Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (7 page)

I shuddered as I realized what I had just, genuinely, considered.

Grandfather was right. How could I come to work tomorrow—or ever again—as long as Ms. Nuckeby roamed free, and sometimes naked? My life as I knew it would be over the minute I saw her in anything even remotely sexy. Hell, let’s be honest; my life was over as soon as I saw her, period, even if she was smeared in mud with leaves and twigs protruding from her hair while wearing wet, pungent animal skin.

Mmmm. Revealing, easily removed
,
wet, pungent animal skin.

Gloop.

AAH! HAD I
NO
SELF CONTROL
AT ALL?

Clearly,
any
thoughts of her—clothed, or otherwise—would doom me. I needed a
complete
distraction of some kind. But short of installing an ice machine in my trousers, what could possibly…?

Aaaaaah. That was it. I would stop someplace and buy one of those liquid-filled bag things. I believe they were called ‘icepacks’. I’d heard about them from people who were physically active. Supposedly you could find them in something called a ‘drug store’. From what I’d been told, all you had to do was purchase one, take it home, and put it in the freezer. It was that easy. Then, once frozen, you simply applied it to the afflicted area.

My
area was
quite
afflicted. I bet I could slip one in my underwear before any potential Ms. Nuckeby sighting and—voilà! I would freeze my nuts into submission.

Genius. Pure genius.

Feeling renewed vigor, and confidence that I could squelch my penis’ vigor, and its confidence, I headed for the door leading out to the street and passed another of the Wopplesdown Struts employees, my childhood friend, and once-fellow comic-book collector, Morgan Wiggen.

Yes, I was—until very recently—a superhero comic book collector. I’m sometimes ashamed to admit it, but no one died or anything so I’m learning to let go. Still, people often think there’s a disease of some kind involved when a grown man is interested in adventure stories about unrealistically well-endowed people who run around in brightly colored, skin-tight clothing. But you have to keep in mind that my parents wouldn’t let me buy porn. If you haven’t looked at a superhero comic in a while, keep in mind that the art is very detailed and those costumes are
really
tight.

Sometime back in my late teens I left the superhero fantasy world behind due to a waning interest in the bad stories, repetitive situations, and the newfound freedom to buy
actual
porn. Of course, when you consider the colorful, tight-fitting costumes on unrealistically endowed women I get to view on a daily basis—live, and in person—you might see the pointlessness of paying money for the relatively inferior, hand-drawn versions of same.

Hmm. Unrealistically endowed women in scanty, tight-fitting costumes appear to be a common theme here. I wonder if there’s some deeper significance I’m not seeing?

Probably not.

Anyway, my friend Morgan still seemed to enjoy said superhero experience quite thoroughly, and more power to him. Based on what I know of him, he’d probably feel the same even if he had my job. His interest in women wearing scanty, painted-on clothing
never
seems to flag, even to the point of his occasionally asking attractive women to dress up as one ‘superheroine’ or another so that he and she might reenact certain classic, comic book sequences as a kind of foreplay. The Wedding Night of Yellowjacket and Wasp. The Wedding Night of Cyclops and Marvel Girl. The Wedding Night of Hawkeye and Mockingbird. Date Night With She-Hulk and just about everybody.

He was likely doing that now while chewing happily on something brown; chatting up some bleary-eyed young woman I recognized vaguely from the shipping department in hopes of getting her into tight-fitting clothing while she was clearly searching for any opening in his monologue that would allow her to escape him.

“Archangel is my favorite X-Man,” he said, apparently going for the ‘Date with Psylocke’ angle, unaware of the fact that this woman could not possibly care less if he were lying on the floor bleeding from the ears. She was leaning, turned away from him and primed to run at the slightest visible crack in their one-sided conversation. “Or he
was
until they hired this hack writer who changed his skin from blue to normal flesh-colored. White people flesh-colored. They’re always changing writers, and each one is worse than the last. But this guy— woo!
Ruined
Archangel. Archangel, not ‘
Angel’
.”

He said ‘Angel’ in the kind of whiny, sarcastic, singsong voice that homophobes with little or no acting talent believe sounds exactly like an unattractive homosexual. “He claimed he quit. The writer. But Marvel fired him. I know someone who was there. He cried. And he should have after what he did to Archangel. You see the movie?”

“Which mo…”

“The third one. It sucked.
‘Angel’
was that faggy, feather guy.
Archangel
, from the comics, was tough and scary. He could fling them at you, you know—his wings—and these
razor
-feathers would disengage, and they could shoot at you, and
cut
you!
So COOL!
Now he’s just back to being like the guy in the movie. Gay white guy with ‘downy’ feathers who ‘
heeeeeals’
people. He’s a ‘
heeeealer
’. So faggy.”

“My
brother
is gay…”

“Either of you see the third movie?”

“No. I…”

“It soooo sucked. Especially…” unattractive, gender-challenged, singsong “…‘
Angel
’. Even gay guys wouldn’t like him. We should see it sometime. Wanna rent it and see it with me?”

“No, I…”

“I don’t blame you. It was the worst of the three. First and second ones are great. But the comics are still better. Especially Archangel, and
Psylocke
.”

Cha-ching. Moving in for the ‘kill’.

“Psylocke, as any true fan knows,” Morgan said sagely, “is Archangel’s one,
true
love. Not that dippy little Paige Guthrie.”

Morgan winked at her as if she were one of the chosen few who understood. She stared back blankly, clearly one of the teeming masses that did not.

“And
you,”
he concluded, “would look
great
dressed as Psylocke.”

“Dressed as…“ she shook her head, lost. “As what?”

“Psylocke. Yeah. And I could be Archangel. I have a couple cases of blue face paint. We’d look great together. Like an Adam Hughes cover! He draws women like you! SMOKIN’ hot! WOO! All feminist and strong in their tight-fitting little outfits. And he draws them really realistic so their boobs actually squeeze out in places where the costumes are too tight. Like they would on a real woman with naturally big ones who couldn’t find anything in her size.”

He glanced down at her, ‘naturally big ones’, and she reflexively covered them, goggling at him, open-mouthed and horrified, then began backing quickly away.

“So it’s more true,” he continued. “The way he draws them. Like actual art. You’d look like that. Squeezing out all over.”

“Squeezing out…
what?”

“All over.”

She was moving away from him very quickly now, and Morgan stepped a few paces to stay with her.

“Or, now that I think about it, maybe Nekra. Ooooh, yeeeeeah. The original black costume where the bottoms of her boobs hang out from under the top. So sexy.”

He indicated on his own chest where his boobs would hang out if he had them and were so dressed, and she flinched.

“With a body like yours, you’d look
amazing
as Nekra,” he promised her. “And if I had to, I’d be willing to dress like Mandrill. It’s not out of the question.”

“Ewww! Yes, it is!” And finally, with a look of total revulsion on her face, she turned and ran away from him.

“Okay. You’re right,” he called after her. “Mandrill’s a stupid costume. What about
Hellcat
!
You’d be so hot as Hellcat! And I’d consider being Son of Satan! He’s not
too
gay-looking.”

But the woman was gone. She had reached the building’s exit and slammed through its door, barely more than a Jesse Quick speed blur that was quickly lost in the crowd.

“Maddie?”

Morgan stood silently for a minute, watching for any distant sign of her.

“
See you tomorrow!”
he finally called cheerily, smiling and waving at no one.

After a minute or so of looking to see if she’d turned around to see his farewell, he looked over to me.

“It’s great how women totally dig comics fans, now that all the superhero movies have shown how right and cool we were all along.”

“The movies show that?”

“Duh.”

“Well, she’s certainly attractive.”

“She’s not
attractive
,” he said doing air-quotes around ‘attractive’, “she’s
HOT
. I can tell, man.
I
have pictured her naked. She’d look so great in our lingerie. Like Emma Frost. I’m getting her some for her birthday. Put that company discount to some good use.”

“Lingerie? But you’re not…” It seemed impossible, “…
dating
, are you?”

“Not yet. But once I get her the lingerie…” He pumped his fist in a gesture that was hard to interpret but might have indicated something sexual to a female mastodon, and I nodded as if I understood. We turned and began walking together toward the door at the opposite end of the building from where ‘Maddie’ had made good her escape.

“Buying lingerie for a fellow employee might be considered harassment.”

“Yeah, right,” he sneered.

“I’m serious.”

“What are you? Harassment Man?” he asked, apparently amazed at my stupidity. “Nothing’s harassment. I took that anti-harassment thing HR makes you do online. Now I can say whatever I want and it’s okay.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

He cocked an eye toward me with a ‘what do you know’ expression.

“She can cook, too. Look.” He showed me some of the food in his mouth. “She made that. Madelyn Windom’s world-famous zucchini bread. She threw it to me when she saw me coming.”

“Threw it ‘to’ you? Or threw it ‘at’ you?”

“To. At. Same thing, Proper English Man. Want some?”

“Do you have any that isn’t pre-chewed?”

He offered up a Ziploc baggie so I took a greasy piece and joined the fun. Madelyn Windom’s zucchini bread truly was a marvel. You couldn’t taste the zucchini.

“Heard
you
had a day today.” Morgan said, smiling evilly through another mouthful.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Did you really dry hump a model in the fitting room?”

“What? Good God,
no!
Is that what people are saying?”

Morgan smiled. “No. Just some nonsense about a water bottle that was so lame everyone knew it had to be bullshit. Of course, they might be saying it
tomorrow
if you don’t go to the comic book convention with me.”

“I don’t know how many ways I can say ‘no’, Morgan. Should I try Russian? Nyet. German? Nein. Swedish?” I paused. How
did
you say ‘no’ in Swedish? How did you say
anything
in Swedish? I’m not even sure how the Swede’s speak the language.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “It’ll be fun.”

“A comic convention? No it won’t. You always say ‘it’ll be fun’, and it never is. Not even remotely. Those things are always filled with lots of people like that fat, rude guy on the Simpsons. Overweight, balding ‘writers’ who think they have a right to be surly to you because they’re the latest hired hand on ‘Boogie Man and His Disco Sidekicks’. Plus, everyone there has a body that should never be seen in public, yet there they are—
exposing
themselves in brightly colored superhero spandex, thongs, and electrician’s tape.”

“Not everyone dresses like that.”

“You only need one.”

“That’s the best part of the show!”

“If I thought people in outrageous costumes was ‘the best part of the show’, I’d find a way to stay at work.”

“Find a way?”

“Um. Yeah. Um…I can’t because…”

I flushed as I remembered why. Fortunately Morgan is in no way emotionally sensitive and it went unnoticed.

“Becaaaaaaaaause…?” he asked.

“Because I’m taking some time off.”

“Why?”

“Grandfather thinks I need a vacation.”

“Vacation? Dude. Your job
is
a vacation!”

“I’m sure
you
see it that way.”

“Any normal guy would see it that way. Hey, maybe the old man would let
me
do your job!”

“He’d sooner feed alligators wearing a duck suit.”

“You could put in a good word for me.”

“No, I really couldn’t.”

“Maybe I’ll just call him myself and ask.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will.”

We both chewed and walked a moment in zucchini bread silence.

“Well,” he finally said around liquefied brown that had gathered around the rim of his mouth. “If you’re not coming in to work, then you
have
to come to the convention with me.” He read my expression. “Come on! I’m going to invite Madelyn. Now that I think of it, she’d look perfect in a Phoenix costume. Duh. Why didn’t I think of that before? Madelyn. Like in Pryor?”

The Phoenix’s real name. In the comic, not the movies. Or one of the Phoenix’s. See, a long time ago, in another dimension…

Sorry. Nearly geeked out there for a second. Then I realized that it’s a long, complicated story, and no one cares.

“I should have realized sooner,” he said, glancing at me as I chewed silently, not at all getting that my own semi-clad superheroine still mentally distracted me. “Why don’t you invite Mindie?”

My brain froze. All erotic thoughts of Ms. Nuckeby ceased their attack on my exhausted libido.

“Invite
Mindie?
” I asked.

Morgan knew, of course, that I had been in love with Mindie Butterwycke since the dawn of hormonal time. She was a childhood friend of my sister’s; one I had longed deeply and unrequitedly for as the first girl who could—simply by entering a room—make my penis swell. Mindie had been—since my crossing the threshold of sexual, if not mental, maturity—an object of perpetual personal desire; the kind of woman whose image you carried off into sleep then dreamt of fitfully—probably because you had wanked off while imagining her jumping naked on a trampoline. I’d considered marrying her at one point, but she wouldn’t go out with me.