ENF: Embarrassed Nude Female
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ENF: Embarrassed Nude Female
By C.M. Noe-Flores
© C.M. Noe-Flores 2014
1 The Bus
2 The Beach
3 The Shore
4 The Museum
5 The Street
6 The Store
7 The Concert
1 The Bus
It was unlike anything I’d ever worn before. The pink top and bottom looked like any old bathing suit from the front. But the backside, the backside was entirely new to me.
I turned again to view myself in the mirror. It was a Brazilian cut, not a thong, not even close, but small, smaller than I’d ever worn. Funny how an inch or two can make it feel like everything is hanging out.
When I bought this, the cashier eyed me for a nanosecond before pinning me for wholesome and asking if I wanted a gift receipt. And although I refused, all week I considered giving it to one of my friends, sure one of them would be courageous enough to wear it. They call it a cheeky bikini. I doubt any of them have actually worn one before and I’m sure they’d be surprised if they knew I bought one. I’m the last one they’d expect to wear something so revealing.
Telling my parents I was going to the beach felt dishonest. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole mischievous truth. Thank god they didn’t ask who I was going with. I don’t think I could’ve lied directly like that. If they had asked, I just wouldn’t have gone at all. But they didn’t. So I packed my things.
I grabbed a tote and threw in a faded yellow towel, tube of SPF 50, phone, earbuds and my floral print wallet. There was an inflatable beach ball in my closet but I wouldn’t need it. Standing in the doorway, I was acutely aware that I was missing something. Oh yeah: clothes to wear over my bathing suit. I stepped over to my closet and stopped in front of the sliding mirror door. This outfit, no matter how radical to me, was expected at the beach. But I could think of a few other places where it’d be less appropriate.
Shivers ran through me. I left the clothes in the closet.
Music played from the living room television. My father was most likely sitting in an armchair with his back to the door. My mother was in the kitchen at the counter, reading another romance novel. My naive father once snuck up behind her and started reading aloud over her shoulder. He only got through one sentence, a dirty one. It was the only time I’d ever seen my mother blush. She snapped the book shut and scolded him for saying that in front of the child; me. My father, equally embarrassed, pretended her books didn’t exist from then on.
I strode through the kitchen wearing my new bathing suit and nothing else. I did not stop. My tote was over my shoulder, pushed back so that it would cover my scandalous bottom. “Mom, I’m going now, bye.”
“I still think it’s a little late for the beach,” she muttered without looking up. There was no need for further conversation. Her face was so deep in the book she had probably already forgotten we exchanged any words at all. I crossed into the living room and snuck up to the door to the garage.
My hand was on the handle when my father said, “See this concert they’re talking about? The philharmonic, they’ll be playing in the concert hall just a few blocks from here.”
I spun around to hide my backside, but he hadn’t turned from the television. I was safe. “Oh, cool Dad. Well I’m going to the beach now.”
“If I had my gold card I’d take you myself but it’s airing live on channel eight tomorrow. We should watch it.”
“Yeah Dad, okay. I’ll see you later.” I stepped into our garage. The juxtaposition of my air conditioned home and the sauna-like atmosphere of the garage made my head spin. I opened the garage door, letting in a blast of fresh air. The neighborhood was fairly quiet. A few mowed their lawns. Some gardened. A couple kids played kick the can.
My tote bag slid off my shoulder. I held it inches above the ground and eyed the garage wall. Lawn mower, basket full of footballs and basketballs, hula hoops, bucket full of chalk, roller blades on s-hooks, folded tarp and some car parts. I reached into the tote, pulled out some cash and tucked it into my top.
Goosebumps spread across the flesh of my arms, my shoulders, my back and my exposed cheeks. I placed the tote against the wall with all the other junk, let go of it and walked out.
The bus stop was only half a mile down the road. I tried to time my walk with the lawn mowers so I wouldn’t pass too close to any of them, but I didn’t do the best job. I was unaware that Mr. DeSoto was out mowing. He must of been cutting on the side of his house when I made my original surveillance. Now he was heading straight for the street, where he’d turn my way to cut along the edge of his lawn. I considered crossing the street to avoid him, but that would be strange since we were family friends. Besides, it’s not like he wouldn’t see me from across the street. I decided to grit my teeth and pass him head on.
As long as he didn’t turn his head back after passing, he wouldn’t see my racy behind. Mr. DeSoto had known me most my life, even babysitting me a few times growing up, so a turned head from him was unlikely. I was more like a daughter than a neighbor. Still, walking around wearing only a bathing suit was weird enough for this neighborhood, especially since he’d never seen me in one before.
When Mr. DeSoto saw me, he smiled and waved and for one dreadful moment I thought he was going to stop the lawnmower and attempt to chat. Maybe he saw the look in my eyes and decided against it because he sped back up to his normal pace. I waved back and passed, instinctively putting my hands behind my back to help cover my rump. I didn’t have the nerve to look back and see if he looked.
I found myself in something of a trot, trying to get away. I had only been out of my house a minute and I was basically caught already. I could only imagine what Mr. DeSoto might say to my father. ‘That daughter of yours sure has grown. Saw her the other day, walking ‘round the neighborhood in her skivvies.’ My trot accelerated to a sprint. I was eager to get out of my neighborhood. I passed a couple of young tan gardeners who looked and whistled. Catcalling. I forgot about catcalling. I hated catcalling. And yet, I continued to run.
Luck at last. Nobody was at the bus stop. I sat down on top of my hands because the seats weren’t the cleanest. Shaking my head, I realized I really hadn’t thought this through. Originally, I had planned on walking the two miles to the beach. But the area had a strange mix of good and bad streets. One block was nice enough to erect a fancy concert hall and the next was riddled with sex shops and drug dealers. The chances of some creep chatting me up non-stop within my personal bubble was pretty high.
Public transportation would only be marginally better. But at least other people would be around, including the bus driver. I pulled my fare out from my bikini top and fanned myself with it. The result of running a quarter mile in this heat was looking and feeling like a melting popsicle.
The bus appeared, chugging down the street. I didn’t wave it down, thinking it might pass and I’d shrug and say ‘oh well’ and go home. But it squealed to halt all the same. When the door opened, the old earth colored driver looked at me a little longer than I thought was normal, but it was an expressionless look, as if the bus had already shown him everything humanity had to show and he was no longer phased by anything.
Once on the bus, I almost instantly regretted everything. It was crowded, as beachward buses always were, especially on a sunny day like today. A bearded man with a Chihuahua in his lap offered me his seat but I refused. I normally didn’t have a problem with the sanitation level of bus seats, but I normally didn’t have so much exposed skin that would be in direct contact, and with heavyset riders squeezing in on either side, I didn’t think I’d be able to fit my arms at my sides to sit on my hands again. Still, it was tempting to ta
ke the seat, an easy way to hide my backside. Instead I had to stand and do my best to inconspicuously cover my bottom.
Most riders on the bus were getting off at the beach and yet I was the only one wearing a bathing suit with no covering. Now that I thought about it, I’d never seen anybody ride the bus in just a bathing suit. There was something very crude about it.
The bus accelerated and inertia nearly knocked me over. A man’s hand on my back held me up. A wavepool of sensations rolled through my body, with the man’s hand at the epicenter. I quickly grabbed ahold of a handle for support and the man pulled his hand back to himself. Now, holding the handle, I only had one hand to cover my butt.
How could I forget about the limitless supply of creepy men that public transportation supplied? The eyes of these men found me immediately and stuck to me. My skin was getting warm from embarrassment. Please don’t blush, I told myself, not now.
Teen boys on the bus were less brazen. Their eyes would dart over to me only for a moment before returning to the friends they talked to. Once enough time had passed, they would risk another quick peek.
There were families on the bus too and for this I felt vulgar. I wanted to turn around and apologize, I didn’t normally do things like this. I’m so sorry your child saw my cheeky bikini. I found slight comfort in reminding myself that they were going to the beach anyways, where they’d see loads of women in bikinis, some showing even more skin than me.
Some of the creepy men were clearly trying to make eye contact with me. I stared out the window, ignoring them. We were heading down Canal Street, which ran all the way to the beach. It was so named for the canal that zigzagged around it all the way to the ocean.
The concert hall was passing by now. It had been built as part of an attempt to draw wealthier folks into the area. I’m not sure if it’s considered a success, for right across the street is one of the lowest income neighborhoods in the city. If anything the concert hall has probably only helped increase class tension. It’s hard for me to hate it though because my father loves it. We don’t go much because it’s expensive, but when you turn sixty-five you get a gold senior citizen card permitting free admission, something he’s really looking forward to.
A group of kids played baseball in an alley next to a sex shop. This was the low income, sometimes scary and usually depressing part of Canal Street. I was glad I didn’t walk. In front of the sex shop was a bus stop where a bald, squinting man stood with his hands in his pockets. I had a tough guy demeanor that was common for this area and I didn’t think much of it, but then he got on the bus and started squinting in my direction. He said, “Hey girl, you look real nice.” I kept my eyes fixated out the window but I could feel his gross glare. He said, “Where you heading to?”
When I ignored him this time, he put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped back, pushing his hand off. I wish I had just told him to leave me alone. Why is it so hard to be rude to people even when they’re a bother? Instead I said, “Huh? Oh, I’m meeting my boyfriend at the beach.”
“Boyfriend eh?” he said. His tone was mocking. I thought a boyfriend mention might make him stop, but I guess he considered it a challenge because he stepped closer. “I’m meeting some cool guys at the beach too. And we have drinks so you know, you should meet up with us and have a real good time.” And while he said it he looked down at my backside and I was mad at myself for giving him the opportunity to see me like that and I was mad at myself for not bringing my tote with my earbuds so I could have a real reason not to hear him and I was mad at myself for feeling powerless on this bus full of people and this one man, this one creep.
There were other creeps on the bus but he was the Creep. That’s what I wanted to call him, Creep. But all I said is, “I’ll ask my boyfriend.”
The Creep kept talking but I just nodded and looked out the window. At this point the day seemed like a big mistake. What was I doing out here, dressed like this, alone, with no phone? By the time the bus reached my stop, the Creep looked pretty annoyed. Like I care. He had no right to be annoyed at someone for not wanting his attention. Once the doors opened, I just about ran off the bus. I heard the Creep call out a name on my way out. I’m not sure what it was, but it’s safe to say it was derogative.
The beach bus stop was right in front of La Reina de la Playa, an art museum I hadn’t been to in years. A lot of fully clothed tourists were coming in and out of La Reina de la Playa. I also saw people with the same destination as my own, wearing skimpier clothing, but still no uncovered swimsuits. Across the street from La Reina de la Playa was the crowded boardwalk, and beyond that was the beach.
I stood almost hopping, waiting for the walk sign at the intersection with my hands crossed behind my back. The road to cross to the boardwalk had five lanes and was technically a highway, so jaywalking was out of the question no matter how many times it crossed my mind. Someone nearby said something to me. I looked over and was ever so grateful that it wasn’t the Creep. I was sure this man was giving unwanted attention just the same, but I couldn’t help but smile in relief that it wasn’t the Creep. Realizing I might send the wrong signal, I quickly shook my head and forced a grimace. The man laughed a kind of nervous, confused laugh at my apparent craziness. Fortunately, the walk sign flashed walk and I ran.
Across the road, the boardwalk was full of tourists and street vendors selling hotdogs and hamburgers, overpriced fruit on account of the drought, paintings and pictures from unknown artists, spray painted t-shirts, freakshow tickets, weed illegally and weed pseudo legally from medical dispensaries. Artists did acrobatics for tips, improvisational raps, and caricatures. There were also homeless people with torn cardboard signs asking for weed, homeless people with signs asking for money, homeless people with signs containing witticisms and a homeless person vending signs for other homeless people. He sat on the ground next to his signs, proud of his meta joke contribution to the boardwalk. None of the homeless paid much attention to me. The boardwalk was full of all types of people, including other women wearing only their bathing suits, finally. Maybe the homeless men that lived here didn’t so much as glance my way because they were jaded to the sight of swimsuit clad woman. Could that be the answer? Flood the world with nudity and we won’t care about it anymore. We won’t care to hide it, we won’t care who sees it and nobody will care to see it.
I had been coming to the boardwalk since I was a child, but in my current state I found it frighteningly strange, different and fresh. It was packed with people and although a few were donning their swimsuits, I still felt uncomfortable, scandalous, and the object of many gazes. I saw a character I had seen nearly every time I came to the boardwalk; a tall dreadlocked roller skating beggar who always carried a boombox on his shoulder. I called him Dreads, in my head, that is, I never actually said anything to him. I doubted he would recognize me, not just because he was always high on something, but because I was normally so uninteresting, a grey smear against an overcast sky. Dread's appearance made me realize I could see someone else I knew there, someone who would recognize me. A minor panic alarm buzzed in my chest.
I picked up my pace heading towards the sand. My flip flops were slowing me down so I kicked them off, but only got a few feet before realizing how stupid that was. I went back and grabbed them and was very glad I did once my feet hit the hot sand. Flip flops back on.
A cool breeze swept the shore and touched inches of my body it had never touched before. It was a big beach, about a hundred yards to the water. The water too, was crowded. But these people were all in swimsuits. And for the first time since I got on the bus, I let my hands go from behind my back and rest at my sides. How silly I must have looked running through those crowds covering my bum. I looked over my shoulder back at the boardwalk and saw a disheveled clown facepainting children next to a woman collecting money from tourists taking pictures of her bikini clad dog reclining on its back in a puffy red cushion. Maybe I didn’t look silly at all.
2 The Beach
But I was too close. I passed an outcropping of short walls where graffiti artists sprayed away. This was where the beach crowds started. My fellow sunbathers were upon me. I noticed some men watched me as I passed but they did that to every girl in any bathing suit and at the beach the gaze lost much of the creepiness it carried on the bus.
I found an empty spot but I didn’t have a towel and the sand was scalding so I just stood there looking down the beach. Heat waves distorted the farther beach goers, melting them into a soup. I’m sure others were wondering why this weird lady was awkwardly standing there all alone. My ass felt like a billboard for the world to see. Once when I was in Vegas, this prostitute was hanging around the hotel pool in the tiniest bikini I had ever seen; thong in the back, slightly more fabric in the front, and a top that hardly even covered her nipples. She just waded through the pool alone, waiting for a potential client to come talk to her. I wasn’t entirely sure she was a prostitute, but it was what made sense to me at the time. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe she was just like me.
I was getting even more anxious from just standing. There was emptier beach space behind the crowds. I hopped back and kicked off my flip flops. With closed eyes, I did my best to meditate the pain of the hot sand away. Concentrate.
My feet slid to second position. My arms raised up to form a circle horizontal with my shoulders. I attempted a pirouette, not super graceful in the sand, nor very comfortable. I paused. A couple beach goers had already taken notice. I felt my face warming. I prayed I wasn’t getting noticeably red as I tried pirouetting again. Focus on the dance and you won’t be embarrassed. Bare assed. How mature of me. Concentrate.