Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

  “Would you like to see my ordination certificate?”

  He seemed to become angry. He turned to look at her and found his eyes wandering over her body to get a firmer, mental grip on the situation—or so he told himself.

  She was a handsome woman. A little heavy, a little loose, but still hanging together nicely. He was already becoming somewhat uncomfortable with studying her—as it seemed to be arousing certain long-unused areas within him that he would prefer remained dormant—when he noticed that her pubic hair had been perfectly trimmed into the shape of a cross.

  “Good, Lord! I cannot believe—woman, are you mad?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You have trimmed your…em…the…the…um…pub…” he paused and drew a breath. “That is the symbol of our Lord!” he said with angry dignity.

  “Which is why I did it,” she responded shamelessly.

  She continued to stare at him, and he continued to stare at…it.

  “Is it still there?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Did it move?”

  “Did what move?”

  “You can stop staring at it now,” she told him, annoyed.

  “What?”

  “I said, you can stop…”

  “I wasn’t staring!” he said, shivering, realizing he had been staring, and turned his eyes heavenward, though his mind’s eye still only saw that part of her which some men have also named, quite poetically, ‘heaven’. “I was just…agog.”

  “Agog?” she asked.

  “Agog. Stunned, flabbergasted. It’s as though you are taunting the faith you supposedly serve. I mean, it’s bad enough that you’re a minister, if you truly are…”

  “Bad enough that I’m a minister? Why? Because I’m a nudist?”

  “No, because you’re a wo…” he paused, and seriously reconsidered what he was about to say. Those comments had gotten him into trouble before.

  “Because I’m a wo…? Wo…what? Wo…man?”

  “We both know that women don’t truly belong in the clergy…”

  “No, we don’t both know that…”

  “But if the Church knew you also conducted yourself in this way…”

  “Why do you assume they wouldn’t know? They do. They’ve been here. I have pictures that were taken during their visit hanging on a wall in my office. Would you like to see them?”

  He hesitated again. He had nearly said ‘yes’, fairly certain she was lying, then thought better of it. What if they had ordained a nudist? Was it really so farfetched? They had allowed, and promoted, homosexuality. Anything now seemed possible. Good lord, animals might be next. After homosexuality, animals were always next.

  He shivered as more horrific thoughts occurred to him. What if they had come to visit and then decided to partake of this ‘naturism’ themselves? Could he handle seeing his elders smiling and chummy, and ‘hanging out’ as the young people so aptly put it these days? He shuddered more violently.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Fine. Bit of a chill.”

  “Did you want to see the photos?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Why is this such a problem for you? This is my parish. My flock is comfortable and happy living this way. I am comfortable and happy living this way. And so is God after all. Genesis 1:27 ‘So God created man in His own image.’”

  He looked at her blankly. She looked at him, stunned. Could he be this dense? Apparently so.

  “Naked,” she concluded.

  “Are you insane? God is not naked.”

  “Of course He is.”

  “Madam!”

  “It’s true. God is a nudist. He didn’t become angry and kick Adam and Eve out of Eden until they began all that nonsense about being afraid and ashamed, and covering themselves. Prior to that, He couldn’t have cared less what they wore.”

  “You take liberties with the word of God.”

  “Do I? Genesis 2:25. ‘And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.’ It’s not the nudity the Lord objected to—it was their thinking they knew more than Him, that pissed God off.”

  “’Pissed God off.’ Pissed God off?”

  “Do you need further examples?”

  “I need some decorum. God and…” he paused. “…pissed, in the same sentence. Really. Madam…”

  “Reverend.”

  “Madam! However you may interpret Genesis, God has made it plain that nudity is a sin.”

  “No, He hasn’t.”

  “Of course He has. First of all, there is the issue of temptation…”

  “I’ve never known a man who felt less tempted because a woman’s body was obscured beneath layers of fabric.”

  “Women can be tempted too.” He sneered.

  “I won’t deny that. Doesn’t change my point. We’re primarily tempted by a man’s mind, though,” she said, smiling. “Which you men flaunt shamelessly.”

  “However sexual temptation may originate, that in no way makes the behavior either acceptable or correct, and to, additionally, fan the flames of lust by flaunting yourself, publicly … ”

  “James 1:13 through 15 plainly states that God never tempts anybody. How can you say that the image of God—which Genesis 1:26 and 27 clearly explains that we are—tempts? Perhaps our actions, or our expressions, or our fertile imaginations—the way we interact as women and men—might be tempting. But our bodies, by Biblical definition, cannot tempt.”

  “I can see this argument is pointless.”

  “Interestingly, so can I.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “I would be delighted to excuse you.”

  He turned and walked down the aisle without another word, his footsteps echoing hollowly throughout the large chamber. As he neared the exit, the nude woman in ministerial collar called out to him. “You’re welcome back anytime, Pastor.”

  He didn’t bother turning to look at her.

  “Not until you learn how to become closer to God,” he said.

  “I told you,” she said. “God is a nudist and unashamed of it, as we should be. In that regard, if no other, I am closer to Him than you will ever be.”

  He pushed through the outer doors and let them slam behind him. She shook her head.

  “You get one every year,” she muttered under her breath, kneeling again behind the lectern and returning to her Heaven ordained, audio-equipment difficulties.

  As Morgan lie somewhere far behind me under a pile of angry, naked people, I was pedaling my little heart out toward what I hoped would be someone I could spend time with besides him. Not that he wasn’t often entertaining, but you couldn’t have sex with him and feel good about it afterwards—no matter what your sexual orientation.

  So for those of you thinking I left Morgan behind out of cowardice, keep in mind that a beautiful woman was—hopefully— waiting for me, wanting to see me, and she was naked. Cowardice may have, in some small way, played a part in abandoning my one and only friend, but overall I think you can go with me on the idea that there were other more important considerations at play here. Like—she was naked.

  Over the tops of some coastal cottages and the nearby tree line, I could see some tall, dark stones, which looked vaguely forehead-like. There were eyebrows and ear tops, and one particular stone was tall enough that I could see most of a nose, and one entire eye in profile. The Medium Sized Giant head, I presumed.

  As I rounded the last cottage still obscuring my view, I saw two immense Easter Island-like heads a hundred or so yards in front of me and just seaward of the path I rode. They must have been, on average, a good twenty or more feet high and were rooted deeply in the sand, their backs to the ocean as they stared unblinkingly into the front of a little chalet nestled between them and the sharply rising hills beyond. It was almost as if, one distant morning long ago, they’d strode majestically out of the sea intending to conquer the world, only to be distracted by some very attra
ctive naked person in one of the windows. Captivated, they’d stayed and continued to ogle, not realizing that in this town—whoever it was—was not likely to ever get dressed.

  World domination put on hold due to prurient interest. One of the immense rocks—the Little Giant Head, I presumed— leaned over oddly, as if time, weather and unsatisfied sexual urges had made him realize he needed a bit of rest.

  I knew how he felt.

  The cobblestone path ended beneath me, and the bike refused to roll over sand, so I jumped off, dropping it where it was, and raced toward the smaller of the stone idols. I checked my watch, and saw that I was seventeen minutes late, and cursing, threw myself behind the immense, stony sentinel.

  But she was gone.

  I breathed deeply for a moment, winded from my exertions, staring at the empty space between the stones and the sea. I cursed myself for being an idiot, for waiting for Morgan, for talking to Sophie, for not looking at the envelope sooner. Petal had winked at me. She was trying to give me a clue. But she clearly underestimated my utter cluelessness. I’d thought she was showing me some kind of appreciation for my exposed penis. Clearly, I was not the smartest truck in the garage. Even Bob The Builder would lose patience with me, and he could tolerate Spud.

  Personally, I would have done a Lizzy Borden on Spud years ago and fed him to Farmer Pickles’ pig, Deadwood-style. Bob built Spud his own room. But I digress—which is part of my problem in the first place! I had lost valuable time getting the others into the hotel, talking with the receptionist, tipping the concierge, tolerating Morgan, talking with the receptionist again—

  I was an idiot.

  I sagged, pitifully, and turned back to my bike, dreading the long ride uphill for more reasons than just my own poor, physical condition, when suddenly, she was there, riding toward me on a Palomino horse, bareback, and fabulously naked, a modern day Lady Godiva, sparkling in the sun like a jewel, her beautiful smile showing just how pleased she was to see me.

  Ms. Nuckeby.

  Wisper.

  My goddess on the shore.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late…” Wisper said, stepping down from her valiant steed.

  “You are so incredibly beautiful,” I told her.

  She blushed, and a smile erupted all over her face. She turned from me, shyly, and tied the horse’s lead to a nearby tree branch.

  “The sun wishes it were as radiant as you,” I said, more or less stealing from Shakespeare.

  “Oh, my God!” she said, disbelieving, walking back toward me.

  “No, really,” I said, moving closer, grateful for my dim memory of the bard, but running low on material. “I’ve never seen a more amazing woman in all my life.”

  Man, even without the assistance of the man from Stratford, I was on a roll.

  “And you’ve seen a lot of amazing women.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve seen pretty faces. You—are truly lovely.”

  She looked shyly down at the ground, still smiling. I had embarrassed her, but she liked it. So did I.

  “You came,” she said.

  I looked down at my slacks.

  “No!” she said, and laughed. “No, I meant you came down here. To the beach.”

  “I couldn’t stay away. I had to see you. I needed to see you.”

  “What about Mindie?” She said ‘Mindie’ again as if it were something with too many legs crawling out from under wet compost.

  “What about her?” I asked.

  “You’re engaged.”

  “She’s engaged. I was never consulted on the idea, and had other plans.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a weird story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  I took one of her hands in mine. She looked down at it nervously.

  “You’re not going to let go of it this time, are you?”

  I winced. “Only if I get run over by a semi.”

  “We don’t get many semis on this beach.”

  “The way my luck runs...”

  She laughed, and as she did I watched every inch of her move with that joyous sound. For the first time I realized she wasn’t actually entirely nude, as she had given over her magnificent body to display a delicate gold chain about her waist, a matching anklet, necklace, toe rings, finger rings, and other complementary jewelry. It made her bare skin all the more beautiful and unimaginably sexy.

  I leaned closer to her and wanted to kiss her. She wanted it as well, but we both hesitated, knowing there was still something between us. And this time it wasn’t my penis.

  “I need to apologize,” I said.

  She put a gentle fingertip to my lips. “Shhh,” she said. “You need me to explain a few things.”

  “Yes,” I said, showing my confusion.

  “I figured you might.”

  Smiling at me, she turned and walked toward the ocean. I went with her, and not just because she was still holding my hand.

  “You’re a nudist,” I said flatly.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  I looked her over, enjoying every sun-kissed skin cell. “I’m afraid so.”

  She laughed. “Good a place as any to start, I guess. Yes, I am a nudist.”

  “I imagine it would make the transition to lingerie modeling a bit easier.”

  “Easier than being full-on clothed, yes. Don’t pants and underwear get uncomfortable after a while?”

  I had to admit, sometimes they did. I just never thought about it. In my neighborhood you had to wear them, and that was more-or-less the end of it.

  “Do you ever wear clothes?” I asked.

  “When it’s cold. But still not in the amount that you do. A coat. Some shoes…. ”

  The idea of her nude under a winter coat excited me, and I imagined Christmases walking around town, just giddy with knowing what others would not.

  “Does it get cold here?”

  “A couple months a year.”

  “Where do nudists carry their stuff? Wallets, money—things like that?”

  “Fanny packs, socks, purses....”

  “Clothes For The Naked.”

  “Yeah,” she chuckled. “Clothes For The Naked.”

  “How do you feel about wearing clothing on a daily basis?”

  “Not a fan of it.”

  Damn. Strike one.

  “Hard to imagine, I know, that it would actually be a problem that a beautiful woman wanted to be naked around me all the time, but it’s a funny world we live in.”

  “A funny world you live in.”

  “Point of view is everything I suppose. This place really is different from what I’m used to. Where did those stone heads come from?”

  “I don’t know. They were here before this place was settled.”

  “Settled by whom?”

  “Homer Nikkid. You probably saw his statue on the way into town.”

  “The pantsless 76er. He seemed quite proud of his enormous schlong.”

  “Oh, he was. Some wonder if pride is the main reason he went without pants, more so than comfort. I suppose it doesn’t matter. The end result is the same.”

  “Pride would be my bet. I’d find a way to expose mine too,” I admitted, “if it were that big. I’d want everyone to see it, envy it, and bow down before it in worship.”

  “Kind of like a woman where you come from who wears the tightest clothes when she has the most impressive body.”

  “Yep. Just like that. The way things are lately, it practically is nudism at times, isn’t it?”

  “At least where women are concerned. Men seem more reserved.”

  “I’ve heard stories about guys who call impromptu meetings in private places and somehow ‘forget’ their pants—about this one Hollywood actor in particular—so they can impress people with what dangled between their legs, but yes, mostly it’s women who reveal— men who conceal.”

  “Seems more honest, somehow,” she said, “the way we do it. Have everyone on equal footing. Homer may have had weird reasons
or hang-ups that led him to go around with his all exposed, but in the end, I think he was more honest and right than the people where you come from.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You disagree?”

  “Well, from a purely practical standpoint,” I said, “if someone had a wang that enormous, I imagine he’d have trouble finding enough cloth to cover it anyway. But mostly, you have to admit, it’s a pretty radical direction in life when all of history has been more sensible.”

  “Sensible?” she bristled. “Not all of history. Just recorded, supposedly civilized history. Clothing optional has been more the norm in the overall arc of human existence. And, otherwise, what parts of the human body can reasonably be revealed, or needs to be concealed, has been fluid to a large degree.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Sixteenth century codpieces. Exposed breasts. Exposed asscrack. In the last hundred years alone you’ve gone from full body suits and hats at the beach to topless with thongs. In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking.”

  “Now, heaven knows.” I had to agree with her. “Anything goes.”

  “From cavemen and women up through the ancient Mayan, Egyptian, Spartan, Greek, Etruscan, and even into the Roman civilizations, when things began to take a more prudish turn—largely among followers of some restrictive force of authority, like a religion or something.”

  “People of the ancient world were all nudists?” I asked, surprised. Had I known, I might have paid more attention in history class. At least to the pictures.

  “No,” she said, correcting slightly. “It was just more clothing optional and since then people have often tried to reclaim their right to be naked publicly. From the Indian Jains, to Pyrrho of Elis, to the Carpocratians to the Pifles, to the Turlupins and the Anabaptists and the Adamites, men and women have historically wanted to feel the air and the sun on their skins. Whether it’s public bathing, social events, athletic competitions—hell, the Greek root word for gymnastics means ‘naked’.”

  Suddenly something occurred to me.

  “Is there a…a college around here?” I asked her.

  “Community college, yeah.”

  “Nudist college?”

  “Of course.”