Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

  Ms. Waboombas seemed remarkably timid about all this, and folded up rather efficiently, probably realizing that this only put other of her clothing wedged ‘assets’ on absolutely fabulous display. Morgan began to drool. The pastor crossed his legs and abruptly decided the view outside the car needed his immediate and undivided attention.

  All Mindie had done was roll Ms. Waboombas over to reveal just how far a pair of shorts, shirt, and underwear, when the proper force is applied, can wedge up a woman’s well shaven thingsis and whatchamacallits. I realized this a moment later when the tall stripper stood behind me, and I could see—pretty much everything—as she turned her backside toward me and made a grand show of bending over to brush nonexistent crumbs from her former seat. As she leaned, she managed to give the pastor a good hearty sniff at just how efficiently she practiced personal hygiene. He, on the other hand—in trying to save himself from just such an experience—likely snapped all seven cervical vertebrae.

  Mindie didn’t help matters when she decided this was ‘all just far too much’, and began to shove, repeatedly, on Ms. Waboombas prominently displayed nether-regions in a futile attempt at forcing her to take a proper seat. Instead, all Mindie managed was to knock the por-nog-ra-pher’s ample behind—repeatedly—into the side of my and the pastor’s heads like some kind of intrusive, sexual beach ball thrown by a baseball fan that—no matter how hard you try—you just can’t get off the field of play.

  The pastor’s breathing had begun to sound like an out-of-control locomotive speeding toward a collapsed bridge.

  I didn’t blame him. This was all just too much. I turned away from the insanity and tried to focus on the road. But as Ms. Waboombas finally situated herself—only marginally returning her shirt to its manufacturer’s recommended position—I, like the pastor, began to hyperventilate.

  “See that, pasty-tits?” said Ms. Waboombas, returning her attention to Mindie. “I got him breathing hard. Bet you never even got that much hard.”

  I could feel Mindie’s fury explode from within her like flames engulfing the Hindenburg. Oh, the humanity.

  I so wanted to be elsewhere.

  Then I saw the sign indicating the city limits. I could just make it out in the distance. We were close. All I needed was to reach that town, find a toilet, put my head inside, repeatedly slam the lid and this would all be over.

  “I’ve made more than his breathing—hard—plenty of times,” Mindie said, returning to kneeling backward in her seat and facing Ms. Waboombas, yet again tempting fate in oh-so-many ways. “I just pretended not to notice.”

  “Breathe hard like that?” asked Waboombas. “Like he wanted to fuck you so bad he…”

  “MISTER WIGGEN!” The pastor yelled. “HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN CHURCH LATELY!”

  “AND YOU NEVER WILL!” replied Morgan.

  Between the approaching sign and us was a woman wearing a pretty, violet sunhat walking away from us along the edge of the road. I’ll bet she was calm and demure, and obeyed seatbelt laws.

  “He wants to—as you so eloquently put it—fuck me very badly,” Mindie said, losing some of the ‘in-your-faceness’ by lowering her voice at the dirty parts. “I mean, really. What do you think you’ve got that I haven’t?” Mindie asked, glancing down at her own fleshy adornments.

  “Oh, please,” Ms. Waboombas said, spreading herself out on display. “Look at me.” She paused as if it should be self-evident. Mindie’s expression said otherwise. “I’m long, lean, and hot. You’re tubby, saggy, and pale!”

  “I am NOT!” Mindie shrieked.

  Near the sign, I could see that the woman in the sunhat was heading towards some old, wooden stairs near the sign that led down to the beach. Would that I could be there beside her that I might throw myself down them.

  “I am young, and firm,” Mindie howled. “And naturally so because I am in the prime of my life, unlike you! You’re old! You’re plastic. You’re fake. From your eyelashes to those phlegms on your chest…”

  “Pflemmels. And they’re nicer than your droopy boopies.”

  As we drew closer to the woman on the side of the road, I began to imagine myself walking beside her, sharing the tranquility of the ocean scenery. Maybe holding her hand and not throwing myself down the stairs.

  “I doubt that,” Mindie sneered. “Phony is no substitute for real. You said so yourself.”

  “I was lying to make you feel better,” said Ms. Waboombas, lifting her shirt and exposing her truffles. “I mean, come on! Look at these!”

  I could see the pastor do so, slyly out of the corner of his eye in my rear-view mirror. Morgan had never stopped. Personally, I had seen enough of them. I refocused on the woman in the sunhat and let myself get lost in the calmness of her. We were very close to her now, and I could see she had a lovely walk—a beautiful figure—

  —And she was naked.

  NAKED? Oh, dear God, what ELSE could go wrong this day?

  “I’ve seen them,” Mindie said, becoming irrational. “Most of the western hemisphere has, undoubtedly, seen your boobs. It’s not like you hide them or anything.”

  “Because they’re worth seeing!” Ms. Waboombas said. “Why do you hide yours?”

  “I don’t hide them! I simply show some personal restraint! Unlike YOU!”

  “You’re afraid to show them! Afraid people wouldn’t be as impressed if they knew how saggy-baggy and pasty they were.”

  “They are NOT saggy-baggy and pasty!”

  I could no longer hear them. I was riveted in every way by the nude woman on the side of the road. I studied her intently—her gentle curves, her delicate features, her tight, naked ass (Hey, I’m a man not a poet). I watched, unblinking, as she turned and began to descend the stairs, completely unaware of how desperately I needed her to stop where she was and just continue being lovely.

  “Even Corky likes mine better than your saggy-ass tits,” Waboombas shouted.

  “He does NOT!” Mindie yelled.

  “He does TOO.”

  “Does NOT!”

  “Does TOO!”

  “CORKY?”

  The woman in the hat was magnificent. A haven in my personal storm. I wanted to walk naked beside her, down to the shore, into the ocean, and swim to Korea.

  “Tell her she’s WRONG, Corky!” Mindie called.

  “He’s AFRAID to!”

  “CORKY?”

  “CORKY?”

  “Hard, and fake!”

  “Saggy, and pale!”

  “Better than yours.”

  “In your dreams!”

  “These are real!”

  “Oh, come on! LOOK AT THESE!”

  Waboombas lifted her half-shirt farther and squeezed her Waboombas originals together for maximum effect.

  “OH, YEAH? WELL, LOOK AT THESE!”

  Mindie stood up in the passenger seat, ripped open her own blouse, popped her bra, and released the hounds.

  The pastor nearly fell out of the car. Morgan shot coke out his nose. Ms. Waboombas lifted an eyebrow as what God had bestowed upon Mindie exploded forth to be fruitful, multiply, replenish the earth, and have dominion over every living thing that moveth.

  They really were quite large.

  “I mean, HONESTLY!” Mindie yelled, turning left and right to display God’s many blessings with righteous indignity. “Yours are just tacky compared to these.” Mindie sniffed haughtily—like a female Moses having returned from Mount Sinai carrying a holy commandment in each hand and proclaiming to all beneath her that they were blasphemers for worshipping false gods.

  “Go on, Corky,” Mindie demanded. “ Tell her what she already knows: MINE are better than HERS.”

  She began massaging and kneading the leavened loaves to display their authenticity and superiority to future buyers. Morgan moaned—loudly. The pastor wheezed—explosively.

  I was too busy trying to catch a last, fleeting glimpse of the nude woman on the side of the road to hear or see Mindie, or anyone else for that matter. My fi
rst and likely only chance to view Mindie’s massive, untethered breasts with her full consent and witting approval, and I didn’t even notice—or care.

  All I saw was her—the naked woman in the sunhat.

  As we drove past, she was just stepping down, below the rise of the slope, her perfect face turned ever so slightly my way, and I knew before I saw…

  Ms. Nuckeby.

  Gloop.

  My eyes went wide with shocked delight. I slowed the car and unbuckled my own belt, beginning to stand in the seat and trying to see over the edge of the stairs as Ms. Nuckeby descended beyond my view.

  Apparently Mindie thought I was going for her exposed womanhoods and screamed, horrified.

  “Oh, my God, you really CAN see their penises!”

  With a wicked roundhouse, she punched me backward, and I fell over, landing on the steering wheel and accidentally jerking it hard to one side. The car lurched, skidded, and flew off the road, slamming into a tree at the bottom of a ditch. The impact sent Mindie flying with a shriek—ass over teakettle—shirt flapping, bra flipping, breasts flopping—into a small clump of bushes. Ms. Waboombas rammed into the backside of Wendy’s now vacant seat with a scream. Morgan and the pastor slumped forward, held securely by their safety restraints. Seatbelts really do save lives.

  As the rest of us slowly gathered ourselves, ahead in the foliage Mindie lay moaning. All we could see of her were two feet sticking into the air, one shoe dangling from her toes.

  “Everyone all right?” I asked, lifting my head from the steering wheel and checking for damage, either to me or the other passengers. There didn’t seem to be any. But after what I’d done to Mindie, there was sure to be.

  All around there were general nods and groans as everyone pulled himself or herself together. I leaped from the car and went to see about my betrothed. I rounded the bush she’d disappeared behind and gently lifted her, as she was attempting to close my now buttonless shirt over her reattached bra. Once on her feet, she slapped my hands away.

  “Get away from me, you disgusting pervert,” she said, then really laid into me, slapping my arms, face, chest, clothing, and aura. “Where did you learn how to drive, in a Cracker Jack box?”

  “I think you mean, where did I get my license…”

  Mindie goggled at me furiously.

  “Are you correcting me?” she asked in a tone that would freeze fire.

  “Not intentionally.”

  She swatted my sternum, then winced and grabbed her fingers, massaging away still more pain I’d caused her.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked, reaching out to support her.

  “I’m fine. Leave me alone.” More swats. “Catch a glimpse of a few boobs and you lose all control.”

  “What boobs?”

  “Mine! The one’s you were grabbing at, you retard.”

  “I wasn’t…” I stared, lost. I hadn’t seen her breasts, even in my peripheral vision. I was too busy looking at…

  I tried hard not to show any sense of guilt. But she caught something in my eye and studied me like a lioness stalking a tasty gazelle with a limp. “It was mine you were reaching for, wasn’t it? Or were you going for that slut’s?”

  Which slut’s? Had she seen Ms. Nuckeby? Not that Ms. Nuckeby was a slut—though she could be, I do hardly know her—but to Mindie’s mind, any woman who didn’t button her collar all the way to the top should be marked with the scarlet letter ‘S’.

  “I…uh…” I stopped short, coming to the obvious realization that staying in port was likely the best course of action given the coming storm.

  “As disgusting as it was,” Mindie continued when I didn’t, “you’d better have been going for mine, because the last thing I want is a husband who loses control like that over another woman’s…” she paused, “…you know.”

  “I…uh…”

  “Maybe that kind of thing happened before we got engaged, but I won’t allow it, now that we’re to be married. It would be highly disrespectful of me, you know, for you to be interested in other women’s…stuff. Especially some slutty, African prostitute.”

  Aaah, I finally realized. NOT Ms. Nuckeby.

  “Particularly if you were to become—aroused—like that again,” Mindie continued. “I don’t want a husband who can become— aroused—by other women’s boobs. Or any other body parts for that matter.”

  She wanted a husband who was gay? Given her level of sexual interest, maybe she did.

  Wait. What did that say about me?

  “I wasn’t looking at either of you,” I said. “I was looking at the road actually.”

  “Really? And how was it ‘the road’ made your…thingie…swell up like that? Hmmm?”

  I paused, thinking fast, or rather, fast for me, which meant we might be here all day. What could I say had caused it? Trees? Nature’s beauty? Two gophers humping by the side of the road?

  “I, uh…that is…uh…” I glanced down at The One-Eyed Thing With A Mind Of Its Own, and realized Odysseus’ escape from the harbor had been blocked by the Cyclops. Soon, Poseidon would be involved. I saw no other course of action except to change tack, quickly, before my boat was swamped by Mindie’s boulders.

  “I’m sorry, Mindie. I just…I couldn’t help myself. Your…em…your…tits…are so magnificent. They overwhelmed me. Took me completely by surprise. Unlike that woman…” I nodded toward Ms. Waboombas, who was digging a finger in her ear with one hand, while the other hand was shoved down the back of her shorts and scratching her ass like it had five-pound fleas.

  Wow. Who would have thought that could be sexually attractive?

  I hitched, a bit; as little Corky visibly reared his ugly head yet again, damn him.

  Mindie gasped. “Stop that!”

  “It…uh…can’t be helped…my…eh…my darling.” I glanced at her chest area, now covered in mud, leaves, and rumpled Corky-shirt, and she tightened her grip on it as if she feared I were a closet candy connoisseur who might suddenly feel the need to sample her white chocolates. “They’re just…your boobs, that is, as opposed to her boobs—they’re just soooooo nice, and…”

  “Eeeww,” she scrunched up her face in disgust. “I mean, yes, they are. But, oh, my God, you say it like you’re thinking about licking them or something.”

  And that’s revolting, why?

  Before last night, Ms. Nuckeby wouldn’t mind my thinking about licking hers. Or actually licking them for that matter, I’d bet.

  Bloop.

  Mindie gasped again at my expanding crotch, then looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. They were all too busy recovering from the impact with the ditch to care what my penis was doing.

  “Can’t you control that?” she asked.

  “I keep telling you…”

  “What do I have to do, Corky? Stab you with a letter opener?”

  “Um. No,” I said, surprised, and wondering how often she’d considered that. “It’s just a natural reaction, Mindie. An unconscious one. All I have to do is think of…nakedbreasts…your…nakedbreasts—that is, as opposed to…”

  She winced and turned her head as if I were trying to feed her cough medicine.

  I sighed. “You just don’t understand.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I’m a man, Mindie, and men can’t help but react to a…em…a loved one’s…you know—especially when they’re caught off-guard like that.”

  “Caught off-guard? What difference does that make?”

  “It doesn’t give us time to prepare. To think of baseball stats or ugly people with blemishes.”

  “They’re just…breasts, Corky.”

  “Oh, but they’re not. Your…breasts, they’re just so amazingly…” I glanced at them again, and she flinched again. “…Amazing. Really. Magnificent. So much better than anyone else’s.” I lied, struggling not to think of Ms. Nuckeby, then nodded toward Waboombas. “Especially hers. Yours are just so…”

  My hands involuntarily cupped out
ward in the universal gesture for ‘massively endowed’, and searched through my mental thesaurus, which apparently contained only three adjectives.

  “…magnificent—is the word I’m looking for, here—again. I think. And not pale. Not pale in the slightest. They’re like two very large mountains—with no snow on them. And when you revealed them that way, in the car—so abruptly—it was like when one drives into Yosemite, you know, through that tunnel? At first, all is darkness and obstructed, narrowness of vision, and then—boom! You explode out the end and see Half-Dome rising up, there, right before you. You’re just overcome with the immenseness of it. The glory. The not-pale magnificence of the thing. It was like that. Seeing Half-Dome. Only— in your case—Full-Dome. Or FullDomes. Because there’s two of them.”

  “Driving into Yosemite gives you an…erection?”

  “No!” I said, stunned at her thickness in things sexual. “Your tits do!”

  I glanced down at them again, then quickly away, to reassure her of my inability to control myself.

  “Stop looking at them,” she said, studying me and calming. “And don’t call them ‘tits’. It’s rude.” Rude perhaps, but clearly moderately acceptable if they were her tits I was enthusing about and not Ms. Waboombas.

  “I guess I can’t blame you,” she said. “I did sort of lose control and expose them rather suddenly there. And people are always telling me that ones such as mine can have that effect on men. I just never cared before.” She glanced down at my crotch with disgust. I’d bet money she still didn’t.

  “It’s just…“ I said, “seeing them loose like that. Wild, and free— and not pale, I just wanted to…”

  “Enough,” she said, and held up a hand to silence me. “You really are becoming quite vulgar.”

  She looked down at my crotch again, her face screwed up with loathing.

  “You’re going to have to learn to control that, you know. I don’t want people seeing it every time you happen to think of my…boobies. You’ll be a laughing stock. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be if father saw you do that? For him it would be like it was for me the time I caught him having sex with the maid on the snack platter during my thirteenth birthday party. It traumatized me for life.”