Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [114]
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.
Pastor Winterly stared, open-mouthed and horrified at the lady minister before him. He had been wrong on first glance. She wasn’t completely naked save for the ministerial collar. She also wore simple, black, canvas, slip-on shoes.
But other than that she was most definitely naked, and so, the pastor averted his eyes.
“Madam…” he began.
“I’ve been here twenty-five years,” she said, annoyed, “and I’ve never been happier. If that’s punishment, please, God, give me more.”
“Madam. You’re naked.”
“You’re kidding!” she said and looked down at herself, as if stunned. “Goodness. I’m getting so absentminded in my old age. I was in such a hurry to get to work this morning.” She looked up at him and smiled pleasantly. Not that he could see her, since he was studying the filigree work on a nearby statue of Mary who people sometimes pray to for guidance but was not, in any way, a false idol. “Thank you for pointing that out to me.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
She looked sternly up at the older man, amazed that he hadn’t recognized the sarcasm. For a long moment she said nothing—simply stared and waited, figuring it would eventually sink in. But he continued on merrily, not getting it.
“Would you like to go put something on? I’ll be happy to wait.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Madam,” he said, turning to her and sounding as if he were speaking to a small child. “It is highly inappropriate for you to be seen without clothing, especially in a house of God. The United Methodist Church would never condone such behavior.”
“Why should they have a problem with it? God didn’t seem to mind when He made me this way.”
“If God had meant for us to wander around in the nude, madam, He…”
The pastor hesitated and rolled his eyes heavenward, suddenly realizing he had trapped himself.
“‘He would have made us this way?’” she finished for him.
“Madam…”
“Reverend.”
“Yes, madam?”
“Not you. Me. Reverend. I have an official title. I earned it. I would appreciate being addressed by it.”
“You cannot possibly be a legitimate…”
“Would you like to see my ordination certificate?”
He seemed to become angry. He turned to look at her and found his eyes wandering over her body to get a firmer, mental grip on the situation—or so he told himself.
She was a handsome woman. A little heavy, a little loose, but still hanging together nicely. He was already becoming somewhat uncomfortable with studying her—as it seemed to be arousing certain long-unused areas within him that he would prefer remained dormant—when he noticed that her pubic hair had been perfectly trimmed into the shape of a cross.
“Good, Lord! I cannot believe—woman, are you mad?”
“Not at all.”
“You have trimmed your…em…the…the…um…pub…” he paused and drew a breath. “That is the symbol of our Lord!” he said with angry dignity.
“Which is why I did it,” she responded shamelessly.
She continued to stare at him, and he continued to stare at…it.
“Is it still there?” she asked.
“What?”
“Did it move?”
“Did what move?”
“You can stop staring at it now,” she told him, annoyed.
“What?”
“I said, you can stop…”
“I wasn’t staring!” he said, shivering, realizing he had been staring, and turned his eyes heavenward, though his mind’s eye still only saw that part of her which some men have also named, quite poetically, ‘heaven’. “I was just…agog.”
“Agog?” she asked.
“Agog. Stunned, flabbergasted. It’s as though you are taunting the faith you supposedly serve. I mean, it’s bad enough that you’re a minister, if you truly are…”
“Bad