Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

  “Men’s and women’s athletics departments?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Morgan will want to know. Eventually. Never mind. Continue.”

  She looked at me, puzzled, then shook her head and went back to explaining the history of public nakedness.

  “So, anyway, people were more clothing optional earlier in world history. But, of course, all that changed heading into the Dark, and Middle Ages.

  “Power—which has been entirely about control since the dawn of time —began to be acquired through managing, or restraining natural human emotions and desires, usually culminating in some form of Puritanism as a method of attaining spiritual perfection. Control of emotion. Control of behavior. Control of others in general by whatever means necessary. But that’s only been a couple thousand years, or so. Before that, it was much more a free-for-all.”

  “And Homer was just looking for a return to that lack of control?”

  “Or what he felt was a greater form of personal control. Honesty, and understanding of what was natural within us. Listen to your emotions. Trust your feelings. Seek joy in all things. If you like it, do it. If you desire something, look to attain it, or understand your need for it. If it doesn’t hurt others, try it. If it’s not someone else’s, go for it.” She paused and stared at me, smiling slightly. “If it’s warm, get naked.”

  “Hedonism.”

  “I suppose. We think of it more as joyful living. Guilt is often so misguided. More neurosis than genuine repentance for harm done.”

  “Be honest, be moral, be comfortable,” I said, remembering the plaque.

  At first it seemed like a joke. Now…

  “Like so many,” Wisper continued, “Homer came to America to escape persecution for his attitudes, for his beliefs…”

  “…for his refusal to wear pants in public…”

  “For a lot of reasons,” she said, sounding a bit annoyed. “He was an acolyte of Hythloday, and had notions of creating a utopian society similar to the one created by his mentor here in the New World.”

  “A society centered around being naked.”

  “Partly. More centered on freedom. Freedom of religion, freedom of thought, freedom to wear clothes or not.”

  “Who’s Hythloday?”

  “Some guy in Europe hundreds of years ago who built a community of like-minded people…”

  “…who liked to be naked.”

  She stopped walking and looked at me with some sadness.

  “You seem kind of hung up on only one particular aspect of what I’m saying,” she finally said.

  “I don’t mean offense. It’s just such a major change from what I’m used to. I’m trying to get my head around it.”

  “The easiest way to do that is to experience it.”

  She saw my hesitance.

  “If you tried it,” she said, smiling, “you might like it.”

  “If I tried snails, I might like them, but—…”

  A pained expression filled her face, and I felt immediately as if I was losing her, and the Chihuahuas began yapping at my heart, again.

  “I’m working my way into it,” I said. “You’re fighting against years of repression here. Honestly. Just give me time.”

  She studied me for a moment, sadly, then forced an uncertain smile, and we continued walking.

  “So has it become the utopia Homer wanted it to be?”

  “Not really, no. It’s nice. I like it. But the essential requirement of ‘utopia’ is homogeny—and people are never homogenous—even when they’re basically the same. Brothers, and sisters often can’t even get along, and it doesn’t get any more homogenous than that. Married couples may have a commitment to one another but can still see the world very differently.”

  I saw her point, and it bothered me. Not because walking beside her on the shores of this not-quite utopia—gloriously naked as she was, while I still wore pants—proved our own differences were visibly obvious, and potentially insurmountable, even though we genuinely liked each other. But because with her thoughtful history lesson and deep understanding of the moral, philosophical, and religious origins of society, along with her view of the overall direction of the world, she was clearly smarter than me. Than I? Than…

  See! She would know! And when a woman is smarter than the man, that is a recipe for disaster! Unless you’re creating a sitcom. Then it’s gold.

  I’d never even considered what the word ‘homogenous’ meant anywhere outside a carton of milk, let alone how it applied to utopian civilization. I felt like a frog listening to the goddess Athena—wise, beautiful, independent, even-tempered, and logical Athena, obviously hoping to commune with me in some intellectual way—and all I could think of was jumping on her nakedness. She continued on, blithely rubbing her mental superiority in my face, while I wanted to rub other things in hers.

  “In utopia,” she continued, “everyone thinks the same, and agrees all the time because they’re wise enough to see ‘truth’. But ‘truth’ is always different things to every individual, and being given the freedom to do what you want to do, no matter what anyone else may want to do, creates conflict with someone else’s truth. So, ultimately, any utopia requires a benevolent dictator to keep the peace on those—supposedly—rare occasions when people will disagree. Homer understood that, and with the founders managed to build a working society, but it’s far from perfect, and entirely reliant on the leader of the day.

  “Other than my parents,” she continued, a bit sadly, “I don’t know anyone who’s particularly benevolent, and I can’t get two people to agree on the same movie, let alone major life decisions. Some people like film as art—other, lesser intellects, or mental escapists, may prefer ‘high-octane, big-screen’ entertainment. Some people are smart. Some people are dumb. Some smart people do stupid things, and some dumb people are amazingly savvy.”

  “Sooo,” I said, “it’s basically just a community like any other.”

  She smiled, sarcastically. “Of people who like to be naked.”

  I eyed her, sarcastically. “You seem kind of hung up on that,” I kidded, grateful she still hadn’t recognized I was an intellectual frog.

  “This is going to sound strange, Wisper,” I said, a little afraid to finish my thought. “But why are you attracted to me?”

  “What? What a question! Because you’re handsome, and nice, and...”

  “I am?” I was genuinely caught off-guard.

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “I don’t know. No one’s ever said it before.”

  “Which part?”

  “The handsome part. Well, either part actually. Wait. I take that back. Morgan says I’m nice, sometimes. Actually what he says is ‘you’re a chump’, but in Morgan-speak that means ‘is considerate, and will do things for others’.”

  “You are considerate. Remember the first time we met?” she asked.

  I did. It was a couple weeks before the water bottle incident. Manschingloss had introduced her to me as one of his choices for the fashion show. Part of my job was approving the models, which was entirely perfunctory as all final decisions were the purview of Manschingloss’, and I normally did it without much interest. Manschingloss was never overruled. But, contrary to many of the models I might have preferred not to hire, Ms. Nuckeby had been a delight. Polite and charming, and I, of course, had been immediately struck by her startling beauty, and so, did my best not to look at her in a desperate effort to cling to my job description.

  “You were so shy,” she said. “You wouldn’t even look at me. But when you did, you looked into my eyes, not into my boobs, and made me feel comfortable. You asked me if you could get me something to eat or drink—you made me laugh,” she recalled, smiling at the memory. “The boss, wanting me to be comfortable and offering me a drink.”

  “Maybe I was just hitting on you.”

  “You never hit on anybody. Even before I met you, everyone said you were the perfect gentleman.”


  “Well, contractually, I’m required to be.”

  “I know men, Mister Wopplesdown. That rarely stops them. You can’t fake genuine kindness.”

  I felt a bit of a glow. Apparently there was an impression of me in the general world of which I was not aware. People thought highly of me. How had that happened? But then, people thought highly of George W. Bush. Half a nation had elected him to our highest office because they thought he’d be fun at a barbecue.

  “So, I already knew you couldn’t hit on me,” Wisper continued. “And we had to sign those papers at the agency, so I knew I had no chance with you. But then you asked me questions about myself, about my family, and made me laugh. Here I was, a new model— basically used to being treated like a glorified coat hanger—and you’re looking into my eyes and treating me like a person. A human being. A woman. I wanted you right there on the floor.”

  “On the…” I choked. “On the…” I swallowed hard. “On the floor. Like in—wanted me?”

  “Sure. It’s not that big a deal when you’re raised around here. Sexuality is more open, as you can imagine. If you’re attracted to someone, you do it. Il n'y a pas de quoi fouetter un chat.”

  “What? What was that? Was that French?”

  “Yes. It’s an idiom. Literally it means: ‘It's no reason for whipping a cat.’ But the real translation is more: ‘nothing to fuss over.’”

  “So you can be smart in two languages.”

  “Well—five. But I’m only really fluent in three.”

  “I can walk and chew gum at the same time.”

  She laughed, and the sound jiggled things that thrilled me in stupendous ways.

  “So you just have sex anywhere you feel like it? In public?”

  “Noooo,” she laughed again. “That’s frowned on, even here— although it does happen, now and again, and people really don’t get too worked up about it.”

  “Inny pass decoy feather the cat.”

  “Okay. You should never speak French.”

  “I should never speak English. So, you were telling me why you can’t have sex with me in public, even though you desperately want to.”

  She laughed. “Right. Well, we still prefer our intimacy in private, or semiprivate, because it can disturb others. Like chewing with your mouth open. Not world ending, but not the most pleasant thing to be around either, sometimes. But even then, it’s kind of Etruscan, as you can imagine.”

  “Oh, I can imagine,” I said, chuckling. Which was true. All I could do was imagine. I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, other than that it meant we might still be able to have sex around here somewhere. Wasn’t ‘Etruscan’ a kind of bread? Whatever. The ‘wanting sex’ thing now made this an extra base hit. The count was starting over. It was time for the next pitch.

  “What if someone becomes—you know—aroused in public?”

  “What? You mean like you did with Petal?”

  I gulped. Blushed. Looked at my feet. Apparently, the Nuckeby sisters had no secrets.

  “Um, sort of like that.”

  “It’s all right. She’s a pretty girl. It happens. Just don’t do anything about it.”

  She smiled. I smiled. I couldn’t imagine ever finding anyone more attractive than she already was to me.

  “How could I?” I said. “As long as you’re around.”

  “Even when I’m not around.”

  “Promise,” I said. “So, then, monogamy is still important here.”

  “It is with me.”

  “Good enough.”

  “So what else do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Wow. So many things.” I lost my smile and looked away. “But before I ask anything more, I really need to apologize,” I said sadly. She looked at me blankly. “For costing you your job.”

  She looked suddenly hurt and turned away. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No. It was. Grandfather feared my attraction to you, and yours to me. He got you fired. He thinks you’re a gold-digger.”

  She laughed. Very hard. I glanced at her breasts as they bounced with her chuckles, then away again when she caught me staring.

  “It’s all right. You can look at them now. I want you to.”

  She posed provocatively in front of me, and I nearly fainted. She had to grab me to keep me from going over.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I squeaked.

  “Sorry. I forget sometimes that you outsiders get more worked up about a bare body than we do.”

  “It’s quite a body.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Soooo…em…not a gold–digger?”

  “If you only knew.”

  “That’s…” I coughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that today.”

  “Well, it’s just that a very rich man wanted me—but I didn’t want him. It’s how I wound up in the city and working as a model. I was escaping.”

  “And now I’ve driven you back home, to him?”

  “Near him. Not to him. Modeling paid very well, and it allowed me to live in an apartment away from here. Having worked my whole life in the family restaurant, I don’t have many job skills that could pay the kind of salary I’d need for a place of my own. Being seminaked was overdressed for me, so I had no qualms about the work, and I’m pretty enough…”

  “More than enough,” I said.

  “See?” She blushed. “You are nice.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “You haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise. Other than the hand-dropping incident.”

  I winced again. “Am I going to have to live with that for the rest of my life?”

  “I hope so,” she said, with deeper meaning.

  I warmed. I wanted to kiss her again, but I wasn’t sure everything was settled between us yet.

  “Now I want to ask you some questions,” she said, letting me know not everything was.

  Rats!

  “All right,” I said. “Shoot.”

  “How do you feel about being with a nudist?”

  That was the million-dollar question. I looked off into the distance. We were a good ways past the Easter Island heads now, heading toward a cluster of large rocks on the shore, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. We were well and truly alone, and I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to give her the right answers.

  Instead I told her the truth.

  “On a purely animalistic level, I think it’s great. But on other, more realistic levels…”

  “How will the family react, that kind of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have similar concerns,” she said.

  I goggled at her. “Your family would object?”

  “Of course. You think they want a ‘clothist’ living among them? They’d think it’s perverse.”

  Perverse? I hadn’t considered myself an aberration worthy of such intense distaste, but I supposed I had to consider where I was.

  “Interesting,” I said, mulling it over. “I’d never looked at it like that before.”

  “Things here are not so different from your world. We just don’t wear clothes, if we can avoid it, and frown on those that do.”

  “So relationships, jealousy, love, commitment…”

  “All pretty much the same, yeah.”

  “Well, that helps. Okay. You’re still at the plate,” I said. “Next question.”

  “All right. Why did you drop my hand?”

  I stared at her for a long moment. That was a difficult question to answer and still leave her wanting to touch me.

  “Because I was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of you. Of being poor.”

  “Why of me?”

  “I didn’t believe anyone so spectacular could genuinely find me attractive. Not for legitimate reasons.”

  “Oh,” she said, sadly. “Well, I’m not the only one, you know.”

  “Really?” I was floored. “Who e
lse?”

  “None of your business. Why are you afraid of being poor?”

  “I don’t know how to live poor, and my grandfather threatened me with being disowned if I continued, in any way, with you.” “He can do that?”

  “He’d give it a damn good try, believe me. He holds my money in trust until I’m thirty. He even got me engaged to Mindie without my knowledge so I wouldn’t be available to you, or anyone else.”

  “That’s what happened? My, God! He’d break you just because you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m interested in you, Corky Wopplesdown, your money means nothing to me, so your grandfather ultimately has no power here, but …so…” she hesitated, and bit a lip, “…well, what does all this mean then? Your family, my family, our differing lifestyles—there are still lots of obstacles here.”

  “Apparently,” I said sadly.

  We walked for a minute or more in silence, and just listened to the singing of the sea. I’m sure a million things were going through her mind, but mostly I was thinking about her breasts; I am terrifically unevolved.

  “Do you want to do this?” she asked hopefully.

  “What?” I asked, nervous and a bit excited.

  “See me,” she said, as if it should be obvious, and wondering where my mind was.

  “Like…a relationship?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than anything.”

  “So what are the rules, and what are the consequences?”

  I chewed my own lip. Sucked my teeth. Hummed.

  “Well,” I finally said. “The consequences are, our elders hating us, disowning us, and making us outcasts from both societies.”

  “Pretty serious.”

  “Frighteningly so.”

  “What are the benefits?”

  “Being together.”

  She sighed, clearly moved by my words. “Good answer. Okay. Suppose this works out and the two of us fall deeply, profoundly, and passionately in love…” she paused and glanced at me meaningfully, as if waiting, and when I said nothing, “…or just…um…at least continue wanting to be together—but you get kicked out of Wopplesdown Struts, your home, your money, and have all your credit cards taken away.”

  I shivered.

  “Could you live here?” she asked.