Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (55 page)

The crowd at the Summer Soiree was immense. I hadn’t seen so many naked bodies outside Hieronymus Bosch paintings of hell. The scene was decidedly more pleasant here though than in old Boschie’s twisted imagination. For one, there were no demons prodding people over flames with wicked-looking instruments of torture, only aproned chefs prodding roasting animals with barbecue forks.

Really, it was just a party like any other: People eating, drinking, and hitting on each other, families with children, couples of all variations, sugar, salt, fat, and cholesterol sprinkled with tall tales, jokes and laughter. People just happened to be doing it without being separated by layers of clothing, which—when you think about it— really saved time in the ‘what does this person look like naked’ department. The lack of knowing often plagues people seeking romance—particularly those who don’t want to get shortchanged when the evening is otherwise going so well—by bras stuffed with socks, or jeans stuffed with salami.

“All right,” Ms. Waboombas said, moving away from me and wading into the naked ocean, still wearing nothing but high heels. Morgan had decided to stay in the room, alone, possibly forever. “I’ll see you at the auction.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Got things to do. Don’t worry,” she said, sensing my nervousness. “I’ll be there.”

Apparently, she could see I wasn’t convinced.

“I
want
to be there.”

“Okay.” I said finally.

She stopped and focused on me.

“I can’t help but notice, Mister Wopplesdown,” she said, pronouncing it correctly with mock formality, apparently teasing me over my constant referrals to her as
‘Ms.
Waboombas’. “That your solution to this problem is money oriented.”

“Not money, no. The money gets me next to Wisper, sure. But the rest is up to me.”

“Mmm,” Ms—Wendy said, nodding slowly, apparently not convinced.

“I understand what you’re getting at…Wendy. But I do know not all my problems can be solved with a simple outlay of cash.”

She still didn’t seem to be buying it. I looked off into the distance to give it some thought, and immediately regretted doing so as my eyes fell on a particularly large and incredibly hairy man happily lumbering and swinging my way. He looked like a naked Hagrid.

“Money
can
be the easy answer, sometimes,” I said, quickly returning my attention to Wendy. “It’s hard to get away from. Sometimes you feel trapped by it. Like a tar baby.”

Her tone and expression suddenly became more focused, and a bit stern.

“A what?” she asked.

“A tar baby. Haven’t you ever heard those fairy tales?” I asked, missing her change of mood and expression. “When you were a kid?” “Why don’t you tell me about them,” she said quietly.

“Well, there’s this fox, right? And he wants to trap this rabbit that’s bothering him. So the fox, he makes a baby out of tar, right? And leaves it on the side of the road. So when the rabbit comes by, he tries talking to the baby—which, I guess, isn’t really a baby, it’s more like a kid—and when the kid doesn’t respond, the rabbit gets annoyed and starts pushing on him and roughing him up a bit, and before long, he’s wrapped up in sticky goo, and there’s nothing he can do to get out.”

“And what makes br’er fox know br’er rabbit is going to get rough with the tar baby, Corky…?” she asked, smiling, though her voice felt measured, restrained. “…Just because the baby won’t talk to him?”

“Well,” I said, never having given it a moment’s thought before, seeing as it was just a children’s story, and I’d been just a child listening to it. Even as an adult, I hadn’t always bothered with why things happened the way they did. That’s why I liked Michael Bay movies. “I don’t know, I suppose he…”

It was then that I really took in all of Ms. Waboombas, or rather, all of Wendy. Tall, stately, her dark skin standing out in stark relief against the crowd. Here and there behind her I could see other, darkskinned bodies, but mostly the majority of the crowd was pink and pale, or at best evenly tan, though very few were anywhere near as dark as she. It made her stand out plainly for obvious reasons.

And hit my like a brick.

“Because…he was…black?” I asked. Not really asking, more realizing and dropping an insincere question mark in at the end to show I’d just learned something unexpectedly profound from a stripper.

“Could be,” she said, obviously not thinking there were any other possible reasons.

“It’s a racist story,” I said, horrified at my own ignorance.

“Most of Uncle Remus’s tales are.”

“I’m sorry, Wendy. I didn’t mean anything…”

“I know you didn’t,” she said, smiling. “I got a pretty good idea who you really are by now, Corky.”

“Still…”

“Still,” she said. “The thing you need to take away from this moment is this; that sometimes the reason people from different worlds prefer to associate
only
with other people from those
same
worlds is: you don’t get them accidentally saying stupid shit like that.”

I swallowed hard, supremely humiliated.

“And if people want to cross into
other
worlds, then they need to see that sometimes shit like this is going to happen, and you have to have the strength to step back and see the intent. See if whoever said it is really a jerk racist, or just a dumbass.”

“I’m just a dumbass,” I told her.

“No, you’re not. You’re just not too deep. But I think we’re starting to move out of the shallow end of the pool now with you, aren’t we?”

I nodded rapidly.

“Yeah. And I can see how embarrassed you are by what you said. My momma always told me…”

“You have a mother?”

“Okay, now we’re movin’ into real dumbass territory.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be. Yes, I have a mother. And a sister, and three brothers.”

I held myself in check to avoid asking if they were all strippers.

“And they ain’t all strippers,” she said pointedly.

Damn. She
could
read minds!

“My mom’s an ER nurse, and she always says, ‘everyone’s a racist. It’s what we do with that fact that makes us good or bad people.’”

She studied me for a minute, looking intently into my eyes.

“I like you, Corky. I think you got potential as a human being. The question is: can you reach that potential, or are you just going to stay a bigot, and have to keep living only with people like you in your own little world?”

With that she backed away into the crowd, smiling sagely.

“Or worse,” she added, fading Cheshire Cat-like into the fleshy world of Nikkid Bottoms. “All alone in an even smaller world?”

I said nothing, but smiled at her, to show her ‘lesson learned’.

“See you at the auction,” she said, smiling again, then turning and melting into the sea of multi-colored skin.

I stood for a moment and continued smiling at where she had vanished, pleased to have gotten to know Ms…Wendy. Through her, I’d learned a valuable lesson this day.

Too bad it didn’t apply to my more
immediate
situation.

With that, I turned and wandered off myself into the strange, nude world surrounding me.

If you could drag your eyes away from the sea of exposed flesh, the town itself was immensely charming. There was a warmth to the buildings that I had only seen in the little towns of the midlands counties of England, like Bourton on Water, Minchinhampton, and Chipping Camden in Gloucestershire. The paths and many of the buildings appeared to be constructed of Cotswold stone, a beautiful material that gives everything a warm, honeyed glow—particularly at times like this, under a clear sky and the soft amber of a late evening sun.

The downtown buildings were all either connected or fairly close together as most small towns usually are, separated only by tiny, pretty little gardens and comfortable outdoor dining areas. The throughways themselves weren’t designed for car traffic, so there were no impatient drivers to fight your way around, which was good because it allowed you more space to avoid any accidental physical contact with naked people.

Everywhere, weathered stone was the predominant look, but dotted throughout was a nice contrast of half-timbered buildings constructed from raw wood; tidy little inns and relaxing pubs beneath shake-shingled roofs that beckoned you through their painted, wooden doors, each entry gently shaded beneath Tudor-style, jettied, upper stories. Every welcoming entrance displayed swinging, oldstyle, hanging placards bearing names that sounded more like steamy romance novels than places of business. ‘The Blacksmith’s Arms’, ‘The Matrons Table’, ‘The Swan’s Bed’, ‘Bridle and Harness’.

You have your notions of romance. I have mine.

I gratefully took all this warmth and coziness in as I walked alone through the naked crowd. I was truly appreciative of the private time as I really needed to think, and that was tough enough by myself, let alone distracted by the stripper and the gipper. I had to decide what, exactly, I was going to do once the auction was complete. Buying Ms. Nuckeby would be the easy part. Regaining her heart, and her trust, would take considerably more effort, and a weekend might not be enough. Especially given how completely I had seemed to sever our personal connection.

Unfortunately—as I said—independent thought comes hard for me, particularly given that I’m a bit hypoglycemic. Remember, I’d only had a little buttered newspaper for breakfast, and nothing else since. So I decided it was best to recharge the old batteries before tonight’s potentially taxing event and consider things over a hot meal. The last thing I needed was for my plan to come off beautifully, once I had one, then pass out due to low blood sugar as soon as I’d gotten Ms. Nuckeby all to myself. I imagined fainting, or even general lassitude, held very little romantic appeal for a woman already inclined to throw me to the wolves—or an angry mob of nudists— whichever came first.

As my stomach growled a snappy tune, I entered a small pub named ‘The Headless Horseman’. Not exactly the most appetizing of titles, but the menu pinned outside had some tasty sounding options on it, and they accepted credit cards, which was a plus since the driver carried no cash.

The place was mostly empty, given that the dinner hour hadn’t really started yet, so I took a prime seat near the weathered, stone fireplace at the center of the rough-timbered room. A waitress glided over, handed me a menu, took my drink order, and left me to decide on a meal. She made no comment on the fact that I wore clothes, and I made no comment on the fact that she didn’t.

Life in balance.

Once I’d decided on bangers and mash—apparently an old English favorite because it sounded like something a nude waitress would do in your lap—I settled back and took in my surroundings. Quaint and charming. Rustic and weathered, but not dirty. Interestingly, there hadn’t been one place in this town where I hadn’t felt captivated and comfortable. If not for all the nudity, I could have lived here quite happily. Or at least bought rental property.

I watched the chef prepare my food, while the waitress cleaned and re-stocked napkins, silverware, and condiments for the expected evening rush. Even though he should have been used to seeing her sans undergarments, I was pleased to note that the chef still snuck a glance at her bare behind as she bent over to tuck menus between salt and pepper shakers at each table. It was comforting to know that some truths remained universal.