Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (42 page)

I paused. Should I just tell him?

“Naked girls.”

That was
sort of
the truth.

He looked at me as if the thought had never occurred to him. His face brightened more than when we’d watched the girls fight. Which was considerable.

“That’s right,” he said. “I forgot about that.”

“How could you forget about
that
?” I asked, checking my watch and hurrying toward the lobby. He turned and paced me.

“I don’t know,” he said, lost in the thought. “It’s just such a strange thing. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, I guess.” He slowed down to consider it. “Wow. Naked girls
everywhere
. It’s like the Playboy mansion.”

Not quite.

Though, I have to admit, I was surprised at the general attractiveness of everyone we saw. Being naked all the time apparently made people want to take greater physical care of themselves. But still, the bodies were wide (and by that, I mean the range, not the actual bodies) and varied, and very few of them were actual centerfold caliber, though—interestingly—still largely attractive in their own way. Somehow clothes make you think the worst of what’s under them. But mostly, a little extra weight and bit of natural sag—not really all that unpleasant. And if it was on a woman, and you’re a heterosexual (as I keep telling you I am), it could be quite appealing indeed. And often surprising. People whose faces wouldn’t have given you pause back home, often had bodies that would stop you in your tracks. And people with amazing looks sometimes had bodies that were somewhat lacking.

Of course, we immediately passed an elderly man whose skin looked as if it had once held three or four extra people inside it and now had no idea what to do with itself other than sulk. He was apparently distantly related to the Shar Pei family. Honestly, though, clothing wouldn’t have made him much
more
appealing to look at. So—other than
him
—most people were
more
attractive than expected in all their various, unadorned glory.

“Wow,” Morgan said, visibly impressed with the increased quantity of feminine nudity. “I wonder if it’s okay to whack off in public, here?”

”Not if you’re anywhere near me, it isn’t,” I told him.

“How do we get to the beach?” Morgan asked me without taking his eyes off the women around us.

“Bike would be the easiest I imagine. I saw, out front, that the hotel rents them by the hour.”

“I wonder if that cute receptionist gives tours?”

He insisted on stopping to ask, and so, needing directions and not wanting to seem as though I had someplace to be,
urgently
, I stopped with him, fidgeting nervously and continually checking my watch as the minutes raced away.

The receptionist did not ordinarily give tours, but bouncily said she’d be happy to make an exception for us if we wanted to come back when her shift ended at six. Morgan convinced me that
that
was a fabulous plan of action.

“Do you know anything about a giant head on the beach?” I asked her.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. The giant one.”

“There’s a big giant one, and a little giant one.”

“Oh,” I consulted my note. “The little giant one, I guess. You know where it is?”

“Sure!” she bounced. “Take the main path in front of the hotel toward the beach. There’s a fork about a half a mile down that leads to the right. Follow that fork until it ends. You can’t miss it!”

Bounce!

“The head?” I asked.

Ba-Bounce!

“The head.”

“It’s a little giant head?”

“Right next to the medium-sized giant head. Both made of stone and left by aliens. The Big Giant Head is in Shining Fields on the other side of town.”

I smiled thanks and moved off. Then I stopped short and slowly turned back to her.

“Left by
aliens
?”

“That’s the story!” Bounce! “Some guy wrote a book about it once. Scientists dispute his ideas, of course, but
they
don’t
live
here!” Ba-bounce! “Personally,
I
believe it.”

And I have no doubt that she did.

Outside in the valet area I went up to the concierge—a cheerful, rosy-cheeked, naked man wearing golf shoes and a colorful beanie— and asked about bike rentals. He had two-wheelers, three-wheelers, and several types of pedal-carts. I noticed his member, and was pleased to see that not
everyone
around here was hung like a rogue elephant during mating season.

“I think I would,” I responded with equal brightness. “Down to the Little Giant Head.”

“Oh, of course. That’s quite the tourist attraction around here. But keep in mind that to get there, you have to go through a part of town that’s primarily for the locals, and they prefer that visitors stay away. It’s the one place where we natives can avoid being ogled by the clothey types,” he said, and glanced meaningfully at Morgan, who was drooling over a lovely young brunette in sunglasses and tennis shoes with low-slung breasts who was naked to her deeply tanned and flawless skin, waiting near her car for a valet.

“I understand,” I said, signing off on the receipt with a substantial tip. “I understand completely.” Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going
anyway.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, eyeing the tip with surprised eyes. “Thank you
very much
.”

“My pleasure,” I said, mounting up.

Morgan climbed onto his bike but wouldn’t stop looking at the brunette long enough to pay attention to what he was doing and fell over the concierge’s collection of vehicles. As my clueless friend flopped around like a dying fish desperately trying to return to the sea, he knocked over every rental vehicle in the man’s arsenal as if they were dominoes set up for just that purpose.

I put my kickstand down, walked over to the concierge, gently took the receipt, and doubled the tip.

“Thank
YOU
, sir,” he said to me.

Then—as Morgan and I finally pedaled away toward the beach— he told someone else to pick up the bikes.

Along the way, we kept passing naked people. I suppose you’d think one might get used to it eventually, but not really. Morgan had several near fatal accidents by continually turning to look behind him at the fronts, or behinds, of various attractive women we passed.

“Is it just me,” he asked, “or are there a lot more people here now?”

I had noticed it, too. When we’d arrived, the town seemed deserted. Now it was beginning to overflow with people—and contrary to what the concierge had seemed to imply—Morgan and I were the only two even remotely clothed. There weren’t too many ‘gawkers’ other than us. Everyone else was very naked, and comfortably so. One or two wore partial clothing—belts, knapsacks, bikini bottoms, or small shorts. But no one was as completely clothed as we were—even without my shoes and shirt.

“Getting toward the end of the workday,” I said. “They must all be arriving for the Summertime Soiree.”

I noticed more banners and festive displays—several with the dancing, burning, cartoon Pilgrim, and I wondered absently what that signified.

“Yeah. I guess so,” Morgan said, staring at everything but the road ahead. “It’s just so weird. We’re a couple hours out of the city, and I’ve never even heard of this place.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I agreed.

“It should be legendary.”

True. Jokes about it should be rampant, Fire Island-like.

“Where’s this beach you wanted to see?” he asked.

“Down that cobblestone path. We just keep heading to the right.”

“Why do you want to go to this
particular
beach?”

I considered telling him, then decided against it. It’s not that I didn’t trust Morgan, it’s just that I…

No. It’s that I didn’t trust him.

“I overheard a hot girl in the restaurant say she was heading down that way to meet some of her friends.”

“Aaah. Good plan then,” Morgan said, getting visibly excited, his bike wobbling as we turned down the indicated path. “Hey. Maybe that hot hostess with the incredible ass will be there.”

I checked my watch and sighed.

For at least one more minute.