Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (19 page)

The entire night, I dreamt fitfully and constantly of Ms. Nuckeby. She rarely wore clothes. On the few occasions she did, they were transparent.

In my most disturbing dream all the gratuitous nudity, harsh language, and adult situations would have earned it an ‘NC-17’ had it been shown in theaters. Fortunately for me it wasn’t, because in that dream my penis was small, black and withered, and people were laughing at it.

Then Ms. Nuckeby—more naked than I had ever seen her—took it in hand and defended it to the hecklers surrounding me. Warm and protected, it regained its natural, flesh-colored appearance and swelled to ten times its actual size.

And
glowed
.

Then Ms. Nuckeby turned into Mindie Butterwycke, and the little redwood acted, once again, as if he’d been sprayed with Agent Orange.

Why can’t dreams be less surreal and easier to interpret?

The next morning, I awoke alone and was pleased to realize that my first thoughts were of Mindie.

I smiled. I felt warm, relaxed, and comfortable, ready to settle into a cozy relationship of not walking on romantic beaches, rarely, if ever, kissing, and never touching breasts. It wouldn’t be so bad. At least I’d be able to have sex, albeit with a condom.

Eventually.

That was an improvement to no condoms, and my right hand. My needs really
were
surprisingly simple. I mean, really. Who wants a sexy supermodel whose profile can induce erections from five blocks away, or whose voice can instill that same stiffness simply with the whisper of potential lewd acts in your…

Wisper. That was Ms. Nuckeby’s name.

What an
interesting
name. I wonder where it came from? Did she have a brother named ‘Shout’? A sister named ‘Normal Speaking Voice’? A dog named ‘Sparky’? Would they approve of her behavior—getting naked in closets with strangers? Throwing garland over them? Rubbing her bare breasts on their backs?

Gloop.

I had to admit, once you’ve been touched by breasts, especially warm ones, it was difficult to imagine going back to
not
being touched. I supposed that was why drug pushers sometimes gave free samples.

“Here. Just feel a little a that, hunh? Nice, right? Now, you say you wanna go off and do a little Mindie
,
instead? Awww, that ain’t gonna get you where you need to be, my friend. Come on. I got a little more Ms. Nuckeby right here, and it’ll only cost you
half
your inheritance. Just half. Come on. Feel it again. You know it’s worth it.”

Forgetting Ms. Nuckeby was clearly going to take more than a single night of savagely roughing up the corporal. Replacing Wisper with Mindie on the fantasy list—perhaps a lot longer.

Wisper. What a lovely name.
Wissssspeeeeer
.

I began to wonder if it might not be all right for me to continue thinking of her, or at least various parts of her, even after Mindie arrived this morning. Maybe even on into the future, at least until Mindie eventually, possibly, theoretically, allowed me fondle various parts of
her
. Certainly there was nothing wrong with enjoying memories of Ms. Nuckeby, as long as they remained private, without Mindie intruding upon them in any way.

Wait a minute. Thoughts of Mindie
intruding
upon memories of another woman?

Last night I had agreed, in absentia, to
marry
Mindie. Was this a common theme among the newly engaged? To fondle yourself and fantasize about other women the day after said engagement? Hell, the very
evening
of
? Was this some sort of reflexive reaction, wanting to grab hold of singlehood—so to speak—take independence in hand— so to speak—and keep it firmly in one’s grip for as long as possible?

So to speak?

Or was it something more?

Something someone had said to me recently was floating around near the occipital lobe of my brain (which, I believe, is in the front). Something about acceptability, or meeting one’s mother, or some such. I really should pay more attention when people are talking directly to me.

Whatever the thought was, I felt certain it had something to do with this Mindie/Ms. Nuckeby thing. I was so lost in trying to reclaim the memory that when someone knocked at the door I told whoever it was to ‘come in’, completely unaware that I was once again wanking on little Corky like there was no tomorrow.

Woodruff entered and acted as if he’d seen it a million times before. He probably had. I believe I’ve mentioned my predilection for this type of thing.

“Morgan Wiggen wishes to see you, sir.”

“Oh. Right. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

Woodruff quickly—for him—backed out the door. “I’ll tell him you’ll be down once you’ve finished
expelling
, sir.”

“Right ho,” I said, and valiantly carried on.

I entered the kitchen to find Morgan eating cereal at my breakfast table with a large black woman in spandex.

Actually, she was more coffee-and-cream—heavy on the cream— and she wasn’t ‘fat’ large, more tall and muscular, and accessorized with rather exceptional ‘accoutrement’, if you follow my lead.

Big’uns is how the porn magazines refer to them, I think. A Queen Latifah type with augmented breasts. Augmented to make them
larger,
that is, not smaller. She had a magnificent figure, but her mammaries seemed overly immense, even for her six-foot-plus size, and would have definitely given Mindie’s a run for their money. If they ran, which I’m sure they didn’t. At least I hoped.

Running breasts. What a disturbing thought.

“Morgan,” I said flatly.

“Hey, Corky! You’re up,” he said, looking back at me over his shoulder, then gestured to his friend. “This is Wendy. Wendy Waboombas.”

“Waboombas?” I asked.

“It’s Italian,” Morgan said, giddy with her very existence.

“Actually,” she corrected through spoonfuls of milk and flakes, “it’s made up.
I’m
Italian, but I don’t know what the name is.” A flake fell on her chin, and she made no effort to remove it. Perhaps she thought it looked good where it was.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Morgan whined, sounding sincerely disappointed that her name didn’t
actually
sound like the huge objects bursting forth from her chest.

“I said it was my real name. And it is. It’s legal. I paid for it. But it’s still made up.” She returned to her eating.

This seemed to placate Morgan slightly. “Oh,” he said, and returned to his own cereal.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Waboombas,” I said, reaching for the napkin caddy. “You have a cornflake stuck to your chin.” I handed her a tissue and took the moment to notice she was dressed as some kind of superhero/goddess/Fredericks model in a costume that did far more to reveal than it did to obscure.

She stuck out her tongue—which was surprisingly long and flexible—and touched the flake, testing its shape and texture, but not actually removing it. Then she smiled up at me. Breakfast fragments nestled between her teeth. Milk slipped over her lower lip, dribbled down past the cornflake and plopped to the table, joining several of its fallen comrades. She—apparently—thought this was alluring.

“Wanna lick it off?” she asked.

I backed up quickly, as if her tongue might actually reach out and pull me inside her like some Amazonian frog.

“Thanks, but no,” I said.

Her smile remained, and I flinched as the tongue flicked out again and removed the flake in a disturbingly animated and sexual way. She continued to smile all over me as I moved quickly to the opposite side of the table and took a seat as far away from her as possible, while still remaining in the same room.

“You’re
cuuuuuute
,” she said, as if she were already having sex with me.

“He’s getting
married
,” Morgan snapped. I gathered his ‘cuteness’, or lack thereof, had never been mentioned by her, at least not to his satisfaction.

“But he’s not married
yet
,” she said, her eyes clamped onto me, her smile unflinching. Suddenly she yawned dramatically and stretched upwards—enough to lift her ample bosom out from behind the edge of the table. After slowly, and expressively exhaling, she relaxed and brought her breasts down to rest near her cereal bowl where they spread out like the fluid filled balloons they were. She noticed me watching them settle into place, and between chews she winked at me.