Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (48 page)

“Wisper, be realistic…”

Her expression darkened. Wrong answer. Realism and the heart are rarely dancing to the same song.

“Better run,” she said sadly. “The natives really don’t like it when an outsider comes on to one of the local women.”

“I know. When Morgan…”

“I meant
you.”

“But…” I said, stunned. “I’m not ‘coming on’ to you. I’m
with
you…”

“No, you’re not.”

I was shocked. What had happened? What had I done wrong? Where was the Wisper who liked holding my penis? Moaning in frustration, I reluctantly ran off just ahead of flying sticks and sailing rocks.

As I dashed away down the beach, I looked back over my shoulder to see River and some of the others stop near Wisper and check on her condition to make certain I hadn’t done her any harm, which I hadn’t.

Had I?

As her brother touched her shoulder and questioned her with gentle concern, she sat there silently, her eyes filled with tears, watching me furiously as I got farther, and farther, and farther away.

While Morgan and I ran for our very lives, Pastor Winterly wandered calmly through town without hiding in his Bible and actually looked at things. He still clutched his Good Book tightly to his chest as though it worked on nudists the way a cross might work on vampires, or soap would work on a small boy, but at least it was no longer attached to his face and he’d stopped walking into walls and sharp objects. He was still having a difficult time doing more than just
glance
at the local populace. But having his vision unobscured at least allowed him the opportunity to be charmed by his surroundings, if not the actual naked people contained therein.

As far as his eye could see Pastor Winterly was encircled and enchanted by a gently waving ocean of verdant trees and sherbet colored wildflowers. Unexpectedly captivated by their tranquil beauty, he gratefully accepted the serenity they offered and meandered almost undisturbed through and around several of the unclothed locals.

Delighted by the playful sound of water dancing across time smoothed stones he strolled over a charming, weathered, handcrafted bridge that seemed ancient enough to have rested across the lazy, crystal waters flowing beneath it since somewhere around the dawn of naked people. Lush grasses spread out from the cobbled stone path leading to and from the overpass into more orderly rows of Impatiens, colorful Poppies, and Baby’s Tears that soothed his senses in a surprising way. Someone had put great care into their disorderly order, and he couldn’t help but admire that person’s handiwork, even if they had probably done it naked.

Lost in an array of strikingly purple Asters he wandered into a section of town that was more suburban and less touristy, and therefore considered only for the residents of Nikkid Bottoms. But he was too involved in the familiarity and comfort of the flora, architecture, cobbled paths and beautifully tended grounds to be aware of any tenseness from the locals, and so he had no idea of the potential danger he had placed himself in by coming here.

He was, truly, a Christian who—having searched innocently about the Coliseum for a restroom—had wandered into the arena and was so busy admiring the architecture he had not yet noticed the grounds were filled to the brim with cranky lions, and tigers and bears—oh my—all looking at him as though he were the last creamfilled donut in a police station break room.

He was, as they say, blissfully living on borrowed time. As he courteously nodded to a passing nudist couple, each wearing only sneakers, he was plainly unaware of the thinly veiled hostility in their responses to him. Instead, he was too focused on his rustic, French provincial surroundings; letting the ambience of the neighborhood fly him away mentally from this place and carry him back gently to another, where he was young and naïve, and traveling abroad. As opposed to being old and naïve and traveling nowhere in particular.

He had thoroughly loved his decision to tour other parts of the world in those post-college days. Before being given a parish of his own, he was much more open to new ideas and interesting, divergent points of view—and there had been a great many divergent points of view along his many journeys down streets like this, oh yes there had—in France particularly.

He remembered once in Bordeaux meeting an especially lovely young woman from nearby Toulon. They had spent a few nonsexual days with one another and on their last morning together she asked him to accompany her to a nearby seaside resort. He, of course, had been more than willing—enthusiastic even—until it had come out in the course of explaining the place and her relationship to it that the oceanfront village was ‘clothing optional’.

She had giddily told him—with absolutely no shame whatsoever—that she had, all her life, been what was referred to as a ‘naturiste’. She was clearly somehow deluded by their previous conversations into believing that he was of like mind and was thrilled that the ‘handsome American’ would join her in partaking of this unique and extraordinary form of sun-worship.

After a quick look through his French/English dictionary, and taking several minutes to collect himself, the young Winterly had informed his breakfast companion in no uncertain terms that he believed her to be a sinner of the highest order and felt confident she would spend all eternity roasting in Hell. Or at least being uncomfortably hot.

She, of course, was completely stunned.

At first she laughed a bit, nervously, then went suddenly silent as she quickly realized this threat of eternal damnation and torment was no joke. For a brief moment she had stared at him, heartbroken. Someone she’d begun to care deeply for truly thought she would burn for all time because she enjoyed being naked outdoors.

After a brief, tense silence, the French maid stood and walked quickly away from him, never looking back, and hiding her face in hopes that he wouldn’t see the tears that shamed her far more than her life of public nakedness ever could.

He watched her go, trying desperately not to show his guilt and pain at having hurt her. Why should he feel anything but proud? He was, after all, right, and she might be saved because of his blunt honesty. No sense feeling bad for offering such a gift. Let it go.

And yet, to this very moment he’d found it impossible to forget that instant and those feelings, or more importantly, forget her.

There wasn’t a day gone by that he hadn’t at least once remembered with some regret both his decision to not join her, to not be with her in every way she wanted, but instead insult her and cause her pain. His feelings of remorse were usually followed by vigorous prayer and self-recrimination, fervent pleas to the Lord that He remove the shameful memories and ugly desires from His loyal servant’s heart.

And yet, to this very moment, God had still not answered any of those prayers; perhaps it was his cross to bear.

In point of fact, God seemed now to be taunting Winterly— outright laughing at his requests even—by dumping him in this place; the stern pet owner reaching down and holding the scruff of His puppy’s neck, rubbing the animal’s nose in its own filthy thoughts and needs.

“If we don’t attend to the little things as if God were watching,” Pastor Winterly said, quietly to himself as he checked the time on the town clock now so far behind him, “He will eventually remind us…that we have fallen short…in
His
eyes.”

Winterly had not gotten over the girl from Toulon, and so God had brought him here. With some purpose. For some lesson. To test him.

Was he passing? Was he failing?

He looked around at the few people near him. A man gardening the flowers near the edge of the creek. A woman carrying groceries from her car. Two small children playing near their thatch roofed home.

Surely these children could not be damned for their sins.

He thought about their shamelessness. Or more correctly he thought about their
lack of shame
rather than some intentional flaunting of what they knew to be wicked. He wondered if he’d ever been so comfortable in his own skin as these innocent children were now, playing delightedly unencumbered in the gentle pleasures of warm sun and cool grass. He tried to remember a time when he was so unconcerned with the looks and the size and the shape of God’s first, true gift to the souls He calls His children—their very form and substance—and felt suddenly saddened that he could not.