Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [23]
“Sooo…” he said, giving up rather quickly I thought. “…a week? That’s a good deal of luggage, sir.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“I just did. It’s a lot of luggage, sir. So—you’ll be needing that first thing in the morning then?”
“If I plan to take it with me, yes. That’s the idea. Is there a problem?”
He stared blankly again; he seemed right on the verge of saying something else, but finally changed his mind. “No, sir. No problem.”
He stared a moment longer. Then, as though he saw death about to overtake him with its swinging scythe of…em…death, the old man shuffled off in the direction of the stairs. There are a lot of them. Stairs. And within minutes that seemed like hours, I heard the methodical THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Of the ancient Woodruff ascending. I took a sip of my organic grape-apple-cranberry juice blend and smacked in deep satisfaction.
“Oh, and Woodruff. I think I’d like to take a swim this evening.”
The thumping on the stairs stopped. There was a longer pause.
“Will you be bathing anytime soon, sir?”
“Now, I think,” I said and heard him sigh heavily. I took another sip and considered. “Yes. Definitely now. I need the relief after the day I’ve had.”
He sighed again.
Another lengthy pause.
Nothing.
Then finally, “Very good, sir.”
THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Pause.
THUMP.
Woodruff descended. After a number of thumps equal to the ones for the ascending, Woodruff turned the corner once more, looking for all the world as if he might at any moment suffer a welcome coronary. Apparently exhausted, he leaned against the doorjamb and breathed heavily.
“Indoors…or outdoors… sir?”
“The pool? Outdoors. It’s summer, Woodruff.”
“It all…blends together…sir. Will you…require…a bathing suit?”
“No. No, tonight will be au naturel, Woodruff. Just a towel for me, thank you.”
“But…the neighbor…sir…Mister…Weebimix…”
“To hell with Weebimix, Woodruff. Let him take in the glory that is me this evening. A bracing dip in the altogether is just what the doctor ordered.”
“Your doctor, perhaps, sir. Not mine.”
“Oh, and can you put this in the freezer, please?”
I tossed him a bag containing the recently purchased ice packs. He looked inside then glanced up at me, curious.
“Injured, sir?”
“A little swelling. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“I wasn’t concerned, sir.”
And with that, Woodruff departed like molasses over sandpaper, oozing down a corridor that led to the outside pool.
There’s nothing like the gentle sensation of cool water flowing freely over one’s testicles. Take it from someone who has them.
I had just enjoyed my third or fourth lap in the pool, much to the immense irritation of the man Grandfather makes me let live in my guesthouse, Bailey Weebimix, whose upstairs office window afforded him a full-frontal view of my swimming. This was my little method of payback for his dog’s endless incontinent episodes on my various lawns. Or perhaps that was his payback for my endless late evening skinny-dips. Once in full motion, it was often difficult to tell where the cycle of life began.
To be honest, though, my thorough enjoyment of this evening’s naked float had less to do with annoying Weebimix than it had to do with reminiscing about Wisper Nuckeby. There was something so captivating about her, so utterly enchanting, so blazingly sexual, that in spite of (or perhaps in conjunction with) the terror of potential loss of home, possessions, and livelihood, mere moments into reimagining her in my mind’s eye I was forced to turn over and swim face down so as not to expose more than even I was comfortable revealing to old-man Weebimix. Let’s just say the human rudder began to put up some rather fierce drag.
Fortunately, that drag had a rather sensual quality, not unlike the actual ‘act’ itself, and before long I was frog-kicking my way toward ecstasy, praising the name of Ms. Nuckeby very loudly in silent prayer, for the first time actually thanking whatever perverted gods might have caused her to arrive half-naked before me earlier that day.
Rather quickly, illicit thoughts of