The Society Of Nude Companions

The Society of Nude Companions is believed to have been formed circa 1895. The three female founders—rather perversely—had been rejected by men because of their intense desires to please men in every way, including intimately.

At least two of the three ladies had briefly descended into the purgatory of prostitution. They did not want to be prostitutes. They wanted to be true companions in every way--not only sexually.

There were so many lonely gentlemen back then--especially widowers. Young wives died in childbirth, and there were terrible diseases with no hope of cures.

Why are the companions nude--and why must they remain nude? Their nakedness defines them; it sets them apart. Nude companionship is private--it is not to be shared. Nude companions are skilled at finding special hiding places within the gentleman's home, as needed whenever there are visitors.

Nude companionship should always be more than mere intimacy. A nude companion can be a confessor; a confidant. She can become the light that leads her gentleman out of his personal darkness.

Your nude companion shall remain as long as she is desired--or until you are no longer intimately, intellectually and/or emotionally compatible.

Your nude companion is not paid. However, you are expected to provide her with the care you would show any guest in your home.

Reasonable expenses for housing your nude companion will be compensated for by the Society.

If you have accessed this website, someone has recommended you.

If you meet the Society's standards, you will be contacted.

* * * * * *

My introduction to the Society was via a voice from the past... more like from a past life. Five, six years ago, I was shopping around my attempt at the Great American Novel. I was going to be the next Roth, or Updike. Nothing less than a Pulitzer nomination would do.

Warren was with Putnam back then. He worked and worked with me--and put up with me--for way longer than he had to.

Ultimately, he said that I had "undeniable talent, but your story is fatally flawed, as it's told from a trite, totally wrong point of view."

There was something rare about Warren in that he still retained my respect after a conclusion like that.

So, it was either rewrite my story from scratch, or...

It was Warren who suggested that I write out the "truly amazing prologue" in script form. He shipped my final attempt to a friend of a friend at Paramount.

In about a week I was shipped out to LAX and limoed to the studios. "Your story sucks," the smiling producer informed me, "but you've got fucking technical talent. You ever hear of being a script doctor?"

And that's how it all began.

Nearly six years of fixing other writer's messes, and I am plus one Palm Springs house, and minus one wife--who was on her way out the door anyway.

Now Warren, who I still respected, was telling me all about the Society of Nude Companions in an enthused, breathless tone, as if he was trying to convert me.

I heard him out--almost literally biting my tongue in the process. I am originally from NYC, so I am therefore an uncontrollable wiseass.

"Okay." I sensed that Warren was done with the "trying to convince you it's real" part. "Whether I believe that this is real or some kind of elaborate Internet hoax: what do I do with it? This is not the 1980s; I am not a softcore porn producer. I am not turning out naughty movies to go direct to VHS to become someone's favorite video store masturbatory material."

"Why is that all that you can do with it?" Warren sounded frustrated with me. "I know it's my fault for initially presenting the Society to you as material for some potential script, or novel, but what if it became something more personal to you?"

I shook my head although we weren't on FaceTime. "Personal to me? You mean... have a naked girl hide out in my house? What kind of idiot would..."

Then, the wheels started turning. "You... you had a nude companion. I'm sorry, I... why didn't you start with that Warren?! Why not share with me all of the gory details?!"

Warren sounded sad. "We don't... it isn't right to share a gentleman's personal experiences with his companion. It's..." He trailed off.

"What?" I scoffed, as the sarcastic New Yorker finally showed up. "Did they make you sign an NDA? A Nude Disclosure Agreement?"

There was a silence so palpable I could feel it through my cellphone.

I opened my mouth to apologize...

"You rewrote that Eddie Murphy movie. You punched up that one for Sandler. Guess what? Both movies sucked. You are not a comedian. So lay off the funny comedy jokes."

I gulped. "Listen. Warren, I... I'm--"

"Maybe I was wrong for recommending you. I thought... given your current situation...

"Go on the website I gave you. Use your phone to take screenshots. You have 24 hours before that web address vanishes. Then what you do with it is up to you."

And Warren hung up.

* * * * * *

My "current situation." I never thought I would be 'that guy' who found himself in that kind of "current situation."

Lorna Dane was the pretty blonde costar of a low-budget, cable TV ripoff of '90210.' Her character was, of all things, the pretty blonde girlfriend of the male lead. When her character was apparently killed off by a drug overdose in the season--and the series--finale, she, and the show, became a cult favorite.

There were rumors that "someone" was bringing the show back, and that Debi Farrell wasn't really dead.

Nothing and no one ever came back.

Lorna's career moved on to motion pictures as she continued to play--what else--the pretty blonde girlfriend--until her advanced for Hollywood age of mid-thirties caught up to her.

Then: she took the part of a thirty-eight-year-old divorced mom who falls for her son's nineteen-year-old college roommate. "Better By Half" was a surprise critical and audience hit. It grossed about five times its budget. It was sweet, sad, funny and very very sexy. Especially the famous scene in which Lorna shows up in the guy's bedroom.

In nothing but her panties.

"We never did get to dance," she says.

The fully-clothed guy gets up and slowdances with her: peeling off her panties in the process.

Oh my god. The ensuing sixty-three seconds of film are among the most pirated, bare-ass only but head-to-toe nude scenes, ever to make the Internet.

So Lorna became almost famous. And she decided to use her near-fame to produce and write her next movie.

A studio head who shall remain nameless sent her to me: along with her god-awful attempt at a script.

Either the studio head was getting into her panties, or he desperately wanted to get into those pretty panties.

I lasted almost an hour before I stormed out, screaming.

I had just stormed out of my own house. I found myself shaking on the sidewalk between all of the expensive colored gravel that passed for my lawn.

I heard her come up behind me. I did not turn around.

"I'm sorry. I said some things..." she let out a deep breath.

I softened. "We both said some things."

Then she surprised me by wrapping her arms around my waist.

"I wish we could just start over."

I turned around. I put my arms around her waist. Lorna gave me a look. My hands dropped to her ass. As I lifted her body up, she wrapped her legs around me.

I carried her back through the open door, and on into my bedroom.

And so began not only our relationship, but the very core of our relationship: angry words and furniture-toppling fights, followed by the type of sex that had hitherto only been found in XXX-rated pornographic fantasies.

Our breakup was just as spectacular. The Guardian stated that it was "the kind of Richter scale breakup befitting that kind of Hollywood couple."

It was even on Apple News, but I refuse to pay for news on my phone as a matter of principle. Yes, I'm still cheap in many ways.

How bad was it? Speaking of Eddie Murphy, do you remember the scene in 'Beverly Hills Cop' in which he crashes the country club restaurant?

Our breakup was worse than that.

The restaurant threatened to sue both of us. All I know is, it was settled out of court.

So.

I looked at the website: on my phone, as instructed. Background was all old paintings of nude women, especially nude women in the company of clothed men. Then, in ornate white lettering were the words that I copied to begin my story.

The website did disappear, hours later.

So I waited.

A week went by; then over a week.

I laughed it off. I moved the Society to the back of my mind.

Until that night...

* * * * * *

I was screening the latest, unreleased flick from a director whom I really admired. He had heard about my reputation as 'The Screen Doctor,' and he had an idea that was literally scribbled out on a napkin that he wanted me to turn into a script.

For once, I would actually receive full screenwriting credit. I had been nominated for an Oscar once, but I shared the credit with five other hacks. Oops--I meant five other screen doctors.

I was just getting to a big, emotional scene--and then my iPhone made a noise like an old-fashioned doorbell. Yes: it actually went "Ding-Dong!"

I paused the film, grabbed my phone and stared. The screen remained black despite the presence of my wonderful face.

Then: the same ornate white lettering that I had seen on the Society's website appeared:

"Someone is at your door," it said.

I kept staring. The white words disappeared and my phone returned to normal.

Fumbling, I opened my security app. A very pretty, very smiley female face appeared. She smiled even more. She waved at me.

There was someone standing at my door, and my fabulously expensive security system had not detected her.

"Shit," I said, quite sincerely. What in holy hell was going on?

I strode to the door, holding my phone in front of me as I continued to stare at that pretty face. She looked to be a young woman in her mid-twenties; from what I could see, she had long, straight dark hair, and dark eyes.

And she happened to be standing exactly in the place at which all I could see of her was her pretty face.

I hesitated at the door. Then I thought: really? This was unlikely to be some elaborate scheme to stage a break-in.

I still somewhat hesitantly opened the door.

"Hello," she said. "It does get quite cold rather quickly in the desert. I was hoping you would invite me in."

I was actually tongue-tied. When I found my voice:

"Yes. It must be especially cold, considering that you're not wearing a thing."

She nodded. "You are very perceptive in noticing that I'm nude, but you still haven't invited me in."

I licked my lips. I opened the door wide and made some magnanimous gesture. I took in her body from all sides as she walked past me. Her stride was so confident, as if her nakedness was simply her uniform.

I closed the door slowly. I absurdly felt like a character in Bram Stoker's 'Dracula:' once you invite the vampire in, you can never get rid of him.

But this was no vampire. She was definitely warm and living flesh and blood. A lot of flesh, for sure.

She was looking around, happy and nodding.

"To finally see this place; I like it! I like all of the earth tones--the browns and the grays--but nothing is really rock-hard. It all gives the impression of inviting softness that you just want to sink into."

What could I say except:

"Thank you!"

What I wanted to say was: I had never had a beautiful naked girl evaluate my choice in interior design before.

And she was beautiful.

She stood there with her hands behind her back. Her eyes were darting around the room but they kept returning to me. She knew that I was now evaluating her own exterior design--and she was fine with it.

My first impression was that she was like a younger version of Meghan Markle: such a lovely face with such piercing dark eyes; with long straight black hair down to her shoulder blades.

Like Meghan, she only had the most graceful curves on top: just enough roundness to each breast to display each as perfect circles. Her nipples were poky buttons of a light coral pink; her areolae were slightly darker ovals perhaps between nickel and quarter-sized.

Her tummy was somehow both flat and firm but also gently rounded. Like Meghan, the curves of her body flared out more boldly below her waist. Her wide hips, her round buttocks and her strong upper thighs announced that this was a deceptively soft-looking body that Nature had designed for some hard-bodied love.

This was a woman primed and ready to procreate--and it didn't take a prince to see that.

Her pubic mound was clearly defined and prominent. Most notable was her choice to allow her pubic hair to grow out--un-trimmed as far as area, but carefully cut so that not one curly black hair was longer than half an inch.

I liked that look.

Her outer labia were firmly pressed together, so that all I could see from my angle was a dark crevice. Did things open up further down? It was difficult to tell with all of that hair.

Her legs were nicely sculpted; firm, but not overly muscled. I had to supress a sigh of utmost appreciation--the Society had done their homework--this woman could have been expressly made just for me.

"Is your evaluation over?" Her whole face was smiling, dark eyes twinkling. "Should I turn around, or did you see enough when I walked in?"

I shook my head. "You are... wonderful." I knew better than to apologize for my obvious, in-depth eyeing of her totally naked form--it was something that she had been expecting.

She kept giving me a wry, knowing smile. It was as if she was all in on a big secret--and I was an unknowing fool.

Very close to the truth.

"I am so rude! Here I am: having invited myself into your home, so underdressed, and still I haven't made the proper introduction."

She extended her right hand.

"I'm Cassie."

I walked up to her. Only two steps, and yet my gaze kept taking her more and more in.

"Jeffrey," I replied. Her hand was soft and warm, her grip firm.

Try as I might to only stare into those dark brown eyes, my eyes kept flicking downward: to her breasts; to her belly; to her bush.

"It's quite alright Jeffrey. I am nude for you, and I shall remain nude for you and only you, until my nude companionship is no longer needed."

Cassie looked around. "May I be so bold as to ask that you show me around; the grand tour, so to speak?"

"Of course."

Now there was a bit of awkwardness. I did not want her to follow me. I selfishly wanted this naked beauty constantly in my sight. Cassie solved the issue by reaching out again.

I took her hand.

"There's a step down here."

"I'll have to get used to that."

"The kitchen: opening into the sunroom and then... the sliders to the lanai."

Cassie opened the slider. Quite the bold little lady, she was already assuming that this was practically her place; that she was going to be invited to stay.

"It is cold out here: but private," she observed. "Pretty." She looked at the view of the stark and looming desert hills. "The pool is heated?"

"It is."

"Then... I'm hoping that we will both be able to enjoy it at night; both... equally underdressed."

She closed the door and took my hand again. Back in the living room...

"Is Cassie your given name, or your companion name?"

Her brows went up.

"You ARE perceptive! Yes: we select a name to use; not only a name but, a role of sorts that we must play."

I had to shake my head. "I know nothing about you, and yet I'm expected to just welcome you; into my home, into my bed."

Cassie shrugged. "What can I tell you..."

We stopped back in the living room. She was staring at the frame still frozen on my big screen.

"John-Phillipe? But I don't recognize this movie..."

It was my turn to stare. "How could you know that? This movie is barely in its final edit!"

"I know he's one of your favorite directors. And I recognize the style."

"Still: how??"

"I spent the last seven days and eight nights totally nude at a very classy clothing-optional inn not far away. I was working on losing my tan lines--which I know you don't like. And I was getting used to being constantly naked again. But mostly I was absorbing you."

I tried to keep from shaking my head lest it look as though it was on a swivel.

We were still holding hands. It was beyond surreal: holding hands with this naked beauty.

I knew I was being pulled into this... fantasy made reality. I also knew that I was loving it.

"Explain."

Cassie pursed her lips. "I spent hours each day, putting myself in a kind of meditative daze. I watched images of you, videos, and snippets of every word you every wrote--in addition to every word written about you.

"It's a method designed by the Society. And they tell me I'm one of their best absorbers."

I narrowed my eyes. "My favorite authors?"

"You talk about Updike and Roth, but in reality you consider them overrated bores. You prefer science fiction, fantasy and horror. Your favorites in each genre: Philip Jose Farmer, Tolkein, and Stephen King--until he fucked up his Dark Tower series by writing himself in."

I hoped that my jaw didn't quite hit the floor. "You can't know that! Have you... have they... been going after my friends?!"

Cassie gripped my hand tighter. "No, Jeffrey. We wouldn't do that. Nude companionship... this is all very private! There is just so much about our lives out there, you would not believe it."

I swallowed and nodded.

She smiled and leaned into me. "The rest of our tour?"

She was irresistible.

"One step up."

I led her down the hallway. "Master... no, it's Primary now. Primary bedroom on the left, guest room on the right. Back room is my... necropolis of dead scripts. Just towering piles of paper."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Cassie let go of my hand.

I watched her squat as she opened each bedroom closet. I loved the line of her spine. That line seemed to disappear; dissolve into soft flesh: then that line erupted again, as the crease between her firm round buttocks.

I could not wait to use my fingers, my lips, my tongue, to explore and to commit to memory: every line, every curve of her.

"Sorry my closets are so messy."

Cassie stood up and grinned. "I like messy!"

I suddenly got it.

"You're looking for places to hide."

She shrugged her soft shoulders. "You are still allowed to have parties... visitors."

"And... if I have a special visitor? In my bed?"

Cassie walked up to me. She put her arms around my waist. "If she becomes special to you, then I must depart. Your nude companion is... I am... there only when you need me. I am only supposed to be your supportive, guiding light, pointing you in the right direction--but I am not to become your final destination."

I put my arms around her waist, gently rubbing her back.

"But... what if we fall in love?"

Cassie snuggled into me, her head on my chest. "Oh my dear: that's not supposed to happen!"

"But if it does?" I persisted.

Her voice was muffled. "Then... it is like the end of 'The Bishop's Wife,' when Dudley realizes he's falling in love."

"I shall ask to be assigned to the other end of the Universe," I quoted.

Cassie looked up. "You watch that movie every Christmas season."

I laughed. "It's the nearest I get to having a religious experience."

She didn't stop looking at me with those deep brown eyes. I kissed her--and she kissed me back.

"Your bedroom, or..."

My now classic headshake.

"You're not gonna get away with not telling me at least something about you by distracting me." I looked her up and down--head to toes and then slowly all the way back up--toes to head. "Although you are very distracting when you're... underdressed!"

Cassie let out a deep breath. "You have such a nice, big, soft couch."