tagHumor & SatireNude Day, Every Day Is Nude Day

Nude Day, Every Day Is Nude Day

bySuperHeroRalph©

This is a Nude Day contest story. Please vote.

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Locked away in an asylum since Nude Day, a man has a breakthrough.


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"Nude Day. Nude Day. Every day is Nude Day. Nude Day. Nude Day. Every day is Nude Day."

"Hi, I'm Doctor--"

"I know who you are," said the patient sitting on the couch in front of the doctor's chair and looking insanely angry. "Just because I'm crazy, I'm not stupid. I've seen you around. I can't help but see you around," he said spitting out the words with a shrug, before blurting out a loud laugh longer than necessary. "I live here," he said laughing again, only this time even more annoyingly louder.

"Tell me, Timmy," said the doctor. "May I call you Timmy?"

"Of course, that's my name, my name is Timothy, but I'd prefer Tim to Timmy, if you don't mind. Timmy sounds too much like the main character in an old Lassie episode."

"I see," said the doctor casting his eyes down to look over his notes. "It says here that you lived in Miami, after coming to the United States from Cuba."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I lived in South Beach, not Miami. You probably think I'm from Miami because I root for the Miami teams, the Heat and the Dolphins."

"Oh, to be honest, I didn't know anyone lived in South Beach. I thought it was, well...just a beach."

"Yeah, well, there is a community called South Beach, but I was homeless. I actually lived on South beach."

"I see," said the doctor. "And it says here that you're problems started on Nude Day over" withholding a laugh, but unable to hide his smile, the doctor had difficulty finishing his sentence "a woman?"

"Yes, it all started over Cinderella. She was my girlfriend and I loved her deeply. And she loved me, too. We were made for one another," said Tim looking at the doctor with a sad smile. "With her long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and perfectly sculpted body, she looked just like a real walking and talking Barbie doll."

"I see," said the doctor making eye contact. "Cinderella? That's an unusual name. Did you give that name to her or did she come here from China with that name?"

"China? How dare you? Cinderella was as American as I am or, well, as you are." Tim looked at the doctor with the look of a madman. "Don't pander me, Doctor. Sarcasm doesn't suit your professionalism nor does it put you in my good graces, especially when you besmirch the name of my woman."

"I'm sorry. I meant no offense," said the doctor hiding another laugh. "Tell me, Timmy, how long have you been here?"

"Tim."

"Pardon?"

"I'd rather you call me Tim than Timmy, if you don't mind."

"Sorry. Of course. How long have you been here, Tim?"

"You know how long I've been here, Doctor; it's in your report or is this just a test of my sanity."

"According to my records, you've been here for thirty years."

"Yes. That's correct."

The doctor looked intently at the man. Easily he was 60-years-old but, with his white hair, dark skin, and having the lean and wrinkled body of an old man, looking so much like how one would imagine Santiago to look in Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, he looked much older. Not appearing very healthy, the drabness of the hospital environment added to his unhealthy appearance.

"It says here that you write," said the doctor looking down to read from his notes.

"Yes."

"Fascinating," said the doctor looking up and over his glasses. "I would love to read some what you have written. What do you write?"

"Stories. I write stories," said Tim putting his head down, as if he was lost in thought and, perhaps, thinking about a story he had written, was writing, or was going to write.

"What kind of stories?"

"If you don't mind, doctor, I don't want to talk about my stories with you."

"Why not?"

"They're private," said Tim looking up at the doctor with a face full of defiance.

"Private?" The doctor looked around the room. "Tim, need I remind you that you're in a mental institution and nothing here is private, not even your bodily secretions," said the Doctor with smugness. "The only real privacy you have is what you say and do in this room during our session."

"Tell me about it," said Tim. "It's a sad day, when I can't even masturbate without the nurse coming by my room and telling me to stop that. How dare she? It's my body. I'm not a child."

"I see," said the doctor making a note before eying his patient with a long stare. "How often do you masturbate?"

"Every day, multiple times a day."

"What do you think about when masturbating?"

"What do I think about?" Giving the doctor a look, as if wanting to say, none of your business, the patient eyed the doctor, as if he were the madman. "I think about fucking your mother. Yeah, I think about stripping your mother naked, removing her bra and panties, and touching her in all the places you fantasize of touching her to make your Mommy groan."

"I see," said the doctor scribbling a note. "What else do you fantasize about, when masturbating?"

"With a hand to the back of her head, I think about your hot, blonde wife on her knees in front of me and in between my legs sucking my cock, while I hump her mouth and fuck her face. Then, just as I'm about to shoot my load, I think about cumming in your wife's mouth and her swallowing me."

"I see," said the doctor scribbling another note. "Is that all you think about when masturbating, my mother and my wife?"

"No, that's not all. I think about bending your daughter over, lifting up her skirt, pulling down her panties, and sticking my big, hard cock up your her round, soft ass and fucking her, while squeezing her big tits and fingering her nipples."

"I see," said the doctor. "So, is that it? You write what you masturbate over? And you only write fiction?" The doctor smiled victoriously.

"Why do you say that?" Tim looked at the doctor with annoyance.

"Why did I say what, Tim?"

"Why did you say that I only write what I masturbate over and that I only write fiction."

"Because we've all seen your penis, Tim. You don't have a big, hard cock. As if your penis is a sudden comma, an abbreviation, and an afterthought, after a pause, it's barely there and hardly noticeable," said the doctor smiling his indifference.

"Asshole."

"Let's start over, shall we?"

"Okay. I'm sorry that I called you an asshole, asshole."

"Help me to understand," said the doctor ignoring Tim's hostility. "Tell me then--"

"Understand what? Tim looked agitatedly impatient. "Tell you what?"

"If your stories are so private, then why do you ask the nurse's permission to use the computer, so that you can post them on Literotica for so many people to read?"

"I like receiving feedback," suddenly acting defensive. "The feedback to my stories is the only contact that I have with the outside world. Besides, it gives me something to do the rest of the week."

"What do you mean, it gives you something to do?"

"I have a program that I can vote for myself, leave comments and unduly raise the number of my hits by hundreds of thousands," said Tim with a wild eye crazy smile on his face, while incessantly pounding his index finger on the arm of the chair, as if he was voting for his story over and again.

"Contact? Did you seriously say contact?" Peering over his glasses, the doctor gave him another long stare. "You call causing trouble and calling everyone names on the forum boards contact?"

"I'm bored," said Tim with a defensive shrug. "I only do that for fun. I don't mean anything by it. They all know that I'm just kidding."

"I've read some of your posts. Actually, in your favor, most of what you write are tongue-in-cheek funny but, some are mean spirited and not so well received," said the doctor eying his patient with another long stare, while waiting for Tim to defend his posts. "You seem focused on one poor woman, Susan, the one with the adorable sheep dog, named Ralph."

"Woman? Ha! You mean, Freddie? Bostonfictionwriter? The most prolific writer on the site? He's not a she. He's a man, albeit a handsome and talented man, but he's a man just the same."

"I see," said the doctor. "How long have you had these delusions?"

"Delusions? I don't have any delusions."

"I've seen a picture of SuperHeroRalph, I mean, Susan, of course, and she's a very beautiful woman."

"Yeah, well, everyone on the board thinks that I'm a millionaire yachtsman from Miami. If they only knew I was a homeless mental case, wouldn't they be surprised?" Both men were quiet, until Tim spoke again. "We all hide behind our avatars, you behind your Doctor of Psychiatry shingle and I hide behind a photo of a naked woman."

"Well, you're right about that, Tim. Not everyone is who they presume to be, which is why I need to know more about you," said the doctor.

"Yeah, well, just the same, too many of the people on that site are idiots. They don't get my humor," said Tim with closed fists.

"And where do you find all of those wonderful graphics? Many of them are so cleverly funny."

"Graphics? Oh, those. On the Internet, of course. They're all out there to use. What else am I to do here? I can't talk to anyone here. Everyone here is crazy, and I'm bored out of my mind."

"This isn't the Hotel California, Tim. You're here voluntarily. You can leave at any time," said the doctor silently staring at his patient, before speaking again. "If you're so bored, why do you stay?"

"Why do I stay?" Tim had a look upon his face, as if he was pondering the question for the first time. "Just as many of those voluntary residents in that movie, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, stayed, I feel safe here," said Tim, suddenly lost within himself and looking so small. "Surrounded by so many really crazy people makes me somehow feel not so crazy."

"I see," said the doctor with another long stare. "So you write dirty stories, is that it?" When Tim didn't respond the doctor continued. "There's nothing to be-ashamed about--"

"I don't write dirty stories," said Tim standing and nearly shouting. "I write erotica. Much in the way of Flaubert's Madam Bovary, D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, and the Marquis de Sade's Justine and Misfortune's of Virtue, I write erotic literature. I'm not ashamed of what I write."

"I see," said the doctor. "Please get down from the couch, before you fall and hurt yourself."

"Matter of fact," said Tim sitting. "I'm proud of everything that I've written. Good, bad, or indifferent, I want credit for all that I write. Besides, they're all just stories to me. That's all they are. They're all just stories," said Tim suddenly acting agitatedly paranoid.

"I see--" said the doctor looking at his patient, while waiting for him to speak again and then when Tim fell silent, he paused. "Why don't we take a moment and take a relaxing and cleansing breath before continuing. Relax and breath in and--"

"I don't need to take a fucking relaxing and cleansing breath," said Tim looking at the doctor with hatred. "I'm just not going to discuss my stories with you...doctor," he said spitting out the word doctor.

"That's fine. That's not a problem at all. We don't have to discuss your stories, if you're rather not. What do you want to talk about then?"

"Nothing. I'm tired of talking. I don't want to talk to you anymore. I'm done talking to you. May I return to my room, now?"

"We've only just begun, Tim. After we finished our therapy session, you may return to your room. Okay?"

"Are you going to stop me from posting my stories?" Tim suddenly looked as crazy as he professed himself to be.

"That depends," said the doctor.

"Depends? Depends on what?"

"If the stories you write and the things you post are detrimental to your mental health then--"

"You can't stop me from posting my stories," said Tim talking to the doctor, as if he were a child talking to his father.

"Actually, I can, Tim, that is, unless you cooperate with me and are more receptive to my mental health therapy," said the doctor looking at his patient longer. "Why are you so afraid of losing the privilege of using the computer?"

"I'll die if you don't allow me to use the computer and post my stories. I'll just wither and die, if I can no longer post to the forum boards," said the patient staring off at a blank wall.

"I don't understand. Help me to understand you, Tim. I need for you to answer all of my why questions first?"

"What questions? Why what?"

"Why are you here voluntarily? Why are you sitting before me naked and wearing nothing but empty Kleenix boxes for shoes? Why must you constantly masturbate? Why do you write dirty stories?" The doctor stopped short, when Tim shot him an angry look. "Pardon, I mean, of course, why must you write erotic literature? And why from everything that you can write about, do you chose to write about incest, only incest?"

"Nude Day."

"What about Nude Day?"

"Every day is Nude Day."

"Actually, it's not," said the doctor with arrogant smugness. "Every day is not Nude Day, Tim. Take today, for instance. Today is not Nude Day and correct me if I'm wrong, but Nude Day is but one day in the year and not Nude Day until July 14th."

"For me, Nude Day is every day," said Tim with sadness. "Every day is Nude Day."

"And why is that?"

"Nude Day is the day that Cindy died."

"Cindy? Who's Cindy? Oh, do you mean, Cinderella? Yes, of course, you call her Cindy? Is that what you call her? I see," said the doctor looking down at his notes, while waiting for Tim to continue.

"It was my fault. I killed her," said Tim looking up at the doctor and making eye contact.

"You must remove that guilt from your shoulders. It was an accident, Tim."

"As far as I'm concerned," said Tim staring off in space, "I'm the one who drown her."

"She didn't drown, Tim. As if the air was sucked out of her, lying there so still with a big hole in her side, the police report said, from the teeth marks and the size of the bite, that she was bitten by a shark, a Great White."

"She's dead. Cindy's dead. I killed her. It's all my fault she died."

"Further," persevered the doctor, "the toxicology report said that you were drunk with a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. How could you possibly remember anything you did or didn't do on that fateful day? You were passed out naked on the beach, when the police found you. You were lucky to be alive. How you didn't drown that day was a miracle."

"I miss my Cinderella," said Tim returning the doctor's long stare. "I miss her. She was the love of my life. She was my best friend. Now that she's gone, other than writing stories, I don't care about anything or anyone. If I could take back that one day, if Cindy could still be alive and be with me by my side, I'd anything just to see her again.

"Is that why you're naked and are always naked in public, because you perceive Nude Day as an endless holiday, the day that stopped your internal clock? Except for those times when we force you wear a straightjacket to restrain you for your own safety and for the protection of our staff, is that why you refuse to wear clothes?"

"Nude Day, every day is Nude Day."

"Tell me what happened Nude Day thirty years ago, Tim. Tell me, so that I can better understand to help you. Tell me, so that I can help you to feel better."

"It was Nude Day and everyone was busy celebrating the holiday. It was the perfect time for us to flee Havana and Castro's regime. Cindy was so bashfully modest and I pushed Cindy to strip naked. I pushed her to swim from Cuba to Miami. I didn't think it was that far, but it was."

"You didn't think it was that far? You must have been crazy, sorry, pardon me for saying that, to think that you could swim that far. It was more than 225 miles. No one can swim that far."

"Yeah, well, I was drunk and she told me that she was a good floater," said Tim.

"I see," said the doctor.

"She told me not to worry. She told me to hang onto her, as if she was my personal raft. She told me to kick, while she floated. Only, I made it, but she didn't.

"I see," said the doctor.

"If it wasn't for that shark, she'd be alive today. With her in floating in front of me, she saved me from being bitten by that shark, no doubt, too."

"Tell me, Tim, all that you remember," said the doctor with his pen poised to write his notes.

"I remember it, as if it was yesterday, and I think about her every day. For me, time stopped when she died and now, because I was the reason for the death of her, every day is Nude Day. Nude Day. Nude Day. Every day is Nude Day. Much like groundhog day, that one day replays over in my mind, the one day that I had the power to change, is Nude Day, but didn't. Every day that I awaken, I see her, hear her, feel her, and my heart is heavy knowing that in a few hours time, she'll be dead again and again and again."

"I see," said the doctor. "You realize, of course, that Cinderella was a blowup doll. Right?"

*

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