Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [154]
“What do I have to do to bid?” I asked.
“Register,” Petal said dismissively. “Then call out amounts when the time comes. You never done an auction before?”
I had, but I said nothing and reached for the form in front of her. She abruptly got up from the table.
“Miss Kent will help you,” Petal said, indicating the pretty blonde beside her as she walked away. “I’m taking a break.”
The lovely Miss Kent, her face beautifully framed under an explosion of wild, wavy, golden hair, smiled at me sweetly and slid over a pen. “You can call me Prudence,” Prudence said.
“Call her Miss Kent!” Petal said angrily, as she stormed away.
We both looked at the Nuckeby sister, surprised, then turned back to one another and shrugged. Without another word, I began filling in the blanks on the sheet of paper.
The first question after name, address, and phone number?
Method of payment: ________________________
Excellent question. Glad you asked.
“You’re about to sign a binding contract,” someone said behind me.
I turned and found myself looking directly into the face of a doughy, older man with an explosive shock of white hair that radiated out from his centrally located bald spot like an electrically charged feather-duster. He was smiling broadly, charmingly, and his voice whistled as he spoke through a distinct gap in his front teeth.
“I hope you’re aware of that,” he said, completing his thought, then held out a hand like a marshmallow with fingers. “Pizeley M. Boone,” he told me. “The ‘M’ stands for Mayor.”
He chuckled heartily at his little joke, and I smiled along with him.
“Of course I’m aware it’s a binding contract,” I said, not having been aware of anything, nor given it a moment’s thought. I wondered idly why the town’s mayor might feel the need to warn me personally, when I noticed Washburne standing off to one side, listening intently to our conversation.
Ah. So that’s how it was.
Washburne Boone. Pizeley M. Boone. The Boone stood for jerk apparently.
I thanked the mayor for his kind reminder and moved away to get a good spot near the front of the stage.
But suddenly I became a bit more concerned that I was now intending to bid freely, and madly, with money I didn’t have. I felt somehow naked, and ironically I was the only one for miles wearing pants.
The number of people auctioning themselves off seemed endless, which only gave me more time to vacillate about what I should do. Bid. Not bid. I had no money, so the answer should seem rather obvious, but your mind clearly functions at a higher level than mine.
Contrary to what I had first thought, River wasn’t one of the first off the block. Instead there were a good ten others who went ahead of him, all of them auctioned off by the mistress of ceremonies, Wisper. Some of those offered went for no more than a few dollars, and a couple of laughs. Prudence Kent was one of the early auctionees, and she raised several hundred dollars for the Dickens Home. Personally, I thought she should have gone for a lot more. She was a lovely woman—though almost plain when unfairly compared to Wisper— and had seemed rather sharp, witty, and genuinely very sweet during our brief encounter. She appeared a bit disappointed that I hadn’t joined in the bidding for her, but was also plainly delighted with the young man who won her as a weekend companion.
It was when Prudence was onstage beside Wisper and some of the others that I finally noticed I had stopped registering people by their privates—penises, breasts, butts, pubic hair, whatever—and started returning to traditional modes of appraisal—face, height, hair color. I’d taken Prudence in as a whole and was entirely charmed by her. Not that I hadn’t noticed her beauty, the length of her legs, the small, cuteness of her breasts, her overall attractiveness—but no more than I would if she were clothed. Instead I had absorbed the entirety of her at once—her presence, her personality, the way she smiled and laughed—and not remained locked in on the things you couldn’t ordinarily see just because I wasn’t