Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [85]
A nude man painted a sign. A naked family tossed a football around. A group of teenagers talked about something hormone-related. A couple carried groceries. A farmer rode a tractor. A man walked his dog. Someone near a pay phone talked on her cell.
All naked.
The town was filled with naked people. As we steamed through, it became nakedly obvious that this place was some sort of nudist resort where people wore no clothes. Which is, one supposes, the very definition of a ‘nudist resort’, now that I think about it. ‘Nekkid Bottoms’ indeed. Other than footwear and occasional hats, there was not a stitch of clothing to be found anywhere within the city limits— neither on people, nor animals, nor on pictures of people and animals. Not even a clothing store that I could see.
I noted there was a couple of shoe stores though.
“Clothes For The Naked,” Morgan said.
We all looked that way, and I saw that I was apparently wrong. There was one clothing store, although their ‘clothes’ looked more like our lingerie.
Each of us stared goggle-eyed at the sea of nudity surrounding us, disturbed and amazed.
Everyone except Ms. Waboombas.
“What a great place,” she said.
Before long, I’d passed through town and reached ‘Nuckeby’s Bar and Grill’, a quaint little English pub kind of place, the type you rarely see, even in England. I pulled into a small parking lot that was fairly well filled with cars, and stopped beside a Harley Davidson, wondering about the rider. Would he be wearing just a helmet? Chaps? Boots? Would he be naked on the bike, but have to wear clothes inside a place of business? Or vice versa?
What the hell were the rules in a place where wandering around in public with nothing on was rule number one?
I got out of the car, as did the others. A few people were coming down the street and heading toward the entrance of the restaurant— all sans garment. I was still shirtless, but now felt overdressed. Mindie came and stood near me, apparently uncomfortable enough to need the reassurance of closeness, if not actual physical contact. The pastor looked around nervously, as if expecting at any moment for Saint Peter to show up and toss him into Hell just for looking around. Morgan was smiling like a horny schoolboy—which, come to think of it, is pretty much Morgan in a nutshell—and Ms. Waboombas was naked.
Ms. Waboombas was naked?
Why should that surprise me?
The pastor gasped. Mindie gasped. Morgan smiled appreciatively and popped another coke.
“When in Rome,” Waboombas said, smiling and dropping her panties into the back of the Duesenberg.
“But we don’t know if it’s clothing optional, inside,” I said. “Are you kidding?” Mindie asked. “Look through the window! Everyone in there is stark, raving, naked!”
I’d just noticed that myself. You really couldn’t avoid it.
Nuckeby’s Bar and Grill was—well—I guess the gentle way to put it would be—a slightly common diner-style restaurant with basic fare, simple décor, and large, clear windows on all sides to show off all the naked people. It was the kind of place old folks visit to have their arteries hardened—the kind of ‘family’ restaurant parents with a minimum of two-dozen feral children frequent so someone else will have to clean up after them.
Through the glass, partially obscured by brightly painted specials and lunch deals of various organ meats, we could plainly see roomfuls of happy, naked folk joyously ordering, receiving, or dining upon extravagant portions of food that would never have been approved by the surgeon general except under the Bush 2 administration, and only then for purposes of torture. Lunchtime among the common, and the bare.
Despite this, I was eager to go in. Somewhere inside, someone had to know where to find Ms. Nuckeby. Or rather, Wisper, to be more specific in a place potentially filled with both Mister and Ms. Nuckebys. I felt tingly again, though quite nervous. My direction in life was becoming clearer, but in a hazy, foggy, uncertain kind of way.
“I don’t know,” I said, and turned to the others. “You want to wait out here