOWN?” The pastor screamed, his voice cracking. He was making it more and more difficult for anyone to hear. We had to hear! Didn’t he realize the imminent danger we were all in?

  “So it’s not just…nudity?” Mindie asked. “You also have to pretend to engage in, you know—intercourse—as well?”

  “What do you mean, pretend? There’s no pretend. They roll the film. You fuck.”

  “I THINK CHILDREN ARE TRULY A GIFT!” Pastor Winterly said, apparently deciding he could no longer afford to allow the silence of waiting for me to answer. “A GIFT FROM GOD! GOD THE ALMIGHTY!”

  “You mean to say,” Mindie said, her tone darkening, “they expect me to have actual sex—on camera?”

  “ONE CAN SEE THE DIVINE IN THEIR INNOCENT FACES, WHEN THEY PLAY AND…EM…PLAY…AND…EM…WHEN THEY…YOU KNOW…PLAY…”

  ”That’s what they’re paying you for, lady, to have actual sex…”

  “CHILDREN ARE GOOD! THE WAY THEY LOOK UP TO US FOR COMFORT AND GUIDANCE…”

  “They’re PAYING YOU to have SEX on CAMERA!” Mindie screamed.

  “…GUIDANCE AND PROTECTION! PROTECTION IN A FRIGHTENING WORLD!”

  “YOU MAKE PORNOGRAPHY?”

  Silence.

  The car fell absolutely silent except for the sound of the wind rushing past, the thrum of the engine, and a dead squirrel I had trapped somewhere in the undercarriage that thumped the floor occasionally. I focused on the road with the pastor, and in the rearview mirror I could see Mindie, flushed and steaming, staring in fury and horror and revulsion at Ms. Waboombas, who stared right back at her with equal venom.

  “Yes, I make ‘por-nog-ra-phy’,” Ms. Waboombas said. “What do you think I’ve been talking about here, bitch?”

  “Bitch? You called me ‘bitch’?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “You’re a…a stripper. The dancing,” Mindie squeaked. “The dancing is in strip clubs.”

  Ms. Waboombas looked at Mindie as though there were ugly bugs crawling out of my darling fiancée’s ears carrying picket signs. “They don’t let you out much, do they?”

  Mindie simply continued to stare at, what was now her greatest adversary—fuming, lips quivering. Then without looking at me, she said “Corky. Stop the car.”

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  “Stop the car.”

  “But we’re only ten miles out of town. Can’t we…”

  “STOP - THE - CAR!” she howled.

  I pulled to the side of the road.

  Mindie still hadn’t taken her evil-eye off Ms. Waboombas.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “What?” Waboombas asked, annoyed.

  “Get. Out.”

  “Fuck you, bitch, ‘get out’.”

  “I am not riding any farther with a pornographer. Especially one that calls me the ‘b’ word.”

  “So you get out,” Wendy told her.

  “No, you get out.

  “You.”

  “You.”

  “This is my car!” Mindie said.

  “Fuck if it is,” Wendy responded. “This is that hot old lady’s car. Corky’s aunt.”

  Aunt Helena was hot? What a disturbing thought.

  “And I am Corky’s fiancée. That makes this my car by relation.”

  “Fuck if it does.”

  “Would you please stop using foul language?”

  “No. Fuck.”

  “I asked you to…”

  “Fuck.”

  “Please stop…”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “This is entirely…”

  “Fuck, fuck, ass, cock, shit, fuck, fuck.”

  “Get out of the car!”

  “Make me, bitch! Fuck!”

  “Corky, make her get out!”

  “Corky’s not gonna make me do shit. Corky’s afraid of me.”

  How did she know?
I thought I’d hidden it remarkably well.

  “Corky!” Mindie demanded. Now—of course—the question was: whom did I fear more?

  “Mindie,” I tried. “We’re miles from anywhere.”

  “I don’t care! Make her get out!”

  I hesitated.

  Mindie became incensed. “It’s her, or me, Corky!”

  For some reason, not seeing the out, I still hesitated.

  “Keep in mind, Corky,” Ms. Waboombas said, her voice filled with giddy confidence. “I fuck. She doesn’t.”

  Mindie gasped, then turned on me.

  To me. Turned TO me.

  “Corky! Did you have relations with this woman!”

  Okay, maybe ‘on’ was the better word.

  “Relations?” Ms. Waboombas asked. “Hell, no. We fuuuuucked!”

  “CORKY!”

  “Mindie…”

  “Wendy!” Morgan threw in. I think he was just tired of feeling left out.

  “Get out of this car!” Mindie snarled. “Both of you!”

  “Yeah,” Ms. Waboombas said, not even trying to be helpful, “Let’s get out, Corky. You, and me. We can do it in the road till someone else comes along and picks us up. Then we’ll do it in their car with them.” She grinned at Mindie. “’It’ means ‘fuck’, by the way.”

  Mindie leaned over Ms. Waboombas, and opened her car door. “Out,” she said flatly.

  “Make me,” the stripper/pornographer/sadist said, grinning.

  “Out!”

  “Make me!”

  Mindie did. She surprised us all by shoving Ms. Waboombas so hard they both tumbled out of the Duesenberg, and onto the side of the road.

  The car was parked on a long stretch of two-lane country highway with ocean on one side and trees on the other. Both sides sloped downward slightly, one toward the sea, the other into a drainage ditch between us and the rising tree line beyond. Mindie and Ms. Waboombas now struggled on the edge of that ditch, and as they did, Morgan, the pastor, and I sat up and leaned out to watch. Morgan snacked on popcorn and offered me some. I declined, realizing it would be highly inappropriate to eat while the girls fought. Ogling, however, was somehow entirely acceptable.

  Mindie and Wendy tussled angrily for a moment—slap-fighting like the girls they were—when Ms. Waboombas shoved Mindie’s breasts away rather viciously with Mindie still attached to them. “Hey!” Ms. Waboombas said. “Those are real.”