Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [92]
“Not when someone runs around naked. When they run around naked, there is no ‘rude’. That’s a neon invitation.” He looked at Waboombas. “Right?”
Wendy scooted the pastor into the wall. He groaned and placed his menu against it, reading intently as if every word counted.
“Sure,” Waboombas said finally.
“Right,” Morgan snapped, opening a menu, but not really seeing it. “And I am here to oblige. I’ll stare at that all day if I want to. And I do. What an ass!”
“It’s nothing special,” said Waboombas, annoyed. She turned a dark eye to me, and when I said nothing, she moved her gaze to Pastor Winterly, leaning closer to him. “What did you think, Reverend? About the hostess’ ass, I mean—compared to everyone else’s ass that is.”
He mumbled something about all God’s gifts being equal and hid deeper in his menu.
“Yeah,” Waboombas said, smiling at me. “See? Nothing special.”
“She was not equal,” Morgan said. “She was HOT! She could be a model, that girl was so hot.” He paused for a moment as if remembering something, and I froze. He looked skyward, as if reading something on the ceiling then shook his head and let it go. “She’d look awesome dressed like Supergirl.”
Morgan didn’t seem to make the connection he, himself, had just made, and I thought I’d skated past it, when suddenly his face contorted like a white grape becoming a raisin in time-lapse—as if a memory were struggling to be recognized for admittance into the ‘by invitation only’ area of his conscious mind, and he was asking for its ID.
I tensed and waited. But apparently the memory became annoyed and went looking for another party. He shook his head again and returned to looking at his menu.
“Yeah. Supergirl,” he said.
“I…uh….” I began.
“…need to use the restroom,” Waboombas blurted, finishing my sentence and glancing up at me from her menu with only her eyes. Slowly, she turned her attention back to the printed page and smiled. “It’s right next to the storage room from what I hear.”
“Yeah?” I said, and fidgeted nervously for a moment. “I hear that too.”
Everything was quiet as Waboombas continued smiling and pretending to look at her menu, occasionally glancing up at me. After a moment or two of silence, I began to realize she wasn’t going to rat me out and I backed away.
I was feeling home free and thrilled at the prospect of more confined spaces with Ms. Nuckeby, when suddenly Mindie bolted around the corner, completely naked and carrying a towel.
The amply endowed Ms. Butterwycke was running very fast, holding her largesse in her hands as best she could. But there was far too much loose, fleshy material to be contained, and it flopped everywhere with tremendous slapping sounds.
By the time she reached us, pale, white, fleshy things were sticking out between pressed hands, fingers, and arms. She stopped and stood beside me at the end of our booth, hopping around from foot to foot as if she were standing on hot coals. The overall effect was that of dancing, gelatinized mashed potatoes with legs. There were still blades of grass and splotches of mud stuck to her from the earlier freeway altercation with Waboombas, and they didn’t do much in the way of making her look less pale, or less naked. Incredibly, the lack of eroticism was mind-boggling.
The rest of us stared at her with stunned expressions. Morgan smiled a bit and stared right at the shaggy fur of her crotch, for which she smacked his head.
“OW!” Morgan cried, covering himself to avoid further attacks.
“Let me in,” Mindie demanded, glaring at Ms. Waboombas.
Waboombas sneered at her as if she were a fly trying to land on her shit.
“Whattaya mean ‘let me in’?” Waboombas asked, nodding to an empty spot beside her. “Sit there.”
“I want to sit on the inside!” Mindie screeched, apparently very near to losing it.
“Fuck you. Sit there.”
Mindie, still hopping, turned to Morgan and slapped his head again.
“Stop staring at that and let me in,” she demanded.
“What’s the big deal, Mindie?” Morgan asked. “Just sit…”
With the strength of ten Mindies, she grabbed him and