Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [126]
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