Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

“Here?” I looked around nervously. “I don’t know.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Take off your pants.”

  “What?”

  “Take off your pants. If you can’t do that and be comfortable with no one else even around, then you could never live here.”

  I hesitated, melted a bit under her electric gaze, then slowly reached for my snap and zipper. As I did, I glanced up, and down the beach again, even more nervously.

  “Don’t look around. You have to not be worried about it or it will never work.”

  I stared at her and hesitated. Her eyes showed concern, but also support and understanding. They were complex eyes.

  “You were naked outside the restaurant.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “Is it really so different?”

  I looked at my zipper.

  “I was also—a bit more flaccid then.”

  She laughed.

  “It’s not really a problem here, Corky. Women’s nipples get hard…”

  Gloop!

  “…men’s penises get hard. It happens. It only becomes a problem when you do creepy things with it or it’s just chronic.”

  I glanced at her, suddenly disturbed.

  “It’s chronic?” she asked, surprised.

  “Around you!”

  “Oh. Well. I assume that’ll pass eventually.”

  “You assume a lot,” I said.

  “All right,” she said, waving it off. “Well, for now, no one’s around. So it’s okay.”

  I looked at her askance, not convinced, but still opened my fly slowly—uneasily—only to stop and involuntarily glanced around again.

  She sighed heavily, then reached out and stopped me, looking into my eyes sadly.

  “Okay. So you living here is not an option. I suppose I could live in your world and wear clothes.” She shuddered, violently. It was really sexy. “I was willing to do it before, I could do it again. What kind of work can you do?”

  “I can look at semi-naked girls and not get sued.”

  “Not a lot of demand for that kind of job skill.”

  “I guess not. I might manage entry-level in a restaurant, or something like that.”

  “You?”

  I was offended.

  “It’s possible. If I had a benevolent boss.”

  “Benevolent? In the city?” She seemed to have her doubts. “I don’t know,” I said, tending to agree with her. “You think your family couldn’t accept me—even as a busboy—if I wore clothes?”

  “Could your family accept me at parties, and gatherings, and social events if I didn’t?”

  I said nothing. I didn’t need to. They already hadn’t.

  We continued walking in silence, then arrived at a large rock where she sat quietly, looked out across the sea, and took her hand from mine. I missed its touch immediately. With growing despair, I turned and looked out over the ocean myself, putting my discarded fingers and their partners into their respective pockets. I liked pockets.

  When she spoke again, after some long, deep thinking, her voice sounded distant, with none of its natural buoyancy.

  “I might be able to find work with another modeling agency. So you might not need a job.”

  “I don’t think I could be comfortable living off you.”

  “There’s no shame in it.”

  “It’s not the shame, it’s the burden. Life is expensive. I’d want to do my part, and modeling is a finicky business.”

  “That’s true. I might only have a few years of earning potential, and then…”

  “…there’s two of us with no job skills.”

  “Well, I can run a restaurant. You’re more problematic. You’re used to having everything you want—up to and including a butler.”

  “He’s not much of a butler.”

  “He’s more than you’d have if you were disowned. And suppose we lost everything, on both sides, and then things didn’t work out between us. Where would we be then?”

  Neither of us said anything as we stared off at the horizon a while longer. I turned and looked at her, and saw she was deeply miserable, her eyes wet and misted. Finally she spoke, her voice low—hollow, lost.

  “This is supposed to be the most romantic part of the relationship. The beginning, when everything is magical and all problems can be overcome. But it feels more like the end.”

  I kicked the sand absently.

  “You’re such a sweet man, Corky,” she said, so sadly.

  The words wounded me in some physical way. They sounded not so much like a compliment as a goodbye.

  “Such a gentle soul,” she said. “I never thought I could meet anyone like you.”

  “Wisper, there has to be some way…”

  “Ssshhhhh,” she said, and studied me in silence for a moment, her expression one of profound loss.

  “Take your pants off,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Take your pants off. Please?”

  “I thought we had already established that I…”

  “There’s no one around, and I’m not asking you to live this way. I just want to look at you.”

  Her sadness-filled smile grew, and a tear formed in her eye.

  “Take your pants off.”

  Unbelievably, I still hesitated.

  “Please?” she asked again.

  With sudden, unexpected confidence, I opened the pants, and dropped them to the sand. She calmly sat there, pleased, as her eyes wandered up and down my body. She made me feel attractive, worthy, and proud, like maybe I actually looked good naked. I suppose anything was possible. The rules were very different here.

  “Wow,” she said softly.

  “Wow?”

  “You’re so handsome.”

  I looked down, surprised.

  “Thank you.”

  “I love your penis.”

  “Um—thank you.”

  “It has a really nice shape.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “Good color, too.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It bends a little to the left.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “No. It’s cute. Did you hurt it somehow?”

  “No. It does that on its own.”

  “Oh,” she said, studying it further. “It’s really very hard, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty much since meeting you. Yeah.”

  “Wow.”

  “Like it was injected with concrete,” I said. “Men here don’t get like this?”

  “Not like that.”

  “Desensitization probably. Nudity overdose.”

  “Maybe. I just love the way it gets so big around me, so fast. Like I really, really excite you.”

  “As no one else possibly could.”

  She looked up at my eyes, and there were more tears in hers.

  “You are the sweetest man.”

  She held out her hands and beckoned me.

  “Make love with me.”

  “What? Wisper, I…”

  “Make love with me. Stand between my legs, push yourself inside me, and hold me like you’ll never let me go.”

  I stood for a minute longer than I should have—because it was a minute I could have spent touching her. Finally, I stepped out of my pants and over to her, taking her shoulders, pulling her against me— —and, finally, we kissed.

  It was as though she were making love to my lips. My brain began to melt, as our skin, and hands, and bodies exploded into one another. The contact was dazzling. My teeth, tongue, and mouth felt as if they were being cattle-prodded with unconditional love, and the energy spread out from there to every other part of me, hot, tingly, and intense. She took my penis in her hands and began to move it between her spreading legs. I could feel the heat of her on its tip as she began to guide it in, when out of nowhere a voice ripped my skull open and pissed on my brains.r />
  “CORKY!”

  I looked up, and Morgan was running my way, chased across the sand by an angry mob of naked teenagers with sticks.

  “YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU LEFT ME BACK THERE!”

  “NO , YOU IDIOT!” I screamed! “MORGAN, GO AWAY!”

  He was still about fifty yards from us now, but I could see he had taken some severe punishment. Body bruised, hair wild, clothes hanging off in rags, no longer concealing much. His pants were gone entirely, and I could see why Ms. Waboombas didn’t think much of him.

  “WHAT?” he shrieked. “I’M THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE MAD AT YOU!”

  He got closer and scowled, slowly taking things in.

  “HEY!” he snapped. “WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?”

  He got right up beside me, stopped, and fidgeted nervously while staring at us with confusion. Feeling violated, I stood back from Wisper. The mood, as you can imagine, was somewhat dimmed. Morgan stared down in disgust at my erection.

  “Dude! Put that thing away! What is wrong with you?” Embarrassed, I reached down, and began pulling my slacks back on.

  “What are you doing?” Wisper asked.

  “I’m…” I said, confused by the question. “…getting dressed. People are coming.”

  She stared at me blankly as I yanked my pants up over my angry penis. It was so focused on the idea that it might actually, finally, experience its intended purpose in life, that it fought like a special forces soldier to be free so it could complete its mission properly.

  Wisper looked at it, tearfully, then back up at me.

  “What?” I asked, dumbly.

  She said nothing. Just stared.

  “Whoa,” Morgan cut in. “You’re the babe from the restaurant. Anyone ever tell you, you’ve got an amazing ass?”

  “Yes. Why are those people chasing you?”

  He turned and looked back at the onrushing crowd. One of his attackers pointed right at me. It was River, Wisper’s brother.

  “YOU!”

  “IT’S THE OTHER ONE!” another angry nudist yelled.

  And suddenly everyone’s speed through the sand increased. Testicles, penals, and breastals flapped, slapped, and clapped their way towards us at a horrifyingly rapid clip. I gasped and coupled my pants together over my struggling member.

  “THE LITTLE ONE GROPED TAMMY,” someone yelled to Wisper.

  “What?” Wisper turned on Morgan. “You did what?” The sensual mood was now completely eradicated from all parts of her body, especially the important ones. “What is wrong with you?”

  “She was naked! I couldn’t help myself!” Morgan said, squealing, and began running away again, past us, around the rocks, and down the beach.

  “This is why we hate it when your kind comes here,” Wisper yelled after him.

  It deeply disturbed me the way she said ‘your kind’. Like a Southern Baptist saying ‘homosexual’, or a Palestinian saying ‘Jew’.

  “My kind?” I said.

  “Clothists,” she said, directing her anger toward me. “Textiles.”

  “You mean, normal people,” Morgan yelled from fifty yards off.

  Wisper scowled at him, then back at me.

  “Wisper. What’s going on? A minute ago…”

  “A minute ago, you were ready to walk out on any chance we might have to be together because you couldn’t take your pants off in public. But the minute I offered sex…”

  It was a test!

  It was a test?

  “You said you could be happy with me wearing nothing,” she said, tears, again, filling her eyes. “Was that I lie?”

  Had I said that? I frantically rushed through my memories of our brief time together. Everything had seemed so etched in my brain, but had I said that?

  “I suppose you just meant when we were in bed together. Or heading there,” she said angrily. “Why are you here, Mister Wopplesdown? Really?”

  I looked at the fiercely approaching crowd, with River pacing the pack. It was clear I needed the right answer, fast, and I was too confused to think linearly.

  “Wisper, be realistic…”

  Her expression darkened. Wrong answer. Realism and the heart are rarely dancing to the same song.

  “Better run,” she said sadly. “The natives really don’t like it when an outsider comes on to one of the local women.”

  “I know. When Morgan…”

  “I meant you.”

  “But…” I said, stunned. “I’m not ‘coming on’ to you. I’m with you…”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I was shocked. What had happened? What had I done wrong? Where was the Wisper who liked holding my penis? Moaning in frustration, I reluctantly ran off just ahead of flying sticks and sailing rocks.

  As I dashed away down the beach, I looked back over my shoulder to see River and some of the others stop near Wisper and check on her condition to make certain I hadn’t done her any harm, which I hadn’t.

  Had I?

  As her brother touched her shoulder and questioned her with gentle concern, she sat there silently, her eyes filled with tears, watching me furiously as I got farther, and farther, and farther away.

  While Morgan and I ran for our very lives, Pastor Winterly wandered calmly through town without hiding in his Bible and actually looked at things. He still clutched his Good Book tightly to his chest as though it worked on nudists the way a cross might work on vampires, or soap would work on a small boy, but at least it was no longer attached to his face and he’d stopped walking into walls and sharp objects. He was still having a difficult time doing more than just glance at the local populace. But having his vision unobscured at least allowed him the opportunity to be charmed by his surroundings, if not the actual naked people contained therein.

  As far as his eye could see Pastor Winterly was encircled and enchanted by a gently waving ocean of verdant trees and sherbet colored wildflowers. Unexpectedly captivated by their tranquil beauty, he gratefully accepted the serenity they offered and meandered almost undisturbed through and around several of the unclothed locals.

  Delighted by the playful sound of water dancing across time smoothed stones he strolled over a charming, weathered, handcrafted bridge that seemed ancient enough to have rested across the lazy, crystal waters flowing beneath it since somewhere around the dawn of naked people. Lush grasses spread out from the cobbled stone path leading to and from the overpass into more orderly rows of Impatiens, colorful Poppies, and Baby’s Tears that soothed his senses in a surprising way. Someone had put great care into their disorderly order, and he couldn’t help but admire that person’s handiwork, even if they had probably done it naked.

  Lost in an array of strikingly purple Asters he wandered into a section of town that was more suburban and less touristy, and therefore considered only for the residents of Nikkid Bottoms. But he was too involved in the familiarity and comfort of the flora, architecture, cobbled paths and beautifully tended grounds to be aware of any tenseness from the locals, and so he had no idea of the potential danger he had placed himself in by coming here.

  He was, truly, a Christian who—having searched innocently about the Coliseum for a restroom—had wandered into the arena and was so busy admiring the architecture he had not yet noticed the grounds were filled to the brim with cranky lions, and tigers and bears—oh my—all looking at him as though he were the last creamfilled donut in a police station break room.

  He was, as they say, blissfully living on borrowed time. As he courteously nodded to a passing nudist couple, each wearing only sneakers, he was plainly unaware of the thinly veiled hostility in their responses to him. Instead, he was too focused on his rustic, French provincial surroundings; letting the ambience of the neighborhood fly him away mentally from this place and carry him back gently to another, where he was young and naïve, and traveling abroad. As opposed to being old and naïve and traveling nowhere in particular.

  He had thoroughly loved his decision to tour other parts of the world in thos
e post-college days. Before being given a parish of his own, he was much more open to new ideas and interesting, divergent points of view—and there had been a great many divergent points of view along his many journeys down streets like this, oh yes there had—in France particularly.

  He remembered once in Bordeaux meeting an especially lovely young woman from nearby Toulon. They had spent a few nonsexual days with one another and on their last morning together she asked him to accompany her to a nearby seaside resort. He, of course, had been more than willing—enthusiastic even—until it had come out in the course of explaining the place and her relationship to it that the oceanfront village was ‘clothing optional’.

  She had giddily told him—with absolutely no shame whatsoever—that she had, all her life, been what was referred to as a ‘naturiste’. She was clearly somehow deluded by their previous conversations into believing that he was of like mind and was thrilled that the ‘handsome American’ would join her in partaking of this unique and extraordinary form of sun-worship.

  After a quick look through his French/English dictionary, and taking several minutes to collect himself, the young Winterly had informed his breakfast companion in no uncertain terms that he believed her to be a sinner of the highest order and felt confident she would spend all eternity roasting in Hell. Or at least being uncomfortably hot.

  She, of course, was completely stunned.

  At first she laughed a bit, nervously, then went suddenly silent as she quickly realized this threat of eternal damnation and torment was no joke. For a brief moment she had stared at him, heartbroken. Someone she’d begun to care deeply for truly thought she would burn for all time because she enjoyed being naked outdoors.

  After a brief, tense silence, the French maid stood and walked quickly away from him, never looking back, and hiding her face in hopes that he wouldn’t see the tears that shamed her far more than her life of public nakedness ever could.

  He watched her go, trying desperately not to show his guilt and pain at having hurt her. Why should he feel anything but proud? He was, after all, right, and she might be saved because of his blunt honesty. No sense feeling bad for offering such a gift. Let it go.

  And yet, to this very moment he’d found it impossible to forget that instant and those feelings, or more importantly, forget her.