Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [90]
“I would sooner die.”
“Okay,” Ms. Nuckeby said. “But die outside. Otherwise it’s a health violation.”
Mindie huffed furiously. She stiffened—defiant—her head turning several shades of red (many not on any color charts I’d ever seen) until finally she turned and threw open the restaurant’s entry door expecting to exit dramatically. But her stomach growled again— like a pride of wild male lions on the veldt insisting that their women bring down a gazelle or two, and do it now, bitch. Like Mindie’s stomach, lions are sexist and mean when they’re hungry. Visibly embarrassed, she turned one last time to scowl at the rest of us before striding ferociously out of the building.
Ms. Nuckeby smiled, the proud and satisfied victor.
Grabbing the stack of menus and several towels from a bin— presumably for anyone who might be hungry for ribs—she turned, inviting us into the dining room and toward a booth. It took serious effort on the part of all us males not to stare at her lovely bare behind. The pastor averted his eyes so far upward he seemed to be looking directly to the source, saying prayers that were obviously going unanswered.
I, on the other hand, took in our surroundings—which, upon second glance, were not as tacky as I had earlier assessed. Except maybe the rotting old moose-head that appeared to be a prime centerpiece. It hung over the center of the room, threatening at any moment to fall upon the naked herd of humans grazing at the salad bar beneath it. Other than that, however, the place was rustically charming. Obviously a ‘Nuckeby’ family trait.
As I absorbed the ambience, I noticed Morgan succumbing to his baser nature—okay, his only nature—by blatantly ogling Ms. Nuckeby’s backside. I shoved him, wagging a finger at his rudeness. He glared at me and went right back to ogling, so I had to move in front of him to block his view. He leaned around me to see, and I jumped back again to screen him. It was a weird dance we did all the way to the table, and it made me wonder how this kind of lifestyle could possibly work.
How did people avoid endless ogling and constant arousal? What was proper etiquette in this world? Would a woman be offended at a man’s sudden erection upon seeing her exposed bits? Would she be more offended by his lack of arousal? I already didn’t like the idea of other men becoming stimulated by Ms. Nuckeby. How did feuds and death-matches not spring up constantly all around us? Had people just gotten used to the random excitement of others and the drooling over one’s mate in this world? It was hard to imagine, and yet…I supposed this is what Ms. Nuckeby might have really meant when she talked last night in the closet about our different worlds.
Whether ogling was acceptable or not, I was insistent with Morgan, refusing to let him take visual advantage of something that I was coming to think of as mine. I was obviously, as they say, smitten. Which is really a funny word when you say it out loud.
As all this progressed around her, Ms. Waboombas, seemingly oblivious—as naked as anyone there, save for her ‘come-fuck-mehard’ stilettos—sashayed through the restaurant like a runway model, wanting attention, looking around with expectation and hopefulness, and waiting for someone to ogle her. Oddly, no one did. A few people stared intently at the pastor and Morgan, but the towering, ebonskinned, bare-assed stripper drew barely a glance.
I, clearly, just didn’t understand this place. Perhaps all the folks here were naked because they were actually blind, and didn’t care how other people dressed. Or were we ‘sighted’ outsiders simply the only ones rude enough to stare shamelessly? I was lost. I could only hope our menus came with some kind of instruction booklet.
Our hostess reached our booth—far in the back, away from any windows—and ushered us in, handing out menus. To Ms. Waboombas she also offered a towel.
“What’s this for?” Waboombas asked.
“To sit on,” Ms. Nuckeby answered. “You know, for hygiene.”
Ms. Waboombas looked