Fathers and Sons

I was talking with my friend Jonesy the other day when I couldn't help but ask him what was wrong. We were sitting at my tiki bar drinking Dr. Pepper on shaved ice with crushed cherries. The sun was hot. There was no breeze.

"Oh, I'm having trouble with my younger son." he answered. "He's having trouble dealing with my divorce and he absolutely hates that I live at a nudist resort." He stirred the ice with his finger. When he lifted the glass, the beaded moisture left a ring on the bar. I'd wipe it up later.

(Note to self: put the coasters on the tiki bar.)

"What's he been doing?" I asked.

He put the drink back down near the ring.

(Couldn't he at least hit the same spot each time?)

He gave me a wry smile, "Every time we talk he feels like he has to beat me up about living here. He won't give it a rest. He thinks it's wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies."

"I thought the orgy thing was a secret?" I feigned incredulity. "Have you told him that people around here look like people you meet anywhere?"

A nudist resort does not automatically attract beautiful, hard bodies. In fact, just the opposite is true. Most good looking young people enjoy the dress up, the clubs and the sexy flirtations. The people who come here skew older and, as an act of gross rationalization, claim complete body acceptance. This allows them to be over weight and out of shape - without embarrassment. In fact, most of the people here would not go to a clothed beach because of how bad they would look in a bathing suit.

"Yeah. But he doesn't believe me. I even snuck a picture of Adele." He pulled a photo out of his pocket. Adele was a very sweet but large lady of our mutual acquaintance. Picture taking at the resort was mostly forbidden. We also knew that Adele was a free spirit and that she wouldn't mind.

He handed it over to me and said, "I was going to send it to him with the caption:

.............................See Son, It's not all about sex!

I glanced at it and handed it back to him. "Cute." I said. "Adele's husband, Roy, might object."

Jonesy took the photo back and looked at it again. "Oh, wait! This is Roy!" He tucked the photo away then picked up his glass and sloshed a little as he turned on his stool.

(Oh, look! You missed a spot.)

I changed the subject and asked, "What's your son do?"

"Besides bitch at me like we're married?"

"That's rhetorical, right?" I always have to check after that incident with the traffic cop.

He nodded, then said. "He's a teacher in Ohio."

"Oh!" I answered, trying to sound impressed. "He must be real bright."

"He is. if you're impressed with night lights. He was recently turned down by Mensa Lite. He spelled his name wrong on the application. I asked him how that could happen and he claimed it was a union thing. The teacher's union is very strong in Ohio."

I never know when Jonesy is messing with me. "What's Mensa Lite?" I prodded.

"Mensa Lite is for pseudo-intellectuals. People who talk about their degrees rather than their accomplishments. People who talk about the book reviews they read, rather than the books they have read. People who think Al Gore is an intellectual."

"So, why're you so down on him?" I wondered.

"Maybe it's because he won't let up on me. Maybe it's because when his mom left me he never once asked me what had happened or even how I was doing." He paused and picked a piece of cherry out of his drink, dripping across the bar and onto the deck.

Then he seemed to rouse himself, remembering that he was supposed to be making a joke or something. That was Jonesy's coping mechanism. Mine was wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies.

"You know," he said, "I remember the night he was conceived and, I gotta tell you, the sex wasn't that great."

There's the old Jonesy I know!

He sat a little straighter in his chair and I could see the gleam in his eye. He was getting ready to be on a roll. I picked up my drink and sloshed a little on the bar by way of encouragement.

"I kid around about his mother being unfaithful but I am almost 100% certain I am his father."

"How so?" I played the straight man.

"When he was born he had my last name." I smiled and he continued, "Did I ever tell you why we named him P.J.?"

"Uh, uh."

"Because his mother had called dibs on B.J."

"Cute." I said. I began to fondly remember Jonesy's ex-wife but he wasn't done yet.

"Isn't it ironic," he asked, "that being an actual bastard is passed on through the mother?"

I had to laugh.

"And why isn't there a specific name for illegitimate females? I think bitch would have been a great choice. But it was already handily taken by adult women." Jonesy has been a little bitter since the break up.

I sucked on some ice, tasting the cherry juice.

"I am wondering one thing, though."

"What's that?" I mumbled through the ice.

"Even though I am as certain as a guy can be that his sons are legitimate, does my recent divorce make them Bastards by Proxy?"

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The Stripper and the Toilet Bowl

Even though The Resort provides most of my basic needs, I do occasionally go off campus. This is the story of one of the silliest reasons to leave a nudist resort.

It was a rainy afternoon, late in May. The temperature was in the upper fifties. Few, if any, people were naked. Note: I did not say nude. If you are outdoors in any temperature under 60 degrees, you are no longer nude. You are naked. That is why most strip clubs advertise LIVE/NUDE/DANCERS. Most of the clubs are air conditioned to around 70 degrees. (Although a lot of those chicks look naked.)

So, my friend Bill and I were sitting on his deck, under the roll down awning, huddled around a couple of warm beers, when he gets the bright idea to go to a local strip club.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You want to leave a nudist resort where we can see naked people for free and go to a club where we have to pay a cover charge to watch some girls slowly take their clothes off, down to a G-string?"

"Yeah," he replied. "and they have 25 cent wings."

The ride over in the car was uneventful.

When we got there the parking lot was 3/4 empty. There was a light drizzle and the temperature had fallen a couple of more degrees. Even cold beer and hot wings could not convince most of the local men to come out to support the LIVE/NUDE/DANCERS. My guess is that, on a day like this, most of the wives knew where their husbands were.

Looking at the sign out front reminded me of the signs outside of a lot of country stores: LIVE BAIT. I always thought it would be funny to add NUDE to the sign so that it would read LIVE/NUDE/BAIT. I mean, it would be technically accurate, might bring in a few looky-loo's, and a lot of fishing is done over 60 degrees.

It was dark inside the club and we had to wait for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. While this process occurred the door-man/bouncer took one of my ten's for a five dollar cover charge. Once I was able to see again, the money was in his pocket and I wasn't sure what had just happened.

There was a long horseshoe bar taking up most of the main room with a raised stage behind the bar. On the far, fourth wall was a mirror and several dancing poles. A Gloria Gaynor song was on the sound system and a long-haired brunette, with snow white skin, a gold G-string and matching f**k-me shoes was just finishing up the set. While I was wondering what they clean that pole with, Bill was looking for the wings.

We sat at a little round table, got a couple of cold ones, a basket of hot wings, a pile of napkins and paid our three drink minimum. It was quiet-ish in the club. Bill and I were part of about ten patrons. The bouncer, the topless bartender, the pale girl in the f**k-me shoes and two other dancers rounded out the group. Eventually the pale girl wandered over to our table.

Most of the girls that work in these places have several jobs. Besides dancing, they would hustle drinks, and look for daddys for their infant to ten year old children. So they would spend most of their non-dancing time stroking male ego's and whatever else they could get away with.

Being a people watcher, I am always amused at the process. At first, she checked us out from a distance. Trying to establish our creepiness factor. When she could not spot our chainsaws or duct-tape she strolled over on her 8 inch spiked heels.

I love high heel shoes on women. They tighten the calf muscle, firm up the ass, show off the toes, give a girl some sexy attitude when she walks and, basically, tells her man that she is trying. (Unlike a lot of the flip-flop queens I know.) But there is, like anything else, a point where you can go too far. A point where balance and moving forward in a straight line may be mutually exclusive ideas. This girl looked like she was dumber than her shoes.

It turns out that she was.

It really is a male ego booster to be eating wings, sipping cold beer, and have a beautiful, nearly naked woman chatting him up. And I'm sure it was hot for her, as well. Two scruffy guys, in jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, our chins and mustaches speckled with bar-b-que sauce, tiny pieces of chicken stuck between our teeth while we leered at her weak attempt at conversation.

"Where are you boys from?" she asked.

"We've escaped from a local nudist resort." I quipped. Trying to make it sound like a joke.

Her face clouded over and her eyes went a little more blank for a few seconds before she decided it was time to laugh. She laughed like a donkey caught in quicksand. It was real attractive. So far were were impressing the hell out of each other.

Bill complimented her on her dancing and asked if he could tuck some money in her G-string. "As long as it ain't change." she replied. I've never known if she was kidding or not. But I figured it was my turn to laugh. When the hilarity of that moment finally died down we all decided to share one of those awkward silences. That gave me time to eat another wing - and do my taxes.

Eventually I tried a different tack. "What's your name, pretty lady?" I asked her.

Suddenly her face lit up and she started talking real fast. "That is so amazing that you would ask that!" she gushed. "I just picked my new name this week! I've only been doin' this job for about six months and I figured I needed a stage name. Kind of a nom-de-plumb. You know?"

"I think I do." I replied truthfully.

"So anyway," she went on, "I wanted to pick something real classy... but pretty, too. I thought of Savannah, and Rochelle, and Sin-amine. But the girls here already had those names. You know?"

"I think I do." I answered again.

Then she just stood there lost in thought. You could see her eyes moving as she was remembering the process she must have followed to arrive at her new name. At one point she smiled. Finally she said, "And that's pretty much how I came up with it."

"With what?" Bill asked.

Her lower lip turned into a pout and her face clouded over again. "Well, my name, silly!"

You didn't tell us what it is, yet." Bill ventured.

"Oh. Well, like I was just sayin', I wanted something real classy, real sexy, and a different name than the other girls here. I just hope if I work somewhere else someone won't have it there. But it'll be mine first, seein's as how I picked it out here and all before I ever even met them. So they can just change their name. You know?"

"From what?" Bill tried again.

She gave him another really annoyed look and turned to see what I thought of her new name. "Say it one more time." I said. "I love the way your lips move when you say it." It was like pushing a chain, I thought.

I could see her rolling the name around in her mouth, pre-thinking how her lips would move when she said it. Finally, she threw her shoulders back, thrusting her perky nipples into our personal space and said with deep pride, "Porcelain!"

I gave Bill a look that said I would take this one.

"That's a coincidence!" I enthused. "My name is John!"

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