One of them said, "Uh, I usually rub some talcum powder between my legs just in case." How that would prevent arousal was beyond me. Chafing maybe, but even so. . . . "I have some in my backpack if you want it."
Although I suspected that it was probably for his feet, I said, "That would be great." He pulled a can out of the pack he had laid on a picnic table and offered it to me. But rather than accept it, I said, "Do you mind? Oh, wait, this will make it easier for you." I hopped up on the table, lay back and spread my legs.
He shook some talc in his hand and tentatively sprinkled some on my pussy. Meeting no resistance whatsoever, he proceeded to coat my labia and, noticing my emerging clitoris, began studiously rubbing the powder on it. One of his friends even pointed vaguely in the direction of my vulva and said, "Stan, I think you missed a spot."
At least he didn't try to rub some on the inside of my vagina; that would have been a bridge too far. Nevertheless, all this was definitely attracting the notice of nearby riders. All the better. When he reluctantly finished, I graciously thanked him and got up and moved on, saying loudly, "Thanks. You guys are such gentlemen." There were a lot more eyes on me now, some of them no doubt wondering if there were some further assistance they could render.
After standing around for a while with my hands on my hips or casually scratching an imaginary itch on my ass or raising both arms up to needlessly fiddle with my hair, the ride got underway. It took some time for those of us in the rear to start moving. When we did, we'd only gone about a quarter of a mile when I saw you. I left the bike in an alley like you said, and when I entered the cafe, I had a major rush, knowing that when I came out, I was going to be emerging into a completely different world.
I walked out of the cafe after pretending to use the restroom, made a little show of looking for my bike and began to walk along the sidewalk back in the direction of the staging area. Then it hit me like a locomotive: I was lost.
Son of a bitch! You had picked me up at the airport after dark, driven us into the city and parked in a garage beneath our hotel. Then we had taken the elevator up to your floor. Today we had left the hotel the same way. We were talking, and I was only dimly aware of my surroundings to begin with. So I had no fucking clue what the name of our hotel was, not to mention where it was located. Then that same locomotive screeched to a halt, backed down the tracks and ran my ass over again.
You had made what was now an obvious show of leaving your phone behind in the room. When I had reminded you that it was on the bed, you had said, "Leave it. I really don't want to be taking any calls from Behemoth today." I didn't make anything of it then, but you had been subtly letting me know that if I lost my nerve, there would be no way to contact you and no possibility of help from you. I felt very naked and very stupid and very much on my own.
After breathing my way out of a panic attack and pulling myself together a little, I had the glimmer of an idea. You had MY phone, but it was in a bike saddlebag in your trunk along with my clothes. Could you even hear it? If so, would you answer it or suppose it was just a call for me that would be forwarded to voicemail? Or would you deliberately ignore it, thinking that it was me calling for a some kind of rescue that you had no intention of providing. You couldn't have known how dire my circumstances were.
Voicemail. That was my only chance. I borrowed a phone from a twenty-something woman on the sidewalk and called myself. I was lucky to remember the number; it's not like I had ever called it before. Since I was still on the bike ride route, I wasn't attracting much attention. You had told me that nudity sometimes broke out among the spectators, and, anyway, they had already seen thousands of naked people ride by, so they were pretty well conditioned to nudity by now. That all changed when my call triggered the voicemail. I started screaming my fool head off. "Liz! Liz! Pick up! Pick up! I don't know where the fucking hotel is!" Nothing.
Even naked I had felt fairly unobtrusive, but now I was making a real spectacle of myself. I handed the phone back to the startled woman, thanked her and strode off, feeling as embarrassed as all get out and still having no idea where I was going. I just walked. I knew that the hotel was in what appeared to be the city's center. So that was something. I also remembered us crossing a bridge over a river. Great.
As I got farther and farther from the site of the ride, I understandably attracted more and more attention. But I was determined to at least enjoy my walk. I mean, that's what I'd signed up for after all, although not with this particular development in mind: wandering the streets of Portland, Oregon, totally naked and totally lost. On the bright side, I had wanted to feel really exposed, and this pretty much met with my hopes.
People on the street would clap and shout out questions. Or the same question over and over again. It was always, "What happened to your clothes?" At one sidewalk cafe, in response, I stopped to talk to some of the patrons, explaining what had ostensibly transpired but not daring to let them know I was lost. Who would have thought that I'd be so excited to be naked in front of everyone but too humiliated to admit that I was lost?
During some of those conversations, I'd prop a bare foot on a vacant chair, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that I was now showing my entire vulva. And I was aroused enough that my clitoris was swelling up and coming out to feed. All of this didn't elicit so much as a raised eyebrow from either the men or the women. It occurred to me that they were studiously avoiding any look or gesture that might curtail the show. At one table of friendly and jovial people, who even bought me a drink, I did what I promised myself I wouldn't do. Even in Portland.
I again had my foot up on a chair and casually went to brush something nonexistent off my now distended clitoris. As I touched it, I let out a surprised, "Ooh." At this I was astonished to see at least two of the couples nod in apparent approval. Needing no further encouragement, I began to slowly rub my clitoris, making gentle moans in appreciation of my building pleasure. The people turned to stone, not wanting to breathe or move and possibly break the spell. Of course, what had started so slowly was rapidly transformed into a wanton exhibition of unbridled sexual frenzy. My fingers slipped into my vagina and became a blur of kinetic, desperate need, and I began to thrust my hips forward to meet my hectic hand. My consequent orgasm could have easily been mistaken for a seizure.
When I recovered, I looked around at my mesmerized audience. Everyone out front, those inside peering through the glass and the surprised passersby who had stopped on the sidewalk to watch me all broke into resounding applause. I was transported. When the cheering began to subside, I gave them an exultant smile, said "It was so nice chatting with you," and resumed my walk, looking back over my shoulder to wave goodbye. God, I thought, I'm falling in love with Portland.
Then, a couple of minutes later, a police car came rolling to a stop beside me. My first thought was that someone had ratted me out about the public masturbation and that I was in deep trouble. But the officer in the passenger seat just rolled down his window and asked me if there was a problem. I laid the naked ride and stolen bike story on him, and he said, "I'm really sorry about that, Ma'am. Do you need a lift?"
Not only did I not want a lift (even though it would seem pretty suspicious to refuse one), I was horrified by the prospect of getting in the police car and, when asked the inevitable question, "Where to?" could have only answered, "I have no fucking idea."
They probably would have locked me up for psychiatric observation, so I just said, "Thanks, but my apartment's in the next block."
That satisfied him, and he said, "Well, I hope the rest of your day gets better." They sped away, and I darted into a nearby bar, which turned out to be a strip club, and made it into a bathroom stall, which turned out to be in the men's room, but I lost only a minimum volume of pee on the floor in the process. I finally calmed down and headed back to the front door, politely declining a job offer on the way out.
After walking a few more blocks, nodding and smiling to my fellow pedestrians, I was struck by the fact that while almost everyone tended to whip out their phones, no one ever offered me anything to cover myself with (not that I wanted them to). I'm sure if people saw a naked woman crouching in the gutter, tightly hugging herself and bawling her eyes out, they would have rushed to assist her, but when they saw me strolling along naked and swinging my hips as if to some internal rhythm, they just thought, "I gotta get video of this."
Come to think of it, Liz, one of the very few advantages that women have over men is that when people see a naked woman walking down the street, they whip out their phones and start taking pictures. If they see a naked man, they whip out their phones and call the police.
