Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (43 page)

As I pedaled like a madman down toward the beach, the pastor was trying to walk through the town center of ‘Nekkid Bottoms’ with his Bible attached to his face, and not having much luck with it. The increased number of people made it quite hazardous for him to be anywhere outdoors, and he bumped into more naked flesh than he likely had in his entire life.

After a few minutes of pointless pinball-like wandering, he stumbled across a church and decided
it
had to be a safe haven for a man of God trying to avoid temptation and obscenity. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, then had to swerve wide right to avoid any kind of contact with a naked couple exiting the building and coming down the stairs toward him. Trying not to glance at them as they hurried by—and failing—‘I am weak, Lord, give me strength’—he skittered to the church door and pulled it open.

Immediately upon stepping through, the brown tones and colorful stained glass on all sides greeted him warmly, invitingly, like a dear, beloved old friend, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief (apparently catching my habit). The place was empty and, for all he could tell, looked exactly like any other old church he had ever seen— though perhaps a bit more friendly somehow. Maybe because here, for the first time in these past hours of nudist hell, there was no one running around distracting him with their sinfully exposed privates.

Simple wooden pews lead up to a wooden altar, religious icons, Bibles, and statues of Mary, Jesus, and others he would recognize, even if I wouldn’t. Statues that were in
no way
false idols. He knelt at the head of the aisle and lowered his head in brief prayer. After he’d finished, he sat in a pew and breathed out the grateful thanks of the reprieved.

“Thank you, Lord, for this simple haven.”

“Hello?” a female voice asked, echoing through the chamber. He glanced around and saw a woman’s head pop up from behind the lectern on the dais. She was an older woman, blonde, in her fifties perhaps, but with a young feel to her. She wore a minister’s collar with black tunic, and smiled when she saw him.

“Oh, hello, Father,” she said pleasantly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m not a priest. I’m a minister,” he said, only mildly annoyed. “Sorry to disturb you. I was just looking for a little refuge from the outside world.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” she said, ducking back down to pound nosily on something obstinate. “Take as long as you need and don’t mind me. I’m just trying to fix my audio system. I never installed it properly the first time, and now I’m paying for my haste.”

“If we don’t attend to the little things as if God were watching,” Pastor Winterly said, “he will eventually remind us that we have fallen short in His eyes.”

She popped her head back up and looked at him blankly. After a moment, she smiled, then returned to her work. “I suppose that’s true. Hadn’t thought of it that way. I tend to think the Lord has better things to do than make my speaker wires come loose and annoy my parishioners with feedback. But perhaps I’m not thinking it through completely.”

Pastor Winterly stood and walked toward the lectern where the lady minister continued to pound.

“I find God’s message rather consistent,” he said. “If you’ve failed at something, He will remind you to be more diligent.”

“I tend to think of God in more
positive
terms. More as a
rewarding
kind of God than a punishing kind.”

“But that would be only
half
the story.”

“If you say so.”

“You disagree?”

“I’ve known a lot of criminals who get away with it,” she said, straining at something.

“Only in this life.”

“But if God has time to pull my wires free, then why can’t he drop a dime to the cops about where to find the crooks?”

“He works in mysterious ways.”

“
That
I’ll give you.”

“Like, for instance,” the pastor said, looking around, “how he brought us both to this place and why.”

She didn’t reply. He heard her grunting again as she pulled hard at something.

“What punishment are we suffering by our being stuck
here
?” he continued.

“Punishment?” she asked. Her tone became tense and less pleasant. “What do you mean, ‘stuck’ here?”

“Stuck here. Abandoned in this sin-filled place of nudists and…”

She stood up, and Pastor Winterly gasped.

The woman’s collar and ‘tunic’ only covered her neck and shoulders. Everything else about her was as God had made it.

“I don’t feel abandoned. I feel privileged,” the female pastor said indignantly—absently brushing dirt away from her bare breasts. “I happen to
love
this place.”

The cobblestones were smooth and well worn, and made for a surprisingly pleasant ride down to the sea. All along the shore dozens of naked people spanning every age were enjoying the evening sun, still full, warm, and comforting. With the mild temperature, gentle breeze, and sounds of the ocean, the whole experience was deeply relaxing right up until Morgan rode into a tree.

He fell to the ground, his face so covered in tree bark that he looked like a raisin with teeth, and I leaped off my bike to help him.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. Just feel like an idiot is all. But did you see those tits?”

“No. I must have missed them.”

“Jesus, are you blind? I wanted to do
laps
on them!”

As I tried to help him up, I noticed laughter coming from very near us over toward the shore. A group of college-age kids and teenagers were playing football and had stopped to watch Morgan’s humiliating display. They were all laughing hysterically. It made me a bit angry; then one of the girls—a pretty little thing with auburn hair who
wasn’t
laughing—shushed them with a scowl and ran over to us.

“That‘s the one,” Morgan whispered excitedly. “Look at ‘em. Her tits are perfect. And did you see her
ass?
Like the Bowen statue of Marvel’s Black Widow, only flesh-colored.”

As we watched the pretty girl hurry toward us, let me just say this: men were never intended to see women—especially pretty ones—run naked
anywhere
, except maybe on television with all the lights dimmed and the shades drawn, in the privacy of their own bedrooms. The overall effect of watching a very attractive woman bounce and bobble her way toward you is like having someone autoinflate your penis with a leaf-blower. Both Morgan and I had to shift about rapidly so as to avoid painful pinching and embarrassing exposure for even more, hilarious, teenage amusement.

“Are you okay?” the girl asked, finally reaching us.

“I don’t know,” Morgan said, sounding far more pathetic than when
I
was the one offering support. “I think I may have broken my nose.”

She knelt beside him and leaned his head back giving him gentle, soothing attention. He soaked up the sympathy like a disposable diaper soaking up—what disposable diapers usually soak up—when she asked him to show her where it hurt. I noticed he made a point of moving both hands to show her the exact location, and ‘accidentally’ brushed her breasts in doing so. She didn’t seem to notice, and he did it again on the way down.

“Did that make your hands feel better?” she asked.

Oops. Apparently she
had
noticed.

He looked only mildly embarrassed. “Made
everything
feel better.”

“I have been told my breasts have miraculous, healing powers.”

“I bet they’d work great on blind men.”

“Only if they asked permission first.”

She dropped his head on a rock, and stood up rather abruptly as he squealed in pain. She turned and spoke to her no-longer laughing friends.

“He groped me!” she said, jabbing a finger at him. “I come over here to help him, and he
gropes
me!”

Her friends all scowled and sneered, then a wave of angry, naked flesh rapidly descended on us. I knew I had to think of something fast, or both Morgan and I would be pummeled senseless by this angry mob of bare-assed attackers. The muddled mind kicked into violent overdrive as I sussed out our situation and a solution presented itself almost immediately.

I jumped on my bike and rode off.

Not looking back, I heard the sounds of Morgan howling, naked fists raining down upon him, and the slapping of bare feet pursuing on the path behind me—which fortunately receded quickly as I pedaled like a man possessed.

Come to think of it, I was a man possessed. Possessed by Ms. Nuckeby.

“Corky!” Morgan called after me. “CORKY,
HELP!”

Ignoring his pleas and desperate cries, I checked my watch and continued on without looking back. Sorry, Morgan. Ms. Nuckeby awaited; her siren’s call, and my need to bash myself against her rocks, were simply too intoxicating for me to ignore.