Any and all characters portrayed in reference to sex are 18 or older. This is a work of fiction. Goofy ass story; at least it's in the correct category this time. I hope it's as funny as I imagined it could be, but not likely. I think Act III is missing. I forgot to set it up. Told from the first person, but now with added characters, none of whom will be fully realized. And oh yeah, sex is referenced, but not graphically described.
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Sometimes a shower feels better than at other times, and this was one of those times it felt better. It had gotten warm right as soon as summer had arrived, and I could feel cruddy after less than half a day outside on most days. After I climbed into the tepid flow I adjusted the temperature a tiny tad and soaped up, scrubbing the grubby spots a bit. I didn't rub one out or anything, but I did completely wash my junk. I luxuriated in the feeling of the warm water rinsing the soap off my body and with it, all the detritus and stickiness. Germs, soil, dust, mold spores, pollen, skin cells, errant loose hairs, couple small spiders, what have you, bye-bye. I patted my stomach, pushed the hair out of my face and pulled the towel into the shower. Drying myself with a patting motion, so as not to overly abrade my dermis, I left my hair wet, running my now thoroughly cleaned hands through it.
Stepping to the sink, I gazed at myself in the mirror. Wow. Yeah. I mean, I was going to shave, but I had to just look at myself for a moment. Weak posture, check. Gut, check. Man boobs, check. Hair, ha. Wispy, thin, receded hair, yeah, check. Cowlicky too, once it gets past about 3/4-inch. Getting to like that actually; makes me look unruly. My face isn't even cute anymore, not that I give a flying whatever.
What else, oh, flagging musculature, well that's half my own fault at least. And there's my dick. "That's it right?" I asked the mirror aloud. Then I thought, like, really, what the hell happened to my dick? I used to have a dick! A real, honest to goodness dick. Shit, the water wasn't
that
tepid.
Moving on, I shaved myself with my trusty electric razor, which must have sentient AI at this point because it and it alone decides what hairs it will and will not cut. Skin too, sometimes, if I get too aggressive with it. I made a couple second passes in some stubborn spots where my beard was also apparently cowlicky and growing in different directions. I left my hair as was, but combed it. Decided to do a quick trim of the pubes because that mess was almost as scraggly as my dick, but did only the tips as they say. So chastened, or encouraged, my dick reappeared, sort of, but still much to my unbridled joy. I wiped the whiskers and pubes from the sink with a swath of TP then with porcelain cleanser and a sponge. And a scalding hot water rinse wipe. I splashed my nicked neck with alcohol based skin bracer, you know, to see if I still felt. I did, and it didn't smell bad either.
I still didn't rub one out. Just so you know, but who's counting? I should have been counting, and okay, maybe I do. Again, not that anyone would care.
I decided I wasn't going to wear much makeup. It's almost always fucking hotter than the dickens in July and today would be no exception. Mainly I didn't want to sweat oddly around the smears of luscious goo. So I just went with eyeliner and a little blush. No lipstick, no mascara. "Sorry Goths, I sympathize, but 'no'," I said into the mirror.
I wandered into the kitchen and made myself some avocado enhanced toasted bagel halves, with a dash of fake butter, no cream cheese, and just the teensiest bit of salt and pepper. Brushing my teeth, I remembered I was getting a crown the coming week and gave that area a serious dressing down. Improve your gums by punishing them. I'm not super into punishment as a remedy for all ills but it works on your gums. The astringent rinse didn't even sting and I wondered if it had gone flat, but it smelled good too like the aftershave.
I strode into the bedroom and looked in my closet. There it was: a complete 1950s-esqe woman office worker dress and top ensemble. More steno pool than early lady lawyer, to be perfectly accurate. Actually even more casual than that, for like home wear, a la Donna Reed or something. Vacuuming, doing laundry and ironing, and making dinner and looking like a million freaking dollars and solving the world's problems all at the same time and shit. I opted to go with tight boxer briefs underneath to keep everything together like spanx. God, 50s women probably would have killed for a pair of spanx. I pulled on one of those miracle sports bra type rigs for a like 42A or whatever it was. It was snug but didn't feel too tight, so far at least. Foundation wear, systems are go!
I slipped the dress and blouse on, and slid my feet into some almost flattering low heeled shoes. I would have rather gone with tennies, so I could perhaps run a short distance if I had to, but they weren't really in style for the era. Good thing I had dainty feet, too, for a guy. I pulled on my wig, not a bob, but not down to my shoulders either, and looked in the full length mirror. Decidedly unfeminine, unimpressive, and unfashionable looking.
It was perfect for National Cross-Dress Day. I was just glad I didn't have to go to work that day. I hate explaining shit to people. You know,
some
people anyway. Most people are good but once in a while I can appreciate how
some
people feel differently about some things. This is more empathy than sympathy and a lot of the time I don't have much empathy either.
Wandering outside, I took in the day, already showing signs of getting bloody hot. I squatted down to pick up the newspaper, pushed myself back up, propping my hands on the back of my hips for support, and turned to see my neighbor staring at me. "Hi Leslie!" I waved.
"Jeez Paco, what the sam hill is up with you today?" Leslie called, incredulous. She always called me Paco for some reason. It certainly wasn't because of latino heritage because neither of us was latino.
"Just enjoying myself on National Cross-Dress Day!" I called back.
Leslie shook her head and shot me a sidelong glance across the yard. "No it's not, you goof!"
"Say what?"
"No, National Cross-Dress Day is in October, I forget the date. It'll be cooler then. Yeah, no, today is National Nude Day."
I was horrified, but at least I could be ready for October. "So, it's Nude Day you say? You're not like, wearing anything under your linen—what is that, a robe? A caftan? What do you call that?"
"Yes, it's called a caftan. Anyway, I simply must say, you look atrocious in that getup. You can't really expect to pull that look off. A house dress or sweat shirt dress would be much more sensible for you."
I started to explain. "Uh, you see, that's sort of the point, or maybe not really at all, of, uh, cross-dressing. You want to look good, but it doesn't ultimately matter if you do or not. Anyway, haven't you ever heard of 'camp'?"
"Yeah camp, I went to camp when I was young. I was the queen of s'mores! There's a secret to getting them to come out just right. Anyway, like I was saying, you really should have worn a house dress, and worn a shorter wig with wavy hair and a sort of up-do. You might be able to make that work for you." Leslie laughed, turning away as she shook off a sudden case of the giggles.
"Okay, so I haven't made any plans for nude day, sounds like you might have, so, what's on the fire with you?" I asked, tossing out a brand new, made-up colloquialism. "And, if you don't mind telling me, what is the secret of s'mores?"
"Here's what's let's do. I think you should go back inside, take off that outfit, including your bra, wash that tarty rouge off your cheeks—they'll be red enough later—you can wipe off half the eyeliner at least, and, hmmm," she stopped for a moment, "yes, I have a giant caftan I sleep in sometimes that might fit you." Leslie crossed her arms in self-satisfaction.
"And then?" I led out, wondering where she was really going with all this.
"We're off to go hang out in the nude! I'll drive!"
"What about making s'mores?"
"You make sure not to burn the marshmallows, but let them get unbelievably hot, like me, ha, and smear them on the grahams. If you do it right, it totally melts the chocolate."
Leslie was my next-door neighbor, and, while we were friendly, I didn't really know her that well. Seemed like she mostly kept to herself a lot, maybe with some nights out here and there, but I didn't know if she was a serial monogamist or had a steady steady, had kids somewhere, or even if she was getting any sex; I really knew nothing about her. I helped her fix her toilet and stuff a couple times, and I knew a guy who was a good plumber to whom I referred her (on a completely different matter), and we'd shared beers once or twice talking about nothing or the weather or watched golf on TV on a few occasions, and I helped her carry some shit from her car a couple times. But, other than that, she was a cipher to me; I could imagine her as anything.
I certainly had no idea she might be a nudist, although when I saw her I usually couldn't help but imagine how she might look nude. She was very pretty, with brown eyes and a wavy brown hairstyle, and sported a pretty good looking fuselage to boot as far as I could tell.
Leslie looked at me. "Go!" she said. "Go fix yourself!"
I trotted back inside, climbed out of my getup, gently re-hung the dress and top on hangers, washed my face again removing all traces of blush and most of the eyeliner, and looked around. I took off the boxer briefs and bra and tossed them in the hamper even though I'd just worn them for around 20 minutes total.
Leslie was waiting for me, so I couldn't make the excuse that I wanted to stay in now because I'd just taken my bra off. I pulled on some nylon jogging shorts with no underwear but they had a thin liner. I pulled on some ankle socks, jogging tennies, and a rock music themed tee featuring a band I didn't know that much about but it had a great graphic. I shoved my wallet, phone, and keys into the Velcro-close pockets, wishing I had a small fanny pack or at least a tiny day pack, and turned again to the mirror. I smiled. I still didn't look particularly good, but at least this was a lot more me.
Back outside, Leslie was watering a flower bed and some dry patches in her front lawn while she waited for me. "Hey! Some improvement! Maybe that will work better than the caftan. Sure it will, you're going to take it off anyway."