Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [31]
“I’d like that,” she said.
“We could go down to Bourdaine’s,” I told her. “I’ve never been. But I hear their coat closets are to die for.”
She laughed. I overheated and had to turn slightly sideways to avoid poking her in the ribs.
THUMP
“I doubt it will be as much fun as this one,” she said and opened the door.
Light flooded in and nearly blinded me. Or was it her stunning beauty?
Ha! I’m such a sap.
She turned and looked at me, then her eyes were pulled down by the gravity of my manliness, which I had forgotten was now exposed to the illumination from the foyer, and she grinned with obvious pleasure. It was an unexpected reaction, and a satisfying one. Better than screaming and throwing things certainly.
“Had I known, I might not have opened the door,” she said and smiled at it.
I nearly pulled her back inside. Then, for a brief moment, the thought flashed, We hardly know each other. But being a man, it faded almost instantly.
“It’s very hard,” she said, staring.
“Yes. It really is.”
“Is it bruised?”
“No. That’s just…um…the bad light in here.”
“Oh,” she said, still staring at it intently. “Kind of a waste not to take advantage of it, don’t you think?”
Incredibly, it got harder. And throbbed.
“Oh, my!” she said.
I gulped. “Um, Grandfather is in the next room.”
She looked up at me sadly and sighed.
“I suppose he’s in every room, really.”
She was right. He was like a ghost, haunting me, Jacob Marleylike complete with chilled bones, chains, and moans. I was an idiot. This was my home. I could have sex with a supermodel in my closet if I wanted. To hell with lawsuits. You aren’t really considered rich if you aren’t being sued anyway.
Unfortunately, before I could say or do any of the wonderful things my fevered brain was finally starting to imagine, Ms. Nuckeby reluctantly and very slowly—glancing down repeatedly and smiling, I noted—closed the door. As I stood inside, aching for her to return, I heard her tentative footsteps on the floor of the foyer padding for the exit, and felt the loss of her for the second time that day.
Then the doorbell rang again, accompanied by several laughing voices on the porch and Ms. Nuckeby’s tennis shoes squeaked harshly on the foyer floor. They squeaked again, squeaked a third time, then rapidly padded back my way until the closet door suddenly exploded outward. Ms. Nuckeby, sheer terror in her eyes, practically fell into the darkness beside me and closed us both in again with a slam.
She had seen my erection and liked it. Now she was back, Grandfather was in the building, and yet others had arrived.
Can you see how this might be leading to trouble?
Somewhere overhead I heard Woodruff sigh with annoyance.
THUMP
Pause.
THUMP
Pause.
THUMP
Coming down.
“My clothes!” I said, loudly enough for only Ms. Nuckeby to hear. She didn’t reply—only breathed heavily—apparently still recovering from her near miss with whoever had just arrived. And—maybe—just a little from thoughts of my magnificent penis. At least that’s what I wanted to believe.
After several more Woodruff THUMPS, the newly arrived whoever-it-was felt they’d waited long enough and opened the entry door for themselves, shuffling, clicking, removing coats, and talking amongst themselves.
“—Why doesn’t he decorate—I love this neighborhood—how did he get this house—he still has those damned comics hanging everywhere—is that smoke back by the pool?”
Several genders, mostly female. One was my sister, another my younger brother, and the third sounded oddly familiar—
“Hellooooo, Woodruff! How ARE you?”
“Miss Wopplesdown. Mister Wopplesdown. Mister Wiggen. Good to see you.”
Morgan? What was he doing here?
“And Miss Butterwycke. How delightful to see you, again.”
That’s why it sounded familiar!
I nearly choked. Mindie Butterwycke? My lifelong secret love?
Standing naked in a closet beside Ms. Nuckeby with what seemed my entire family just outside, you couldn’t imagine it getting more awkward—but you are sadly lacking