Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

  “In a car that’s at least sixty years old,” she said—then seeing my expression, “Why? Neither of us knows. So I bought myself an old Rambler, filled it with food and gas, gathered my things and drove up here. It took me a while to work up the courage, but eventually…”

  “You got through.”

  “Found some clothes. Got a job… ”

  “You didn’t even bring clothes?”

  “Your uncle mentioned I’d need them, but somehow it slipped my mind.”

  “You started with nothing?” I asked, my mind totally blown, and drifting down the street I might add.

  “It is possible, Corky.”

  I stared at her, dumbfounded. I couldn’t imagine. But perhaps I needed to. Or perhaps I needed to do a lot more than imagine.

  I looked at the others and got mixed reactions.

  “Let’s do it,” Wendy said gamely.

  “What if it fails when we’re in the middle and cuts us in half?” Morgan whined.

  Sophie just smiled broadly and nodded.

  River also said nothing and simply stared, absently. He seemed not to be listening, his glazed eyes looking off into space, as if he was lost in a world of his own. I wondered what he must be thinking, what horrors were coursing through his mind, when I noticed Waboombas moving her hand slightly in his lap, still with a firm grip on his ample, and now swollen, personal handle.

  Ah. So his mind was preoccupied with the horror of the absentminded hand job. His expression now made perfect sense.

  Behind us rose the sounds of approaching sirens and rubber tires squealing over asphalt, and I knew the decision had now been made for us.

  I pressed down on the gas and, complaining all the way, the Duesenberg moved forward, slowly, to be gradually enveloped by clouds, lightning, and thunder that flowed purposefully out of nowhere. Morgan whimpered, Sophie squealed in delight, Waboombas laughed, and River turned pale, shuddering violently. Suddenly Wisper’s brother cried out, and I couldn’t tell if he’d finally realized what was happening or simply given the back seat of Helena’s car a new stain.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. The result was the same.

  We were gone from Earth Two.

  Thankfully, the rest of the trip was relatively tame.

  We made it to the next town and slept in the parking lot of a gas station where a cheery sign with a cute little big-headed cartoon service-station man happily promised:

  Which I doubted.

  But our options were limited, so we decided to stay the night and see if the little guy was a liar.

  All of us were hoping for, and desperately needing to, sleep. But there were no motels nearby, so we were forced to bunk down in the crowded Duesenberg, each couple with a seat to themselves, though not much else to compensate our exhaustion given that Morgan refused to remove his pants for Sophie, and River forced me to keep a respectable distance from his sister. Highly unfair given his continual enjoyment of the Waboombas finger massage on his own manliness. But apparently hypocrisy wasn’t unique to ‘clothists’.

  Despite this, we wound up talking, laughing, and dozing through the night, and after a while, I no longer cared if I slept, or did anything else for that matter, so long as I could continue to take in more, and more, and more of Wisper. She was exhilarating, even when she wasn’t touching me. Her mind was sharp, she was caring and sensitive of others, and her intelligence dazzled me. I began to wonder if maybe John Seward Johnson had found his upstairs maid similarly engaging. Maybe. Maybe not. But did it really matter?

  By early morning, stiff in oh-so-many ways, still tired, and more than a little cranky, I slipped into my pants, met with the greasy station attendant as he arrived for work looking nothing like his cartoon counterpart, and convinced him to jury-rig the Duesenberg by offering wads of cash (my credit cards worked again here) if he could be done before breakfast and not ask any questions. He agreed, and amazingly, even though he spent more time looking at Wisper and Sophie than he did at the engine, I had to give him credit; the man brought the dead back to life. It made me wonder what he could do with a loaf, a fish, and a hungry crowd.

  As the car idled in the service bay, I went into a small convenience store one block over, and bought enough sweets, and carbohydrates to feed a hyperactive army of kids on a Saturday morning, and before the sugar had even hit our bloodstream, we were on our way.

  We arrived at the convention center before noon and stared in gaping awe at the massive lines leading out from the glass-walled main entrance of the building onto the busy concourse and down the crowded street for several blocks. There must have been a hundred thousand people, or more, waiting to get in.

  Advertising trucks drove past the throng towing huge displays for whatever late summer, sci-fi, superhero, or fantasy blockbusters might be due out in the coming weeks. People wearing street clothes paraded down jammed sidewalks side-by-side with those more garishly displayed in wild and inventive costumes. Some carried boxes, others original art, many held bags, and quite a few lugged heavy artist’s portfolios. All looked happy, hopeful, and excited.

  Every year I came, I was more amazed at how much the convention scene had changed since I was a wide-eyed youth, when only a few hundred people might show up for the entire weekend— all mostly young, all mostly fans of the actual comic books themselves. Now, very few of the attendees actually gave a rat’s fig about comics, or anything even affiliated with them. More people attended these conventions than actually bought comic books in their lifetimes, and why they came was a matter of some debate. It was my belief that their appearance here could—as with so many things—be laid squarely at the feet of Al Gore’s Internet.

  Because of the World Wide Web, and all it’s many filaments, the comics convention had become more than just a sales opportunity, promotional tool, and tax benefit for the city. It had grown into an important, positive, and empowering experience for those who attended; the convention center itself, through transmitted imagery and stories, had reached a cult status as a common meeting ground where fans could socialize—no longer just digitally, but face-to-face— and in the process find even more like-minded friends who might want to touch them sexually. The Con was now a thrilling destination point—a Mecca, a Garden of Eden, and a journey’s end, all rolled into one; the fans looked upon it and saw that it was good.

  And so they came, and saw, and in some cases even conquered. Keeping all that in mind, you also have to add into this rather heady mixture of social misfits desiring community, the interest of general sci-fi and fantasy fans, passive fans, people lost and looking for directions, the generally curious, couples with an afternoon to kill, aspiring artists, aspiring writers, innocent children who don’t know any better, and people who just want to come and gawk, because aside from just the hardcore weirdoes and the chronically lonely, comic book conventions had also recently become immensely popular with the masses—and I do mean masses—due to all the recent superhero movies. Consequently, tons of people came every year to see guest actors, featured directors, and previews for whatever Hollywood was offering up next. Not that it was really any different from what had been in theaters the previous year, or the year before that, or the year before that—but to promote it, the studios gave away free stuff, and the masses love free stuff.

  Owing to the enormous popularity of connectedness, voyeurism, and just general ‘wa’s up’ surrounding comics conventions (or ‘cons’ in attendee parlance), we had to park several miles away in a small lot somewhere very near the international date line, and paid the attendant with a credit card that, fortunately for us both, still worked. He let us in with barely a second glance, despite the fact that—with the exception of Waboombas and Morgan—we were all still extremely naked.

  “Here for the comics convention?” he asked pleasantly, as if carloads of bare-assed people showed up for that every day.

  “Yes, we are,” I said, equally pleasantly.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” he said, handing us a
ticket and waving us in.

  “We already are,” Wisper said, smiling pleasantly and fanning her bare breasts to alleviate the heat from the man’s intense gaze.

  Once safely parked, I opened the trunk, and it barfed out our luggage. All that crashing, towing, and wild driving had left things in a terrible jumble that took a few minutes to sort out.

  I handed Waboombas her suitcases, tossed Morgan his, and grabbed mine from under the spare tire, turning it over to Wisper.

  “See if there’s something in there that will fit,” I said.

  She cocked her head and looked at me with irritation.

  “Just for now,” I said. “Promise.”

  She sighed, unconvinced, and opened the case. As she did, I grabbed something from inside and handed it to River.

  “It’s likely to be a tight fit,” I told him, “but you can probably squeeze into this.”

  “Are you insane?” he asked. “I am not wearing clothing!”

  Waboombas laughed. Or burped, I still hadn’t worked it out. “I love this guy.”

  “Then you’ll have to stay in the car. In this world, there are laws about exposing your privates in public.”

  “What? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. Laws against the human body. Where are we? Nazi Germany?”

  Why did everyone always pull out ‘Nazi Germany’ when they found something the least bit repressive? Things must have been really bad there at one time.

  By way of attempting an explanation, I took the bag I’d most been concerned with—the bag that would make everything better—and pulled it onto the asphalt, opening the zipper for River and the others to see.

  “Comics!” River said excitedly.

  He reached down and took a couple, then grimaced.

  “What is this?” he said, holding one out like it was covered in Ebola virus. “Spiderman is wearing pants? I’ve been reading Spiderman my whole life! Spiderman is for kids, for God’s sake, and his penis is covered! That is just sick!” Then he noticed my sealed, perfect, mint copy of Nuderman. “Okay. Finally, something normal.” Then he noticed the title, searched the rest of the comics, and found an actual copy of Superman #1. “Wait a minute. Why is Superman wearing pants, and this one is called Nuderman? This is Superman— not the pervert wearing red nuthuggers.” He looked back and forth between the similar covers, and his scalp gave off smoke as the engine inside labored under the strain.

  Finally, shaking his head to knock loose the unpleasant images, he handed me back the comics. “This is seriously wrong.”

  Then, slowly, quietly, gradually, he became aware of all the people walking by on the street—most of them staring, pointing, and occasionally laughing, at our naked selves—and saw that they all wore clothes of some kind—everything from jeans, dresses, and shirts, to Star Wars, Star Trek, and superhero uniforms. It was likely the first time in history someone dressed as an Ewok felt they had the upper hand on another person’s fashion choice.

  I gently took the comics from River, and he startled a bit, as if forgetting I was there. He studied me with frightened eyes, like a small child confronted by the real, live Mickey Mouse for the first time. And Mickey had his thingie out.

  “Maybe you can explain things to him, Wisper,” I said, calmly. “He looks as though he needs a better understanding of what he’s gotten himself into.”

  She took River to one side and began speaking to him in low tones. Other than the occasional “What?” Or, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Or, “Even to BED?” I heard only enough of their conversation to know that I understood exactly how River was feeling—though in reverse.

  His difficulty handling the situation had me concerned about poor Sophie. The shy little thing must be near to tears herself over all this insanity. I turned and saw her pull some of Waboombas easily strippable clothing from a suitcase, absorbing it in with eyes the relative size, color, and shape of boiled ostrich eggs. The item in question was more air than fabric, not even classy enough for Fredericks of Hollywood, and could only have been designed by Pjuter or Manschingloss on a very, very, randy day.

  “Oooooh,” Sophie said, delighted. “Can I wear this?”

  Interesting. Apparently, on her world, Sophie was ‘kinky’. Maybe things could work out between her and Morgan.

  Eventually we got a few strips of cloth, torn from something of mine that used to be a shirt, and formed it into a makeshift loincloth to place over the parts of River that would have gotten him arrested. It took a surprising amount of cloth. When we had finished, men in uniform anywhere else but a comics convention still would have busted him. But here, he was just one of the interesting stories that even the cops tell their fascinated friends after it’s all over.

  “…and there was this one guy, right, and he’s wearing just this loincloth, thingie, right? Walkin’ around proud as can be, and you could see his junk.”

  How can that be in any way acceptable you ask?

  Here, in this specific environment, it would simply be assumed that River was paid model for some Tarzan, or Tarzan-like-related project. No one would ever imagine someone so handsome, built, and hung could possibly be just a fan, or pervert, or both, which is really kind of unfair when you think about it. Nicholas Cage was a fan. Got his stage name from Luke Cage, Powerman, a comic book hero no less. Oh, and me too! I’m a fan, though not named after a superhero. Stephen Root is a fan. Mandy Patinkin likes toy trains, and Shaquille O’Neal loves Superman, as does Joey Fatone, from N Sync, and…

  But I digress. Aren’t you used to that by now?

  Perhaps I should describe the situation visually a bit for those not entirely familiar with ‘cons’, and the people they attract.

  Most comic book conventions are populated with relatively normal people who wear street clothes, eat with actual dining utensils, and speak in languages and dialects primarily found on the Planet Earth. It’s really a minority of folks who dress up in fantastic costumes, dine willingly on convention food, and speak only languages invented by followers of Gene Roddenberry. But the ‘minority’ at a convention is far more concentrated than it would be in one’s day-to-day living experience, and so these individuals claim a larger percentage of the notoriety, the photo-ops, and the video newsbytes generally associated with ‘cons’.

  At this con in particular—one of the larger conventions in the country—two hundred thousand people could pay for admittance on a single Saturday. If only one percent of those dressed up and refused to speak English during their visit, we’re talking two thousand such individuals parading, babbling, and posing for cameras. In a place that’s approximately one square mile, that’s a considerable concentration of ‘unique’. And I suspect the actual percentage of costume-types to be much, much higher.

  I mean, just consider the number of subcategories.

  Star Trek fans. Star Wars fans. Manga fans—which are multiple and various. Battlestar Galactica fans. Stargate fans. Superhero fans, which in-and-of itself has many subsubcategories like Batman, and his fighting friends, Superman, Wonder Woman, Spiderman, Captain America, the X-Men, and even more obscure characters like Bishop, Moon Knight, Cloak and Dagger, Lobo, Savage Dragon, Mister Monster, and Sammy the Fish Kid. Then here are the fans of old pulp characters like The Shadow, Tarzan, The Spider, The Avenger, and Doc Savage. In addition you’ll find a significant population of Clive Barker fans dressed as specific, or interpreted, characters from his many horror projects such as Hellraiser, Nightbreed, and People Who Eat Things Off The Floor. Beyond horror, there’s ‘The Furries’, a sub category of fantasy fans who like to dress up as incarnations of human-animal hybrids, or just commission nude drawings of them. Foxes, wolves, cats, ferrets, mice, whatever. There are Fans of Harry Potter. Fans of Harry Dresden, fans of Harry Connick Jr., fans of Harry and David, and fans of Harry, Prince of Wales.

  On top of that, throw in the professional models paid by the many companies to dress up as their characters in licensing-approved costumes for promo
tional purposes. The models wear clothing—or Waboombas-like, no clothing—that helps sell whatever it is the company wants pushed: movies, TV shows, comics, figurines, computer games, or even just the ideas for such things.

  Now, imagine all these subgroups sprinkled in amongst the regular people, the average ‘joe’, and averager ‘jane’, many of those still displaying colorful T-shirts, hats, and bags of their own to proclaim appreciation of the same, or similar creations, only to a lesser degree.

  Mix all this into a soup of brightly colored comics, eye-catching posters, twelve-foot stacks of toys, tables full of original art, obscure videos, collectible statues, collectible cups, collectible everything, struggling artists, struggling writers, struggling actors, professional artists, professional writers, professional sellers, Lou Ferrigno, and women porn stars selling pictures of themselves, nude, and otherwise. Pour it all into avenue after avenue of tables, and booths formed into a maze not unlike the one in the Shining. Make it thick, make it hot, and make it too much to get through in one sitting, and you have an understanding of the fine consommé that is ‘crème de la comic book convention’. Days and days of sumptuous entertainment with tasty fun to be had by all, leaving you sick, sleepy, and uncomfortable once you’ve consumed everything in front of you.

  And so, given the situation, and the event at hand, River followed us through the front entrance of the convention center, penis barely covered, testicles dangling in the shadows of minimal strips of cloth, past several fascinated security people, lots of annoyed, and perhaps envious men, and dozens of appreciative women, without incident.

  Sophie and Waboombas both had on bits of Waboombas-wear, and got more than their fair share of looks as well from both male and female attendees. Sophie was a pretty-enough girl, though nothing overly extraordinary. Yet here, dressed in six-inch heels, a thong, and a few choice pieces of silver-studded leather, with nothing more of her exposed than you’d find on an average beach, and she was the belle of the domination ball, basking in the much appreciated attention.