Revenge Best Served Nude

(

Note to readers:

This is an entry in the Nude Day contest. All characters are at least 18 years old. I don't think there's anything in here that could trigger anyone. The narrating main character is an African-American woman, and she becomes involved with a White man, but there is no race play.)

***

As of today, images of my nude body are on the internet, where they might remain forever. This may ruin my life. This may deny me a career in high-tech fields where I have nearly finished a demanding education. Yet I allowed extreme body exposure to happen anyway. Not just allowed, I

made

it happen. I have good reasons. I also have not-so-good reasons, and they're the ones that impelled me to do this now, rather than continue to chicken out indefinitely.

I'm one of four women who took it really hard when they (we) were dissed, and even insulted, by men we tried to mingle with at a party. We were overweight, but never before had we been shamed for that so severely (yet mostly silently). Because this was a shared experience, we four resolved to get in shape, at the peak of health, so that when these same men later take an interest in us, we'd kick them to the curb.

Yes, this was a childish motivation. We are smart adult women who have better things to do than whine about dating, or lack thereof. But we were

hurt,

damnit! More deeply than we realized at first. And we learned through our pity-partying that none of us could move on, to those better things, until we did

something

to address the hurt. Even if it didn't work, we thought we'd benefit to some extent from improving our health.

So, we did one hell of a something. We didn't think, at the start, that this would lead Corazon Armendariz, Susan Kramer, Rusalka Pyrzinsky, and myself (Ashanti Nicholson), to stroll around a clothing-optional beach for most of today, with hundreds of witnesses, while totally starkers. But it seems as though this 'something' worked.

Happy National Nude Day to you, too.

***

In late 2022, the pandemic was finally winding down, to the point that social life might become possible again. Not that my social life was all that great before coronavirus. After almost three years, however, I blamed my loneliness on the lockdown. I made the most of the hiatus, by spending even more time on grad-student work than I had previously. My experiments, in development of new materials, yielded positive results (admittedly, after quite a few trial-and-error failures). Reviews of grad students' theses were as stalled as everything else during the pandemic, so when I finally had my thesis review, I sailed through my Master's and got a quick start on credits towards the doctorate. (I don't think I actually need the Ph.D., but starting on it allowed me to keep my work going, with the university's support.)

Also, the drama-queening I mentioned earlier, about endangering my career, is unlikely. I've already had job offers, and exposing myself is irrelevant to them. This is probably true of all four of us. Our careers will be in the deep anonymity of obscure high technology, with scant personal contact.

When the lockdown lifted, even my peer group of nerdy introverts started looking to encounter people in proximity (like, the same building, even

connecting rooms!

), and to hold parties as the old year (and, we hoped, the pandemic) drew to a close. I had hooked up a few times during those dreary years, but the trysts only briefly slaked my thirst. (There was nothing emotional for me or my partners, and I preferred it that way.) The idea of a party, where I might consider several men, like baubles on the shelves of a big-box store, had me excited to the point of internal warmth and moisture.

Our university is huge, with loads of grad students grinding away on lucrative research contracts, under the thumbs of tenured faculty. A few tech billionaires got their start here. Even those of us without delusions of grandeur believe we can make good. In my case, I have some ideas--entirely mine, not proprietary to my work on contracts--that might lead to high-output photovoltaic solar collectors that aren't environmentally harmful. I could describe them in lots of detail, but I'd rather hold them for patent applications. And you might be more interested in my nudity.

With so many brilliant, hard-charging Type-A's around here, it's no surprise that even our parties crackle with anxiety, and aren't conducive to relaxation and pleasantry. We're far more likely to compete than commune. Often, when we have sex, it's a short-term truce, after which we return to our campaigns for advantage.

But I was in a good mood when I arrived at the New Year's Eve party at the house Marcus DuBois had bought, thanks to the profit sharing in the phone-app startup that had recruited him. I didn't think too much about how I looked. I had dressed nicely enough, for this weather: A white cable-knit sweater and blue jeans. Despite months of neglect, my hair looked okay, in a shag that behaved well, given the tight curls of my West African heritage.

I had been carrying around excessive softness for so long that I wasn't even aware of it. It wasn't too obvious, because of the clothes. But somebody looking for my jawline wouldn't find much of it, and might be able to count more than one chin.

I'd banged Marcus once, while he was still a student. Even in a diverse setting, sometimes black folks find it less stressful to get busy with each other. The sex wasn't great. His good-sized dick shot its load early, and he couldn't do much after that. Still, he was now a known quantity for me, and I thought I might be able to delay his detonation with frenulum pinches. I'd definitely be okay, rollin' around with him. Or with any of at least ten more guys I saw as I moved through the party. While I was checking them out, I didn't pay enough attention to certain other partiers.

Such as, women a few years younger than I.

Recent arrivals at school.

Tech-brilliant in their own ways.

Thanks to having spent so little time in the grind here, many of them had not yet succumbed fully to junk food, and did not have a wasted ounce.

These women were impressed by those who had made some headway in the technoverse.

'Those' meaning men.

When I had a moment with Marcus (in a large chat group), I sent out some trial-balloon flirts, favoring him with my most eager smile. He bantered back to me a few times, but was, um, easily distracted, mainly by younger women. I drifted away, reminding myself that Marcus was now a master of the universe. He could see me as one of many women entranced by his success.

I hadn't even brought a housewarming present.

Yet the situation at the party went beyond Marcus. I processed this gradually as the night wore on. Men who, during the pandemic, had been as eager as I was to steal a moment in horizontal conjunction, now perceived more options. My conversations, and my flirting, didn't draw much of an audience. I saw that this was also happening to my roommate, Corazon, and the renters across the hall in our apartment building, Rusalka and Susan. The men in my age group hovered around the younger women. The newer, younger men were still in the deep nerdiness of their high school years, and seemed too scared to try moves on anyone.

As midnight approached, I found myself in a default conversation with the other, 'older,' women, because we couldn't seem to get anyone else's attention. Brent Gilmartin, alpha-level handsome and equally sarcastic, sauntered up to us, with a tipsy-looking younger woman leaning into each of his enfolding arms. He ran his hands along the narrow waists of his apparent conquests, and said to us, "This sure is a big improvement!"

Our look at him was puzzled at first, but then we caught on, and glared.

There were voices in another room, counting down to midnight. They grew louder.

Grinning even bigger, the surfer-blond bastard leaned closer to us and said, "Can you guess what your New Year's resolution oughta be?" His young women laughed. He guided them away before we could throw drinks at his face.

Now, to be honest, we all could have hooked up eventually. There were more men at the party than women, and very few were openly gay. The new nerds would have tumbled to us, if we didn't care about whether they could screw competently. But what we heard from Brent, and the silent concurrence from other men, ignited fury in our, yes,

fat

bodies. With all of us seeing that we reacted that way, we triggered ourselves from quiet despondency to a very noisy gathering of coats, and storming out of the house. I slammed the door with three seconds left in the countdown to 2023.

***

The next morning I knocked rapidly on Cora's bedroom door, and texted our neighbors to come over and vent. This was a situation we didn't have to mope through separately.

"We're joining a gym!" Cora declared between sobs. "Right, Ash? If the world wants hot, we'll give it scalding!" When I moved in, my (White) roomie and (White) neighbors were relieved when I told them that they could call me Ash. I'd used that for years among friends, explaining that my medium-brown skin didn't look anything like ashes, so I wouldn't be offended.

"These bums don't deserve it," mumbled Sue. I was worried about her. She was prone to bouts of depression.

"That's not the point!" I said, getting in her face and surprising her. "We're going to do this for

us!

What have we learned from pursuing our professions? Do we get the best results from being

cooperative,

and

deferential?"

There was a three-second silence. Finally Rusalka said, "No."

"How

do

we get the best results?"

Corazon sniffled, then said, "By looking out for ourselves."

That was in the right direction, but not strong enough. I decided that I'd have to play the less-privileged-Black card. I let urban cadence take over my voice:

"By not takin' no shit!"

Sue animated enough to say, "Yeah!"

"It's six months to serious summer!" I pressed on. "Plenty of time for us to get in shape. What's going to keep us charging, with diet and exercise, until then? What will we

want,

every single day?"

There were still tears on Cora's cheeks, but above them, there was fire in her eyes. She said, low and slow and dangerous, "Revenge."

I exulted, "Hell yeah, Sistah!" Sometimes, when you need to reach somebody's lizard brain, you have to wake it up with a stereotype.

We group-hugged with loud, incoherent cheering. But what sealed the deal was how we developed a plan. Deep in our cores, we all love planning. Minutes later, Rusalka was in charge of our diets, designed for each of us personally. Cora would tailor our exercises. Sue would cover the soft stuff (yoga and mindfulness and whatnot). I would allocate all of our academic resources, scheduling us to assist as needed in assignments, exam prep, and some degree of thesis writing.

There was, of course, no time left for social life. We had each other. This had been true to some extent all along, because we essentially live together. It's easy to fall into a groupthink, and follow examples. The herd we had been, previously, supported our inertia. We were now the alliance that enforced our momentum.

***

Our work and studies still existed. My contract-related stuff often teamed me with Dylan Courtney. He was shy, and nice, yet his blue eyes showed an inner intensity. He was also lean, and kinda cute. Sometimes his whole combination, seen from the corner of my eye, inspired in me a certain, um, enjoyment. We got along well, recognized each other as equals in our specialty, and always gave each other credit where due, in our reports.

Dylan was one of the few white guys in whom I might take a wider interest. But I suspected that an involvement with him would take some heavy lifting. He had a bad case of Woke Fear around me, and took pressure off both of us by occupying my nerdy friend zone. I accepted this. Now that the Revenge League (as the ladies and I referred to ourselves) was up and running (several laps a day), I had even less time for frivolity.

Key point: Dylan wasn't at Marcus's NYE party. So I didn't assign him guilt-by-association in fat-shaming.

In mid-January, as we tended to equipment and gathered data, Dylan said, "Where are you getting this energy?"

I halted between two work stations on opposite sides of the lab. "Uhh...what energy?"

"I can barely keep track of where you are."

I realized I had been quick-stepping. It kinda felt good. "I'm really interested in these results," I said, which was true, but incomplete.

Dylan shook his head. "It's winter. I can barely drag myself out of bed."

Suddenly I was in a quandary. Did 'revenge' require secrecy, until skin would be shown this summer? Could I exempt Dylan from 'revenge?' If not, and he learned what I was doing, would I have to hunt him down and kill him?

I smiled. "Maybe I'm just having a good day." In fact, I was in day two of PMS.

My smile might have let slip a little of my, um, enjoyment of him. He smiled too, eyebrows lifting. "Guess I'll need more energy, to keep up. You want anything from the candy machine?"

"No thanks."

"Really?" Over many months, he had seen me down many candy bars.

"Maybe later," I said.

As Dylan headed for the break room, I decided that I wouldn't divulge anything to him. I liked the idea that my reveal, which would avenge me against douchebaggish men, could be a nice present to a man who was beyond reproach.

***

Ah yes, the reveal. As I sit on a lawn chair in July heat, typing on a borrowed laptop, the breeze tickles my labia. How did we get to the point of public nudity?

The original plan was to eat more sensibly, and exercise together, so we'd look much better by summer. This would be presented through our usual seasonal change in clothing choices. Not very revealing, but some skin would be visible (arms, at least, and to some extent legs). Our cloth-covered contours would show improved proportions. Our boosted confidence would be expressed through more assertive posture and movements. Like my trotting around in the lab.

The thing is, after the first week, we found out how difficult it would be, to progress that far in only six months. None of us was severely overweight (less than fifty pounds...but more than thirty), but we had spent so long at those weight levels that they had become our metabolic baselines. We had to shock our bodies out of that rut. Do you need to be convinced that we're smart? We all agreed, without prompting, that we'd stay away from dubious diet pills; any treatment not backed by legitimate, peer-reviewed data; and laparoscopy (none of us was heavy enough to justify that). Yet looking good in summer clothes was no longer a goal strong enough to keep us going. We weren't sure that we could reach even that goal, from our initial schedule. We had to work harder, so we might as well aim higher.

For a week or so, we envisioned a swimwear photo shoot, in private.

Then we decided we'd wear two-piece suits.

Then, bikinis.

Then, we wouldn't show off through phone pix. There would have to be in-person bikini strutting, with the targeted guys present, and their regret obvious.

Yes, every change raised the bar. We'd no longer be able to hide, with clothes, imperfections like residual love handles. We'd have to make ourselves into hotties.

This, however, was not out of the question. All of us have good genes, lucky ones even, and no conditions that would prevent responsible weight loss or muscle toning. We'd simply have to work at it constantly.

Working out together got us past a sore point: showing ourselves in workout clothes at a public gym. The bulges were apparent to anyone who wanted to judge them. Just glimpsing my limbs and torso as I moved them, on equipment and the jogging track, was as much a bringdown as a motivator. It helped to have company for my misery.

A post-workout talk in the locker room addressed whether doing this in a gym gave away too much information. Sue said, "I haven't seen anyone here I recognize."

"Me neither," said I. "Our peer group is made up mostly of the physically inept. Not the kind of people who do workouts in winter."

Cora said, "Do we even care if people know what we're doing?"

Rusalka said. "It might be good if they

do

know. Another reason to keep us from quitting. Avoidance of ridicule."

I scowled. "I'd rather not draw any attention. Can we at least not announce what we're doing?"

"I'm for that," said Sue. "Let's not add the answering of social media snarks to our overloaded schedule." Cora and Ru got on board with that.

By the end of January, our muscles got past the strain of the new demands we put on them. We began to access endorphins. They helped carry us past the impatience from our too-frequent weigh-ins.

Yet I wasn't convinced that I'd look all that alluring when slimmed down. I could manage decent condition, when I did look after my health. I ran track in high school. Sadly, in those days the mirror showed me a stick figure with appleknockers. It was no surprise that my brain soon distracted me from my body. In college, I decided that health could wait. I allowed junk food to keep me going.

At least, my background competing as a hurdler prepared me for the leg work involved in one of the exercises Cora hectored us through: Kickboxing. If nothing else, this could give us a self-defense skill set.

True, none of that covers the huge transition from bikinis to birthday suits. I'll get to that in a while.

***

By February, I was convinced that Rusalka was trying to poison me. Everything she had me put in my mouth sapped my will to live.

"Deal with it," she growled. "Where my ancestors came from, there were two food groups: Lard and cabbage. Often in the kitchen, when I was a kid, my grandmother took over when my mother worked, so I was raised on that regimen. I've known what I

should

be eating since I was a teenager. So I was with food the way you were with exercise, Ms. Trackstar. I was convinced I could always yo-yo back to ideal, so I skipped the will power I'd need to avoid bloating. We don't have that luxury this time. We have to eat what our bodies need, but our taste buds hate."

I couldn't make a real case against the diet she gave me. Her focus as a geneticist is on when genes activate because of environmental influences, and nutrition is a large part of that.

Rusalka is tall and naturally blonde, and her breasts were so big that they'd probably retain much of their appeal as she shed weight. True also of ass, legs, and other things men enjoy as outliers. I was convinced that her hips could crack a bank safe from a single side toss. These gifts from her Slavic background were accompanied by what she herself called a face like a dumpling, with eyes too small to assert their bright blue, even with heavy makeup. She once said that she was tempted, when flirting, to move her body seductively and tell the object of her attention, 'I'm down there, Pal.'

***

Each passing day made us more conscious of our bodies' workings. Generally, a good thing, but another potential source of distraction. Cora addressed this bluntly in the locker room: "Are we supposed to swear off sex?"

"I didn't sign up for that," said Rusalka.

"I've rubbed out four nights in a row," I told them. "But I can't see going through the hassle of dating."

"Hey, exercise is exercise," said Sue with a lopsided smile.

I was glad to see that her mood was holding up well, but Cora grumbled at Sue, "Easier for you."

The sweat-laden air in the locker room seemed to freeze.

Cora and I knew that Sue and Ru spent some Sapphic moments together, but they didn't mention them to us. I inferred that they'd prefer men, but took what was available. Out of respect for them, those of us across the hall maintained silence on the subject. Until now.