Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [1]
You might have seen them smile nervously at the frightened woman in the Rambler and then continue along their way as the driver, in turn, watched them stride off energetically toward their evening protein drink, relaxing sauna, and erotic massage.
If you had paid particular attention, you likely would have picked up on the fact that the woman in the Rambler was paying particular attention to the tight-fitting tank tops, spandex shorts, and name-brand running shoes of the passing pair.
And if you were close enough, you couldn’t have helped but notice the nervous, sweating, yet still remarkably lovely young woman glance down at herself and say quietly, “Damn.” Then shake her head sadly as she—and you—realized that she was entirely naked in her little car.
“I knew I forgot something.”
If you were asked which you think a man would prefer: a long, hot, road trip to a comic book convention with the hygienically challenged Morgan Wiggen; or hours in a room full of sexy supermodels wearing wispy undergarments, the answer might seem rather a no-brainer, wouldn’t it?
No, it would not. I went to the comic book convention.
Wipe that look off your face. I am decidedly heterosexual (assuming we are, of course, excluding that awkward seventeen minutes in Mervin Wosserman’s gym locker after the annual homecoming ‘drink-yourself-sick-athon’, which wouldn’t even merit a mention if not for that damnable video which, for obscure legal reasons, is still available on some offshore websites).
The fact is: anything can get old, even beautiful, sparsely clad women shamelessly baring their this ‘n’ thats—especially when you’re not allowed to touch. It’s a lot like going to a strip club, for those of you who have never been. I imagine there are still one or two of you out there, mostly women, or, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, Republicans, no doubt.
Some men consider a strip club delightful fun, but most of us find it a rather uncomfortable exercise in sexual frustration—though we’ll still run right out and do it again if there’s nothing good on television. There are far more colorful terms that might do a better job of conveying said frustration: ‘Too much wood up for no good’, for example. ‘Called to attention with nowhere to march’, would be another. Or my personal favorite: ‘Stiff as a bored’; which really works only in written form I suppose. Maybe that’s why I’m the only one who laughs whenever I say it.
Food for thought.
In my grandfather’s day, the semi-naked parade was far more entertaining I’m sure. Hanging with the feminine undressed has far greater appeal when you’re not even supposed to see your own wife in the all-together. How children were conceived in those days is not something I ever want fully explained.
My grandfather, himself, certainly found girls vastly amusing, particularly unclad girls, at least until they acquired rights and became unclad ‘women’. Once what my grandfather considered ‘flirting’ became ‘unwanted sexual advances’ all the fun seemed to go out of it for the old bird. The birth of the sexual harassment lawsuit truly, and forever, destroyed his impressively active sex life.
Of course, even after a good several million was turned out in settlements, the randy old fart continued to enjoy the aforementioned ‘semi-naked’ variety of female while managing—mostly—to avoid actual physical contact. And as long as he could call it ‘business’, the many restraining orders allowed him to ogle and drool to his vasoconstricted heart’s content without legal entanglements. But for myself, women in skimpy underwear have become rather an annoyance. I’m sure you see what I mean.
You don’t? I’ll elaborate.
Did I explain that we run an undergarment company? I didn’t? Good God, I’m so sorry! No wonder things seem a bit confusing. Drove into a mental tree there apparently. Let me back up the brain truck a bit and reroute, so to speak.
We run an undergarment company. Rather,