a primitive Saturday morning (complete; rated R)

[franksolich]

Note: this is dedicated to all the primitives who hang around in the Lounge on Skins‘s island, with the hope it serves as an inspiration for them to discuss sex; as we all know, the subject‘s been taboo there for far too long, and it‘s high time for the strait-laced prudish repressed primitives to get liberated, as they make even Sunday-school superintendents look absolutely bacchanalian.

In fact, Skins should probably install a new forum, dedicated strictly to sex; it’d beat the cooking and baking forum by a mile.

There are no dirty words in this piece, and euphemisms are broadly used.

As usual, this is a work of fiction, but all fictitious characters and all fictitious events are based upon people and experiences from real life, although not necessarily in the same order and the same place as the story.

- - - - - - - - - -

I got up circa 5:00 a.m. Saturday morning, as I wanted to check on the weather.  The day before, Independence Day, had been hot and humid, but rain had been forecast.  I started the coffee brewing, but rather than waiting for it to get done, walked out to the back porch to survey the land and have a cigarette.

When leaning over the porch railing, looking at the flowers below, I noticed a recently-created prairie dog hole.  Wanting to do something about it, I put one leg up on the railing, and bracing myself against a post, directed a steady stream into the hole.

My aim was good, but no prairie dog ever came out.

When I turned, I noticed movement at the other end of the porch.  There is a table and chairs and potted plants in between where I was, and that end of the porch, which obscured whatever it was that was moving, but it was apparent I was being watched by someone, or some thing.

- - - - - - - - - -

Oh my.

It was a blonde woman in a sleeping bag, laying on her side, one elbow on the floor of the porch, and she was, uh, to put it mildly, rather massive.  Her bare upper-chest parts looked like those big elongated watermelons, and when she occasionally turned to lay on her back, one flopped east and the other flopped west.

She also had one of those potato-sized protuberances on the end of her chin.

Her bottom half was covered, but it was pretty obvious she had nothing on, although I’m sure her stomach, sticking out and sagging down as if an apron, would’ve more than adequately shielded her womanhood.

- - - - - - - - - -

“You know, even without knowing anything about you,” she said, “you’ve got to be one of the most poised, assertive people I’ve ever seen, the way you so nonchalantly stride around as if nothing’s amiss.

“Why do you sleep in the nude?” she asked.

“It saves wear and tear on the underwear,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

Now, the blonde behemoth, laying there half inside a double sleeping-bag, was a primitive, and so I felt no qualms about showing myself.  At any rate, she probably wasn’t seeing anything she hadn’t already seen hundreds of times before.

Half-sitting on the railing and facing her, I asked, “Okay, who are you?  And given that there’s three double sleeping-bags and all these clothes strewn around, there’s more of you.  Who are you, and where are they at?”

“Don’t you remember?” she replied; “we were at your cook-out yesterday.”

Ah yes, I suddenly remembered.  The property caretaker had sponsored a 4th of July cookout here--I simply provided the facilities--for about two dozen of his friends.  Sometime during the course of the afternoon, six strangers came here, their van bearing license-plates from Illinois and a faded OBAMA/BIDEN bumper-sticker, and as they weren’t doing anything in particular and as there was more than enough food and goodwill, they were invited to stay.

They’d first approached me, but because I don’t like dealing with strangers because my deafness makes them too difficult for me to understand, I’d steered them over to talk with the property caretaker, letting him do all the listening-and-talking for me, after which he’d later tell me what was up.

I recalled there’d been six of them, but nothing else, just the usual standard ordinary mundane run-of-the-mill primitives, nothing special.

Having disposed of them, I’d forgotten all about them.  They came to town with us to watch the fireworks, and apparently after that had followed me back here, although I hadn’t noticed.  The caretaker had told them it was okay to camp here over the night, and suggested the back porch rather than down by the river, because some rain was expected and they didn’t have tents.

- - - - - - - - - -

She said they were “naturalists,” who when traveling around looked for isolated secluded places where they could “be themselves.”

“We asked the guy who gave us permission if you were open-minded, and he said you were more open than a busted down barn door, but we didn’t know exactly what he meant.  There’s lots of people who are really uptight about nudity and sex,” she said.

As if I didn’t already know, I replied; “You should see the sexually ‘liberated’ primitives on Skins’s island; they’re real uptight about it, and never talk about it at all.  No way.

“They’re just old sour-assed pickle-faced prudes, the primitives.

“And no,” I continued; “I’m not a ‘naturalist.‘  You just caught me at a bad time, early in the morning, when nobody‘s around, and one doesn‘t have to hurry and get decent for the day yet.

“And since you and yours are though, I suppose I still have some time to soak in the sun and air before getting suitably attired,” I added, unselfconsciously fingering and scratching my groin.

“Well, I always liked that in a man,” she said, “confidence, audacity…..and cool calm fearlessness.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Sensing the coffee was done brewing, I went inside to fill two cups and a carafe.  Bringing them out, I momentarily considered how to serve it, the reasonable place being on the table, of course.

However, the blonde behemoth was still laying half inside the sleeping bags, never having made any move to get up.  It seemed to me that given her sheer bulk, she was unable to get up on her feet on her own; that someone else probably had to help her.

Well, in getting up, she’d expose her whole self, and I didn’t want to bother seeing that.

So I put her cup of coffee on the floor of the porch, next to her, and resumed my place at the porch railing with my cup of coffee and cigarette.

As she idly stirred sugar into her cup of coffee, she commented, “You know, there’s six of us, from different backgrounds and places, with different skills, making us an interesting combination.  One of us, a cosmetologist, is schooled in the Ferian branch of ’wicca,’ which instructs in fuller sexual awareness and experience.

“We do some really interesting things--sometimes two guys on one girl, or two girls on one guy, or two girls together, or two guys together, or three guys on one girl, or three girls on one guy, or three guys together, or three girls together; it blows the mind.

“And we play all sorts of games.”

She looked up at me hopefully.  “I’ll bet a seventh would make it even more fun.”

Uh, no, I said; “that’s not my thing.  My thing is strictly one woman and myself.

“And no toys, no gadgets, no role-playing, no lingerie or other costume, no artificial means of stimulation; just plain old in-and-out, in-and-out, until one‘s drained.”

- - - - - - - - - -

It was starting to drizzle, and about this time I noticed someone walking our way, unsteady on the feet, from the river.  I went back into the kitchen to get more cups and coffee, bringing them out on a large tray.

It was a stocky, porcine-faced guy, who announced the swimming had been good.

One couldn’t help noticing--really, one couldn’t avoid it--that he was hung like a horse.  That’s the way it’s always been, I thought to myself; back in high school so many years ago, it was always the big dumb brutes and oafs, the ones who’d been held back a year, who had the monster ones. 

Or help noticing that he was stoned; apparently they were doing dope down over there.

He scanned me too, and apparently finding nothing offensive, introduced himself, commenting that this was a great place to hang out; “as a place to be, this beats any of those beaches on the coasts.”

I thanked him, but pointed out that this then-current use of the place was an anomaly, the property has other purposes, and that it was actually pretty rare that anyone ran around in the altogether, “and that only when swimming.”

He expressed surprise.  “Here?  In fundieland?  People actually swim in the buff?  In fundieland?  I thought maybe everybody wore neck-to-ankle swimwear because anything less’d be immodest, immoral.”

I sneered.  “Actually, around here, swimming trunks, like bathrobes and pajamas, are only for wimps and fairies; real men don’t need them.”

Still feeling sarcastic, I whispered, “shhhh, don’t let it become common knowledge, but when it’s really hot and humid here, some of us don’t even wear underwear, just our outer shirt if we’re wearing one, and shorts.

“And we make babies, too, lots of them.”

The revelation seemed to stun him; the guy had no idea what we’re like in deep-red Nebraska.

But being stoned, he took my sarcasm with good cheer, assuring me, “hey, that’s cool; you’re an all-right guy.”  Then he went over to sit down by the blonde behemoth, where they kissed and cuddled and smoked a couple of joints, once in a while looking up at me, as if still trying to appraise me.

- - - - - - - - - -

I was standing at the porch railing, smoking cigarettes and watching, but as their caresses and pawings got more and more intense, I grew uncomfortable, and walked over to the other end of the porch, looking out to the river.

I silently debated whether or not to get dressed and start the daily routine, but it was still pretty early yet; nobody was likely to be around for at least a couple more hours, and it might discombobulate my guests, having a clothed host.

If nothing else, I’m a nice guy, considerate of the sensibilities of others.

As I watched, I saw two people walking up from the river; a tall thin male and a shorter svelte woman with long brown hair.  Even from a distance, one could tell they were stoned.  In fact, one could almost smell it.

The guy had pointed ears and a pointed goatee, and extended a half-used joint to me as he came up the steps.  I demurred, pointing out that I already had a regular cigarette.  And I regained my confidence upon seeing that I had at least him beat, in a certain department.

“Man oh man, do you have a great place here, or what?” the goateed one enthused; “the seclusion, the privacy, the wide-openness of it.

“It’d make a great nudist resort,” he insisted, “better than anything I‘ve ever seen, and I‘ve seen lots.  This is so cool, and you’re so lucky you can let it all hang out, and nobody to say ‘no.‘”

Yeah, I suppose I am lucky, I said; “it’s so easy to be one’s real self out here.”

“You could really rock-and-roll in the raw out here,” he continued.

“This place really rocks,” he repeated himself.

“Convention and morality suck; let’s have fun.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Fearing there was a proposition in the making, I turned my attention over to the woman, who was reasonably aesthetic, especially her two properly-proportioned uppers, but whose female lower front was shaved bare. 

She seemed to radiate a certain aura of sultry possessiveness, which made me uneasy, as I had no idea what she’d want.  Whatever she wanted, she was going to get, and I hoped I wasn’t part of it.

She kept gazing at me as she sipped her coffee, increasing my unease.

Finally, she said, “You know, you look pretty good, but I bet you’d look better if you were shaved.  No matter how otherwise good one looks, hair around a dick sucks.”

No way, I said, covering a certain surface with my two hands in mock horror, thinking she was joking; “the hair’s a natural part of me, and no razor’s coming anywhere near this.”

She made it clear she wasn’t joking.

“Look,” I said, lightly brushing her grapefruit-sized two upper half-spheres with my finger-tips, “when one sees these, it’s a turn-on, they’re so nice and right-sized and firm, a woman‘s body.

“But then when he looks to where he’s supposed to go, and sees, well, sees this--don’t get me wrong, whatever pushes your buttons, rocks your chair, rows your boat, but for me, it’s a turn-off.

“Women have hair there, a wholly natural and reasonably-expected phenomenon.  You’re a woman, and a good-looking one, too; you’re not a girl.”

She flounced off, insulted.  I wasn’t likely to get along with her.

- - - - - - - - - -

As I turned back to the goateed one, I saw the last of the six guests walking up to the house; another guy, another woman, the woman considerably older than the guy.  Glazed in the eyes, they were just as stoned as all the others.

It was obvious what the guy, a thin red-head with freckles, was, but upon inspection, I realized that being a distant second out of four in a certain department wasn’t so bad, and relaxed.

Twinkletoes got really close to me, assuming that I was a willing participant in whatever everybody planned to do, or hoped to do.  Despite my wariness, he managed to grab at least a tenuous grip on a part of my rear anatomy, suggesting we “go for a walk, somewhere private, where we can, you know, do some things.”

I pulled away, pointing out that as host, I had to stay where the action was.  And to show my contempt for his trying to be familiar with me, I slapped his grasping hand.  “I’m not for feeling,” I said; “in my relationships, I do the seducing.”

Which was the opposite of what’s true, which as the femme and so many others of her race know, but he didn’t count anyway.

- - - - - - - - - -

The woman with Twinkletoes, the final one of the six, was the witch-looking hair-dresser, who stopped and studied me up-and-down for the longest time.  Normally, that would make one nervous, being sized up so intimately, but these were primitives, and a special sort of primitive who’d seen everything, so I was rather casual and nonchalant about it; she could look at me as long as she wanted for all I cared, because while she looked, she wasn‘t going to be able to touch. 

She told me her name was “Velma,” as if it was something I needed to know.  She was probably still only in her forties, but having spent far too much time out in the sun, she’d tanned herself into a sort of leathery flaccidity; everything on her sagged.  Her breasts looked like deflated balloons.

“Oh, you’d be wonderful if you were painted,” she gushed; “your body offers all sorts of clean, flat spaces for artistic expression--a life-sized face of Obama on your chest, for example, or Michelle on your buttocks--you have a really nice ass--or lightning and thunder emanating from down there, your eyes and nipples circled with all the colors of the rainbow, multi-hued horns painted on your forehead, those sorts of things--

“--and I have my set of body paints right here. 

“I could make a work of art out of your body.”

I grimaced.  That was not going to happen, although I wasn‘t quite sure how I‘d prevent it.

- - - - - - - - - -

The blonde behemoth announced she needed to empty the bladder, and sought help in getting up.  The horse-hung guy and two of the others helped pull her up into a standing position, but as I didn’t want to see, I didn’t even look.  As she was being raised, she spurted a flatulence so loud that even a deaf man could hear it, though.

After I assumed she’d disappeared into the kitchen, I turned around, almost knocking my nose into the nose of the shaved woman, who‘d come up behind my back.

“No, forget about painting him.  I think he’d look better if he were shaved,” she said.  “I found his razor in the bathroom; if he shaved off all that black curly hair, he’d look nice and clean and fresh.

“But never mind his razor, it’s not sharp enough and big enough.

“I have my own set here,” she said, opening up a leather case.

I recoiled in horror.  That was one nasty-looking cutting instrument.

“And I have shaving cream too,” she pointed out, showing a container of Edge “Sensitive Skin” and another container of Edge “Soothing Aloe.”

“I think he’d look really good, shaved,” she said with firm determination.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Without warning, I was knocked down into the chaise longue.

I may look firm and strong, but in reality, there’s serious problems with the internal infrastructure, and while it’s embarrassing to admit something, I probably should.  Even Omaha Steve on Skins’s island could make short work of franksolich, stomping me into a red spot in the ground.  It’s humiliating, being the only person the big guy in Bellevue could possibly beat up, but it explains why this was no contest.

Four against one; two of the guys grabbed each of my legs, to spread them and keep me from kicking.  The witch straddled my stomach, a leg on each side of the chaise longue, so as to keep me down.  Twinkletoes grabbed to hold steady the part to be shaved.

The shaved woman smeared the shaving gel on her hand, and began wiping it all over that particularly-sensitive part of my anatomy.  I twisted and squirmed, but there was no way I was going to get loose.

She’s obviously done this sort of thing before, I realized, so she knows what she’s doing--and if I struggled, she might slip and accidentally cut me.  And given what it was, I didn’t want it cut.

Since it was inevitable, I tried to relax, but then suddenly a new terror struck me; the sides of my head.  One of them might grab a side, or both sides, of my head.  Because of the way I wear my hair, they’d all been utterly ignorant of the absence of ears; they’d probably thought at times I was a little slow on things, but attributed it to cerebral cloggage, not to deafness.

If any of them, just as with any other adversary of mine, discovered I was deaf, my goose was cooked; they could do as they wished with me.  This illusion of my being able to hear had always been my strongest defense against those wanting to do me harm.

I yanked my arms up so as to shield the sides of my head, and stopped worrying about what was going on further down.

- - - - - - - - - -

Admittedly, she did know what she was doing.  It was quick work, and she was already toweling me down before I realized she’d finished the shaving part.  Not even a microscopic blood splotch.

But oh my, the damage that had been wrought.  I was as bare as I’d been the day I’d been born, all that wonderful thick luxuriant curly black hair shorn off.

She played with it for a while, so as to assure me my manhood was still intact, but hey, without hair, I myself wasn’t so sure.

- - - - - - - - - -

And then the pick-up truck of the property caretaker hove into view, down by the river, headed towards the house, at which everybody scrambled to get dressed.

Being worn out--not to mention overly vexed--I wasn’t as quick as the others, and was still laying in the chaise longue trying to catch my breath when I saw the caretaker standing over me.

“Dude, relax,” he said; “it’s not that bad.

“Of course you know the hair’ll all grow back.  But probably for the next few days, there might be some minor rashes and itching, in which case you could just press some corn starch on it to dry out the irritation.”

- - - - - - - - - -

the end; next up, BainsBane spends the night with franksolich, dedicated to dutch508