Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [106]
After a moment of relief, I shook my head at the insanity of recent events. This had been quite a wearing day, and it was barely half over.
As the others staggered out of the growing afternoon heat to join me, I shuffled up to the counter, where waited a spunky, blonde, female clerk—naked as the day she was born—smiling cheerily as she asked for our reservation numbers. She had a nametag stuck to her chest just above one of her smallish breasts—don’t ask me how—that read: ‘SOPHIE’. She had two. Breasts that is. And every time she spoke, she bounced a bit on her heels, which made them jiggle delightfully. Little Corky thought seriously about springing to life, throbbed a moment, painfully, then reluctantly gave up and went back to sleep.
“We don’t have reservations,” I said. “Do you have anything available?”
“We do!” Bounce! “You’re in luck!” Bounce! The clerk was as enthusiastic as if we had just struck gold in a diamond mine full of million-dollar bills. “We have two rooms left!” Bounce! “Fortunately for you, since it’s the busy season!” Bounce, bounce!
I looked around at an empty lobby that contained only one, naked, bellman sleeping in a corner. If this was the busy season, I couldn’t imagine what the slow season must be like.
“Do you have smoking rooms?” Ms. Waboombas asked.
“Only nonsmoking, I’m afraid!” Bounce! She said it as if there couldn’t be anything better, even for smokers! “But there are designated smoking sections in several small buildings along the beach—all within easy biking distance!” Bounce!
Ms. Waboombas looked as if she wanted to strangle the poor woman—something that would undoubtedly thrill them both—but instead the stripper simply grinned an irritated smile and retreated.
“Is everyone okay with sharing rooms?” I asked.
There were general moans that told me ‘no’, but they’d do it anyway.
“We’ll take both rooms,” I said, handing over a credit card. “And we have a of couple bags here as well.”
“All right, Mister Wopple-see-down…”
“Wopplesdown. Whoop-uls-dun. Cock-ran Whoop-uls-dun.”
“Really? I’m so sorry. But…it is spelled Cor-CAR-an Wopple-seeDOWN.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She bit a lip and looked devastated. “Terribly sorry, Mister Wopple-less-duhn.”
I sighed. “Not at all.”
She made an interesting face, then shrugged and smiled, and slid the card through her machine, punched some buttons, and waited. After a moment, everything seemed fine, no matter how my name was pronounced. She bounced delightedly, then slammed a bell on the desk so hard it rang like Westminster Abbey in my ear. The naked bellhop awoke slowly, and looked around, bleary-eyed. He adjusted his hat (how did you think I knew he was a bellhop?), stood and walked towards us.
One couldn’t help but notice that the elderly gentleman would have given Woodruff some heated competition in the testicular Olympics. His enormous family jewels hung so low, they bounced around between his shins like a pendulum as he walked. It was like watching a human grandfather clock hobble our way. Here was a man who clearly needed pants for his protection, and the protection of those around him. Imagine if he had to run! Nudity could be a hazard for anyone within striking distance.
“What car are you driving?” the perky clerk asked, bouncily.
“A Duesenberg. Old-style car. But we had to leave it at…er…Nuckeby’s.”
“Well, let me give you a parking pass anyway!” she said, handing it over as if I were Augustus Gloop and it allowed me entrance to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate factory and all the wonders contained therein.
I handed the old man what little of our luggage we actually had, and he tottered off to grab one of those luggage rolley-things, his legs spread wide to avoid tripping