Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [68]
Mindie and Wendy tussled angrily for a moment—slap-fighting like the girls they were—when Ms. Waboombas shoved Mindie’s breasts away rather viciously with Mindie still attached to them. “Hey!” Ms. Waboombas said. “Those are real.”
“Told you,” Mindie said, smiling smugly, then growled and dove right back at the other woman.
The two went over together and rolled, screaming, down into the drainage ditch, plunging into the little rivulet that flowed there with a muddy splash. They tussled and struggled, ripping at one another’s hair, clothes, and appendages. It all seemed to move in ultra-slowmotion from my perspective, and I’d guess Morgan’s as well—maybe even the pastors—and before long they were both muddy, soaked, and their shredded clothes had begun to stick to them like wet paint. It was like one of those three a.m., Showtime, Women-In-Prison movies that men—and possibly lesbians—watch through Tivo the next day so they can fast-forward past any pointless attempts at actual story and get to the naked bits.
Morgan chewed popcorn, wide-eyed. I gave up all semblance of decorum, took a handful and joined him, as did the pastor.
Mindie shoved Ms. Waboombas savagely backward; again exhibiting the surprising strength she had displayed the previous night on the closet door. Proving herself up to the task, though, Ms. Waboombas grabbed Mindie as she fell, the two tumbled back, rolled completely over and back onto their feet like some perverse Cirque du Soleil moment, only muddier and less professional. Stunned into immobility, they looked down at themselves in shock at what they’d just done and laughed. But when they each noticed the other laughing, they stopped instantly, the hate welled again and, snarling, they tackled one another, fiercely and wetly.
Pastor Winterly reached into the cooler for a soda and handed me one. Clearly, this was all part of God’s plan to draw us closer together as a family.
We popped our cans and slurped as Mindie and Ms. Waboombas snagged handfuls of one another’s chests, then yanked for all they were worth. The front of Mindie’s austere garment became instantly sexy as it came away in strips, revealing more of Mindie’s bra and pale cleavage to the raw, naked power of the sun than any epidemiologist would recommend as safe.
“Whooooaaa,” Morgan and I admitted simultaneously, shielding our eyes from the glare. Then: “Jinx, you owe me a coke.”
Mindie retaliated by ripping away Ms. Waboombas top, which, thankfully—I mean unfortunately—wasn’t all that difficult. Ms. Waboombas just stood there smiling, then motioned to her dark breasts—a topless ‘Vanna White’—nodding as if to say ‘look what you’ve won by pulling on curtain number three!’
“Pflemmels,” she said brightly.
Her lack of humiliation clearly enraged Mindie, who stabbed out her hands and brutally nipple-twisted the taller woman. Ms. Waboombas screamed, batted away Mindie’s pinching claws and covered herself defensively. Then—cradling her surgically enhanced massiveness—Waboombas surged forward to head-butt Mindie in the stomach, and both women fell out of sight with a splash behind an irritatingly large bush.
We three men groaned together in disappointment then scrambled around the car, jockeying for better positions as the roadside brawl continued. For some minutes—our view entirely obscured by jiggling leaves, and dancing branches—the battle raged, accompanied by howls, shrieks, and bits of occasional free-flying clothing.
“Goodness,” the pastor said, wolfing down the last of the popcorn. “I hope no one gets seriously hurt.” Not seriously. But a little might be okay.
Suddenly the bush shuddered violently, and a pasty white breast, still half-covered in dirty bra, shoved forth through a hole between the leaves and a woman shrieked.
“Uncle!” cried Mindie’s voice. “UUUNCLLLLE!”
After a moment, the breast slowly sagged, receded into the shrubbery, and all became quiet. Ms. Waboombas—wearing only high-heels and a g-string—strode around