Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (11 page)

“YOU SEE,” I shouted to be heard above the clanking bangs that had joined in the chorus. “I’M NOT EVEN SURE HOW TO BEGIN…”

“MISTER WOPPLESDOWN, THERE SEEMS TO BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR POOL EQUIPMENT!”

“YOU THINK? INTERESTING. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHAT.”

“SHOULD WE CALL SOMEONE?”

“TO FIX IT? DO YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO WORKS NIGHTS?”

“NO. MAYBE YOUR BUTLER DOES.”

“MY BUTLER DOESN’T WORK
DAYS
, MS. NUCKEBY. BUT IF YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO ASK HIM—OH! YOU MEANT HE MIGHT KNOW A
POOL
MAN. EXCELLENT IDEA. WHY DON’T YOU GO AND CHECK WITH HIM, WHILE I CONTINUE TO MONITOR THE SITUATION FROM OUT HERE.”

I gestured toward the house, indicating that she should feel free to run inside and away from my nakedness. Slowly, showing herself to be unsure whether there might not be something seriously wrong with the chemical balance of my brain, she peeled herself away and headed for the door. I watched her go, my eyes wandering places they really shouldn’t for a man trying to counteract disadvantageous swelling, and did myself absolutely no good in aiding the extrication process.

Stopping in the doorway just before entering the house I, myself, might never again enter with a fully functional penis, she turned and gave me one final confused look. I waved her in with a smile.

“GO ON! REST ASSURED, I’M KEEPING AN EYE ON THINGS!”

Reluctantly, she entered the building and turned away in search of Woodruff.

With Ms. Nuckeby out of sight, I began to pull with all the force I could muster hoping to yank my way to freedom. I felt certain that, at any moment, the intense pain would cause the swelling to subside. But damned if my little friend didn’t show all the gusto and perseverance of an early American pioneer. Let’s hope he didn’t end up like a Donner.

Twisting my lower half in ways a man should never have to, I looked up to check on Ms. Nuckeby’s progress and saw her through the French doors at the end of the hall. Rear lit, as she was, silhouetted in the main foyer and trying to explain herself in some fashion or other to my retarded manservant, I could quite clearly see her breasts bounce and sway as she gestured urgently.

The plug tightened. The machinery behind the bushes began to smoke.

“We are going to
die here,”
I said to my penis, who apparently
liked
the idea.

I pulled harder, as it were, and—on the off-chance I might survive—began rehearsing explanations for Grandfather:

“…slipped, and fell…”

“…first my shorts were viciously
sucked
off…”

“…three men in dark masks held me at gunpoint and
made
me do it…”

I had nearly culled the possibilities down to one or two that seemed least ridiculous when Woodruff, the incompetent fool, waved Ms. Nuckeby
back in my direction!
She nodded her thanks and began running straight toward me.
Running! Good, God, NO!
I watched in horror as her breasts jounced about, magnificently!

I gave a couple last-minute jerks, but to no avail. Smoke now pouring from the pool machinery, I urgently drew in a deep breath and turned sideways underwater just as Ms. Nuckeby crossed the patio and reached the pool’s edge.

“MISTER WOPPLESDOWN?” she called.

She stepped farther into the darkness of the evening, glancing briefly over at the now sparking pool equipment, and leaned out to look around the yard.

“MISTER WOPPLESDOWN?”

When she got no answer, she stepped closer to the pool, just as the filter popped and sparked, and threw some flaming debris near her feet. She screamed and danced aside, but remained in the back yard, scanning and searching, apparently determined to find me and make sure I was all right.

Damn her.

I grimaced under some last-minute, increased pressure on the dying machinery’s part, and found the pain suddenly
deflating
my stuck balloon.

Finally!

The good news was: before long I’d be loose. The bad news was: before long I’d be loose. Meaning: the only thing holding me to the wall was about to let go and set me drifting, naked, into the middle of the pool with a mutilated Johnson.

I gritted my teeth at the embarrassment to come and supposed it to be only fair. I had seen
her
naked after all. I wondered if she’d find me as alluring, particularly given the angry black-and-blue shade little Corky was undoubtedly taking on.

I decided not to go down floating as it were—that the solution here was to take things head on. So I made one last Herculean yank and—glory-be-halleluiah—jerked myself free with a minimum of skin ‘lossage’. I then popped up over the edge of the pool as if I’d been waiting for Ms. Nuckeby all along, merely taking a moment to check things out from below the surface, and hoped there was no blood trailing up from my self-inflicted genital wounds.

But she was gone.

I looked around anxiously, then spied her inside. She was pointing and gesturing with concern back in my direction, and speaking in agitated tones, again to Woodruff. He seemed— surprise—to be having difficulty understanding. I took his sluggishness as an opportunity to make good my escape and bolted for the other side of the pool, splashing and thrashing like a sea lion being attacked by a killer whale.

Now was not the time for subtlety.

Somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard Bailey Weebimix laughing with glee.

Once at the pool’s far side, I leaped out and dashed into the house through a side door, traversed the kitchen in a mad slide, slipping only once and managing to avoid impaling myself on some wellplaced kitchen knives I had never used and whose only purpose, as far as I knew, were to skewer homeowners racing naked through their own kitchens.

I skidded briefly into a cupboard, banged my head on a hanging pot ($169.95 from Williams Sonoma, and apparently you can use it to cook things in), bounded over a dinette chair and managed to slip out the pocket-door leading into the foyer, at the back of which Woodruff was finally beginning to understand what Ms. Nuckeby was desperately attempting to convey in life-or-death terms.

“Do you suppose Mister Wopplesdown has been injured?” he asked, sounding curiously pleased.

“I don’t know,” Ms. Nuckeby said, sounding quite frightened. “Shouldn’t you do something? Check the grounds? Call someone? Turn off the power breakers?” Her voice was magnificent. Like milk and honey to a dying thing that needs—milk and honey. It made me sigh, audibly and desperately.

“What was that?”

Dammit.

“What was
what
, madam?”

“That sound. Like someone sighed. Didn’t you hear it?”

“I try
not
to hear such things, madam. It usually means I’ve done something wrong.”

Footsteps headed my way. Too quick and efficient to be Woodruff, so I dove into the foyer coat closet and silently shut the door. Outside, I heard someone come to a stop, and—presumably— look around in befuddlement.

“You think that was him?” Ms. Nuckeby asked.

“He has been known to sigh, madam,” Woodruff offered.

“Then where is he? Is he avoiding me?”

“Avoiding
you
, madam? You’re an attractive woman. I can’t imagine him doing such a thing,” he said with almost undetectable sarcasm. “
Unless
… ”

I gasped. He
wouldn’t!

“Unless, what?”

“Well,” Woodruff said, pausing for emphasis. “There are
rumors
.”

He
would!
I wanted to kick him through the door.
There are no rumors! There’s a few minutes of
video
, and
I was
clearly
in an altered state of mind!

“Oh, the gay thing? Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that’s not true. This afternoon he…” she giggled.

She giggled?

“Madam?” Woodruff asked.

“Nothing. Then if he’s not avoiding me, where is he?”

“I’m sure I do not know, madam.”

“Well, he may have
other
reasons for not wanting to see me.”

No! NO! I wanted to see you, but just not naked. At least not
me
naked. Or, rather: not me being naked
alone
. I mean, not with other people, but with…

Lord. I can’t even talk to
myself
.

Then, finally realizing I was in a closet, I began searching feverishly for an article of clothing. After several seconds of silent, mad groping in the near-total darkness, all I could feel were a vacuum cleaner, a flashlight, a box of old Christmas paper, and ornaments, a power drill, a fireplace lighter, and some cans of spray paint. I considered my options a moment, and then decided these were really the wrong ingredients for me to be improvising with.

“He likes comics,” Ms. Nuckeby said, sounding pleased, apparently admiring my collection lining the foyer walls.

“He does,” Woodruff replied with disdain.

“My little brother likes comics,” Ms. Nuckeby went on, sounding almost nostalgic. Happy even. “I have a lot of fond memories tied to comics around the house.”

A woman who thought of comics fondly. I flushed and felt excitement swell inside me as something else swelled outside me.

Then—dear,
God
—the doorbell rang.

Ms. Nuckeby: “Who could that be?”

Woodruff: “I’m sure I don’t know.”

I sighed again, and horrified at my lack of self-restraint, quickly shoved my fist into my mouth. It nearly fit.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I heard Ms. Nuckeby say.

“Why not?” Woodruff asked, trying to sound as if he cared.

“It would take too long to explain. Is there somewhere I can hide?”

It was at this instant that I finally saw life for the great, cosmic, professional wrestling match it so obviously was. I, literally looked skyward toward the great god ‘Fockyoo’ as he positioned his darkling game pieces with malevolent mirth and sadistic glee cursing his very name.

Really, really quietly.

“Fockyoo, you sunnuvabitch!”

For just then, Ms. Nuckeby—looking for a place to hide, as I knew she must—turned the knob and opened the door to the very closet that I had, until that moment, been so safely ensconced within.

And I was still naked.

Oh, and you just
know
Grandfather is the one ringing the doorbell, don’t you?

“Mister
Wopplesdown!”

“Ms.
Nuckeby!”
I said, faux-smiling and covering as much of myself as two hands, arms, and legs can; which is surprisingly little under the circumstances. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Mister Wopplesdown,” Woodruff offered, standing beside her, ever the helpful one. “Someone is at the front door, sir.”

“Yes. I heard. Could you close
this
one, please?”

“Should I answer it, sir?” Woodruff was always hoping I might say no on the off chance that he could continue sleep-standing. This time I considered it. But then I realized that my car was out front, and anyone who knew me understood that Woodruff never went anywhere.

“Only after you’ve closed this one,” I said.

Woodruff looked at me for a long moment. Then, exasperated, he moved off to greet whatever new person was certain to add tension and suffering to his life and mine.

“And tell them I’m not here!” I whisper-yelled.

Woodruff moaned something incoherently.

“I have to hide,” Ms. Nuckeby whispered forcefully to me, sounding truly frightened.

“There are many,
many
other closets in this house from which to choose,” I said and reached out for the door handle. But she grabbed it first and pulled it from me.

“Ms. Nuckeby,
please
.”

Chewing her lip nervously—and quite sensually I might add— she glanced back at Woodruff and saw, as I did, that he might actually reach the front entrance during our lifetimes. Seizing the opportunity, she leaped into the closet beside me and closed its door on us both.

“MS.
NUCKEBY!”
I shout-whispered.

“Sssh. They’ll hear you.”

“Ms.
Nuckeby
,” I whisper-shouted. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am
naked
.”

“So? You’ve seen
me
naked.”

“But I didn’t climb into a closet with
you
.”

“No, but I bet you
wanted
to.”

Her daring left me speechless. And, once again, hard. I had to turn away from her to avoid unintentional intimate contact and nearly severed my ever-ready appendage on the rough edge of a cardboard Santa Claus. I yelped, slightly, and she shushed me.
Shushed
me!

With my masculinity wounded in more ways than one, I stood there, sulking and throbbing. We’d been through a lot, today, my penis and I. A comic convention would be just what we needed. Something distracting, uninteresting, and completely sexless.

I turned to Ms. Nuckeby, barely seeing her silhouette in the darkness, and felt her warmth too close to me for comfort. It softened my tension a bit. Some of it.