quizzical pussy

I was up way too late, but the Sci Fi convention I was attending had negotiated extended pool hours with the hotel. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I had to check out the hot tub.

I like cons. They’re silly and exuberant and many of my nerdy friends are there. But there are also all these… other people around. Some of them are the “friends you haven’t met” kind of strangers, indubitably, but there are also the “that guy that talks like a robot just farted on me in the elevator” kind. So conventions are admittedly a mixed bag.

Another thing about geeks: they’re often (not all of them, mind, but probably more than average) starved for attention, kinky, and accepting of the social quirks of others. I love this about them, but it puts a little extra pressure on me to be tolerant of quirks I don’t enjoy.

Take, for instance, bad breath. I have nothing against you if you have bad breath. I think you’re, like, fearfully and wonderfully made and stuff, and I’m sure your gorgon breath has nothing to do with dental hygiene and everything to do with a medical condition you can’t control. I’m not saying it’s your fault or that it reflects on you as a person (although I am totally judging you) but I’m still going to want a significant space between your face and mine. I would like you to stay outside the breath bubble, had I my druthers.

…And that’s just one example. But it often comes back to the personal space thing.

But I was talking about general acceptance before I was talking about my raging olfactory hatemongering. Acceptance is good. It’s freeing. Watching some of these people, it’s like a metric ton of societal pressures have been lifted off their shoulders for one weekend and they tool around frenetically, being who they wish they could be every day, in a gentler world.

This is all just a very round about way to say that as I entered the pool enclosure, 90% of the people there were stark naked.

Fandom is populated with some legitimately hot people and a host of other people that aren’t… I mean, that are more… well, people I’m sure are beautiful on the inside. I’m speaking for me here, since everyone finds different things attractive, but I’m going out on a limb and saying that there were three naked people tops at that highly attended pool party who would be considered above-average looks-wise.

Yeah, it’s shitty that my brain made evaluations about which naked people were pretty and which weren’t. They were just hanging out (ha) and not necessarily asking to be stared at and graded by shallow sex bloggers. But guess what? I’m human and I’m anonymously honest on the internet, and my brain probably didn’t do anything yours wouldn’t have. So there.

I wasn’t actually there to gawk at naked or to be naked. I was there to relax a bit in the hot tub before bed. If I flirted with some hot people (naked or clothed) so be it! But personally I’m a little naked shy, so I stripped down to my bra and knickers and grinned at my own cleverness having selected dark colored undies that day.

The sunken hot tub was crowded, but I found some space next to my (betrunked, if you’re curious) friend Crispin Hijanx. We chilled out and maxed, relaxing all cool, trying not to stare directly at anyone’s fun bits. It was all of two minutes before a naked (not ugly, if you’re curious) guy I’d never seen before came up and started small-talking me. I made some fairly bland, exhausted answers, failing in my attempts to not watch a curvy girl with an awesome ass ascend the hot tub stairs and dive into the nearby pool. When she was safely submerged, I turned back to my nameless naked companion.

“So,” he said, now that he had my attention, “you’re not going topless?”

I looked down at my bra “No. No, I guess I’m not.” Actually none of the women there were topless. They were naked or suited. But I guess Nameless Naked Dude thought boobs would be a good start.

“Why not?” Hmmmm. I’d never had a stranger ask me why I wasn’t showing him my tits before. His tone creeped me out: like he wasn’t mad, just disappointed. Like I was cheating him out of something. I suddenly felt oddly exposed. With all the flesh in that room he was feeling petulant that my breasts (probably the smallest pair in the room, even) were going to remain a mystery.

The cute thing about carefree light-hearted nudity is that no one makes that a big deal of it and no one solicits it. Everyone’s enjoying it, sure. That’s natural. But I don’t think that a hot tub needs an Ambassador of Naked. I didn’t have to flash Crispin the “save me” eyes or anything, but the whole exchange did convince me that the best way to get me to keep clothes on is to creepily request that I remove them. Maybe that was Nameless Naked Dude’s cunning plan all along: to keep me covered and hasten my departure. If so, his naked fu is very good.

Reginald Sleeth and I sat in his Pontiac, dully admitting our powerlessness against traffic. It wasn’t rush hour; just L.A. The ribbon of cars in front of us was inexorable, unmoving.

The evening before the roads had been open enough that we could flout the speed limit as the good Chief intended. We were young and stupid enough that we played all these risky sex games while driving: let’s see how many times you can get me off between the restaurant and movie theater; how fast can you go without getting us killed while I give you a handjob? I’m not sure if it was that teenage myth of immortality or the teenage reality of barely caring if we died.

That night, Reginald had been at the wheel and somehow me taking my top off came up. I think I said that I wasn’t too scared to, exactly, but I just didn’t really like the idea. I’m naked shy. (Yes, the crowing sex blogger is naked shy and has been for some time. But in all fairness, you’re not reading the intrepid pussy blog, so if you’re disappointed you have only yourself to blame.) I don’t remember if he dared me or commanded, but somehow the conversation didn’t get much farther before I was down to my bra.

It was nearing twilight but not dark yet, and I knew any motorist who cared to look could see a swath of pale skin where all respectable people were keeping their shirts in those days. It wasn’t much worse than wearing a bikini top, of course, and those were practically de rigueur in the California sun, but this was psychologically different. Also, my bra was a very sheer orange mesh, and the nipples underneath it blushed and reared, making a living, lurid, double sunrise diorama on my chest– orange and pink, effulgent to me in its blistering horror. But at least the bra wasn’t off. I still had something to hide behind.

“You’re not really topless,” Reginald observed.

“Errrmphlmsssht,” I groaned. I was as topless as I was comfortable with, but I had already committed halfway. Fuck it, right? I reached around behind my back and unfastened the single hook. I watched the tiny piece of cloth that protected me flutter to the floor mat.

Reginald’s speed slipped from 110 to 96 as his right hand strayed from its regular six o’clock position. Some guys like to roll nipples between their fingers, some like to pull, some like to brush them reverently with the backs of their hands, as if the pads are too common to provide the right type of touch. Oh, and there are others. There are countless others. But Reginald was all of those three, and he somehow managed to do all of them and not kill us. I squirmed, of course. Everything suddenly seemed thick, like how they used to photograph old film stars through gauze. Reginald, the dashboard, the road, all became remote as I felt the searing bliss/pain radiate outward from beneath his hand. I felt my eyes glaze over; I was no longer seeing anything. I often have orgasms just from having my breasts played with, but this one might’ve been just as much from all the eyes I didn’t want to be, and couldn’t even have seen, seeing me.

Nobody had been looking when just my shirt was off, but in between orgasms I thought I noticed drivers noticing my very bare and highly satisfied tits. But we passed them too quickly for me to be sure that it wasn’t just my paranoia, my arousal, my mid-climactic feeling that somehow the entire world was mine.

But now, the day after, we weren’t moving at all, and I wore a short little dress and big fuck-off boots, all very much still on. My bra and all that lurked beneath was safe.

We seldom ran short on conversation. Reginald loved to talk, and I loved to listen to him; I’d been infatuated with him since I was 15, and thought that everything he said was both marvelous and true. I was frequently wrong on both counts, but that’s all part of growing up more than it’s a part of this story. I got to talk too, though. Sometimes he’d ask me questions, although he often phrased them in the imperative.

“Tell me a fantasy,” he said as the car bumped forward briefly, like a sigh.

“I… I’ve always wondered about what it would be like to be with another girl,” I confessed shyly.

Stay tuned to The Pussy Philes to learn of Reginald Sleeth’s reaction to my earliest out-loud admission to same-sex attraction, which couldn’t possibly go wrong in this, an unhealthy relationship between two impossibly immature people. Could it?