Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (45 page)

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.”

“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.”