Tami Beethoven

"She's too shy. She'd rather stay in her room. . . Well, good-bye Babe." Off to his new engineer job in Burlington, his first real job after the year with the Army Corps of Engineers which had been a condition of his scholarship to Campbell-Frank.

Tami stood her naked self in front of him, her breasts jiggling as she straightened his tie.

"Thanks Mom," he said.

"'Clothes make the man,'" she said as she looked him up and down admiringly.

Which was greeted with a snort. He put his finger behind his tie. "Akk. If the world is ruled by men, how come we have to wear ties?"

"Because it's not ruled by SMART men."

"What's on today, Babe?"

"Aside from the usual, I have the presentation in Fashion Design with Gretchen. I think she'll be all right. Also they want to see me about something. Then Kantor."

Rod exhaled in exasperation. "It just goes on and on. Why doesn't Kantor or Abu Jamal talk to you? I think they're holding back on something."

"Oh I KNOW they're holding back," Tami said. "They'll tell me when they're ready." Once again, the odd fact: Rod wanted one of the many therapies they had tried to finally work, while Tami seemed to take it one day at a time.

A slow kiss on the lips, bare arms around his coat, tan midriff against his belt buckle, toes wrapping around his gumshoe boots, and Rod was gone.

Part 3

She woke groggily but then with a sudden sense of alarm. She was in a strange bed. The strap of her camisole had pulled off her shoulder and she straightened it. Her black vinyl pants were bunched up too. She poked her head up from the covers like a ground hog. What had she gotten herself into? Had somebody dragged her half-naked drunk body into bed and humped her? She had heard of that happening --

Fortunately her private parts did not hurt. She felt more or less in one piece, except for the hangover. And this sun room she was in did not seem sleazy, in fact it seemed respectable and neat.

Taking care not to move too fast -- with her hangover she could easily get dizzy -- she got up and saw that her shoes were placed neatly on the floor. She clumsily slipped her bare feet into the glass-bottomed, four-inch-high platform sandals and, straightening out her long black hair behind her, took stock of where she was.

A nice little house. As she lurched into the next room, a living room, she tried to dismiss the weird dream from last night. Practically being thrown into the cold night air, a cold ride in a pickup truck with someone who spoke gibberish, then a naked super-woman picking her up like she weighed nothing and carrying her inside. It was obviously a dream, at least the last part.

Pierre, Pierre . . . I know he won't forgive me for this . . .

She heard voices far away somewhere. Trying to trace their source she found herself in what must be a master bedroom. A queen-size bed, recently slept in. An open closet with lots of clothes -- just men's clothes. She looked around for women's clothes and shoes and found none. Just a guy must live here. She also noticed that the covers were thrown back on only one side of the bed. Single. And a gentleman, not to have screwed her last night.

There was a big window showing the back yard, and a computer table with books and papers, a monitor and keyboard. The mouse and its pad were on the floor, under the chair. Weird.

Her eyes were arrested by the pictures on the dresser. Naked girls. No, they were all the same girl. That super-woman? The big photo, in the middle, with her standing on a riser in front of a cheering crowd, flowers in her hair, next to a young black man in a white formal type coat. It could be a wedding picture, but for the missing bridal gown. A young lady in a minister outfit is next to them, and a straggly-looking bearded guy in a blazer and jeans. The naked girl looks so out of place, with everyone else fully clothed.

Another picture, the same naked girl, sitting on a throne wearing a tiara, with an exaggerated haughty expression. Below her, on some steps with a red carpet, three girls in matching red and black, bowing to her. One was white, one was thin and black, another was Hispanic-looking with giant tits almost spilling out of her low-cut dress. Another picture, of the naked girl in the tiara, this time with her arm around another girl, thin and white and kind of no-nonsense looking, in a kind of business suit.

Some smaller pictures of the naked girl with what must be a brother and her parents, cropped at her bare shoulders. Now the same brother it looked like, in uniform next to an American flag. There she is with her shoulders again, next to the black guy, this time he's in a black graduation gown, with what must be his parents. The father is bent over and supports himself with a cane. Quite a contrast in that photo, with her bare white skin.

On the other wall a large painting caught her eye. Somehow she hadn't noticed it before. It was the same girl, in a chair in what looked like the stacks of a library, pausing from reading a book as if pleasantly surprised to see the viewer. The book is half-open in her hands over her flat tummy. Totally naked, her pubic hair and breasts on full view, yet not showing them off either. Her attitude was strange -- not at all like a stripper, just the opposite. As if she didn't even know she was naked. Both her face and her body are beautiful, as if the artist was in love with her.

Now on another little table, set apart, a frame with photos of a tall, friendly-looking guy with black curly hair, wearing a long black coat, and a girl in red lipstick in a black dress with a real long string of pearls, leaning against a lamp post, her hips playfully swayed and her head tilted, like a hooker. This is the white girl from the throne photo. Between them, a photo of the World Trade Center.

She looked at the doorway, thinking she heard a movement. I shouldn't be in here. So she scampered back into the hall, realizing how loud these ridiculous stripper shoes were on the hardwood floor. Still a bit hung over and disoriented, she made a wrong turn and found herself facing a bathroom. Too late to turn back. So she went in, her shoes stomping on the little tiles, and closed the door.

No sound. She found that she did have to pee and sat down. The bathroom was tiny. As she exhaled and let it flow she looked at the bathtub and shower right next to her and realized that there wasn't just a guy living here. Three bottles of shampoo, one of conditioner, then some hair coloring. They couldn't be for the guy because his head was shaved. On the sink were a brush with reddish hair in it, and a long comb. Also a very short little comb, like guys might use on a moustache. Odd, the guy in the pics didn't have a moustache. What's the little comb for?

Reaching over for the toilet paper she was startled to see a big blue rubber bag on the floor with a narrow tube coming out of it. Where had she seen that before? Oh right -- that dancer Lita had one, who kept talking the virtues of anal sex. Ewww, an enema bag. Well, now I know more about this girl living here than I really want to.

And now she detected the faint odor of vomit. She thought: great. She's bulimic too.

Back to the bed in that little sun room. She waited and there was no motion. She got up again.

"Oh," she said, startled in the hall by a tall black man about 25 years old, with a shaved head and wire-rimmed glasses, in a suit and big brown boots. This was the guy from the photos.

"Hello, are you feeling O.K.?" he said, with concern.

"Oui . . . Merci . . . yes. . ." She was babbling.

"You were quite a mess last night. You probably need some food in you."

That would ease the hangover, at least. She smelled eggs and pancakes cooking from somewhere. A telephone rang and there were female voices. Uh - oh . . . a woman gasping as if she were crying. Some kind of scene was going on.

"I still am need to sleep," she said. She couldn't concentrate to speak good English right now.

"O.K. I have to go. My wife's name is Tami. You can't miss her," he added with a smile. "She'll take you to the help center. Good luck getting back on your feet."

She watched him go. She wanted him to stay. Anything to keep from the clutches of this Tami girl. She was getting a very bad feeling about her. Into anal sex, bulimic, takes naked pictures, even with her family -- and now she's breaking down in the kitchen. How did this O.K. seeming guy get involved with her? And why was he leaving her to cry in the kitchen? It made her own situation seem positively normal.

She tumbled back onto the refuge of the bed, wearing her shoes in bed even though it was impolite.

She couldn't stay there forever. It was about fifteen minutes later that she got her courage up to traverse the narrow little hallway, the walls studded with ornately framed black-and-white photos of old men and old women like from a hundred years ago. Then she turned the corner and --

"Hi, Yvette!"

The cheerful girl was next to the stove with a spatula in her hand, facing her as if glad to see her. And without a stitch of clothing. The naked super-woman, in the (bare) flesh! And with no sign of having cried.

Yvette, her mouth open, took in the bare breasts and pubic hair and bare legs. The only thing this girl was wearing was a little golden ring on one toe. Yvette shielded her eyes. "So sorry -- "

"No, it's O.K." she said with a laugh. "I'm Tami. Excuse my appearance. I'm allergic to clothes."

"That's right, she is," said Jen with a mouth full of pancakes. Leisha, also eating but a bit more refined, nodded in agreement.

Yvette slowly unshielded her eyes and accepted the invitation to sit down. There was a table setting in front of her. She nodded to the black women. Do they live here too? What kind of kinkiness was going on? Does the fact that this Tami is the only white person in the house have something to do with her showing her skin all the time?

She watched Tami's backside as she worked the stove. Yvette was a stripper and had seen plenty of naked women walking around, but only on stage or in the dressing room. At home, strippers tended to cover up. This was decidedly weird.

Yvette quickly blinked and realized: and what a body. Thin, firm, narrow waist, nice tits. And a pretty face with striking green eyes. She'd never seen a girl on the circuit so good-looking.

"Eggs, pancakes, bacon, cereal, oatmeal?" Tami said. "Tami's diner, at your service."

Yvette had taken in the ordinary, good-natured atmosphere in the room and decided it was impolite to act freaked out by Tami's nudity. After all, she should be grateful, a safe night's sleep in a clean bed. "Oatmeal, s'il vous plait."

Her mettle was tested again as Tami crouched and then leapt three feet up onto the counter. Her naked host opened the cupboard and stood up there and reached into a shelf near the ceiling. In the meantime she resumed a conversation she had been having with Jen.

"So what kind of job is that?"

Jen described a position that had opened up at Middlebury College that she was interested in. Tami said periodic "mm - hmm's" as she pushed aside boxes of cereal to get at the oatmeal. Meanwhile her toes reached over to the sink and turned on a faucet. Having found the oatmeal she searched further in for the honey. Two quick passes of her toes under the spigot to test if the water was getting hot, then the foot stretched over to the back burner for the kettle. "Mm -- hmm. . . Sounds kind of boring . . . Aren't you overqualified for that?" Clasping toes placed the kettle under the spigot. Tami hopped down with the oatmeal and honey, so gracefully that the only sound was the soft click of the toe ring as it hit the wood floor.

Yvette thought: this girl is like a monkey.

The oatmeal was very good, if a bit rough going down. Tami had simply poured the oats into a bowl and added hot water. "Better fiber that way," she said.

"Well . . . " Jen said.

Tami laughed. "Actually if I try to make it the real way, it's awful."

Jen and Leisha had to leave. Their bags were already packed in the hallway. They each hugged Tami's bare bod, but casually. They would be passing by again in a few weeks.

"If you don't mind, next time we come, let's make a day of it," Leisha said.

Tami paused and said, "I'd love that. The pleasure would be mine."

"You KNOW that's not true," Jen smiled.

And now Yvette found herself alone in the kitchen with this naked Tami girl.

She almost choked on the coffee. "Sorry, I don't realize how strong I make it," Tami said. Yvette had to load it with milk and sugar to make it drinkable.

"This is a 'safe home'," Tami said. "I'm supposed to take you to the help center here, part of the Campbell County Social Services department. I'm in no hurry, I don't have anywhere to go till ten." She paused as if for effect. "You don't have to talk to me, but I am here to listen if you do. I'll keep it a secret if you say so." Another pause. Tami began to stretch, her breasts jutting out, then seemed to check herself. She stretched out one leg and rested the bare heel on the far corner of the table. "You were quite a mess last night. I heard you threw up on stage."

"I almost threw up on you too, when you picked me off the ground."

"Actually you did."

"Oh -- I'm so sorry."

Tami smiled. "It's O.K. It's happened to me before."

Yvette sipped and thought. "I miss my boyfriend."

"What's his name?"

"Pierre. He got me this job and then we had a fight."

"Where is he now?"

"Ste. Catherine. He biked there yesterday."

"Quebec."

Yvette ventured a smile. "Oui."

"Sorry, my French is poor. That's 'ja', right?"

"No, I think it's 'si'." Yvette hadn't used this knowledge since high school. She suddenly remembered her mother saying, "You're smarter than you think you are."

"Funny, I thought it was 'da'."

The two young women giggled. Yvette's first giggle in a long time.

After a quiet moment Tami said, "You like that job? At Teaser's?"

"There's nothing wrong with being a dancer. The pay is good and it's safe," Yvette said defensively.

Tami looked as if she'd heard that a thousand times before. Then she took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to sound, like, judgmental. A lot of girls from there seem weirded out. Others are O.K. Or so I've heard. I've never actually been there."

Yvette looked at the bareness of Tami's breasts and did not know what to think. "Do you want to talk more about it?"

At the risk of being impolite to her host, Yvette said, "No. Sorry. No." She wondered about calling Pierre. No, it would be long distance from this phone. Also impolite.

"Well then let's get going." Tami got the keys that were hanging from the doorway. Yvette got up and followed her, with another twinge of disbelief. Surely she wasn't going outside in the winter -- like that?? There were no coats or boots in the doorway.

Tami opened the door and a gust of cold air hit Yvette. She shivered in her camisole.

Tami turned and put her hands on Yvette's shoulders. Yvette looked down at the tanned perfect body. Tami looked at the camisole, the vinyl pants, the sockless feet in platform sandals.

"The first thing to do," the naked girl said, "is to get you into some decent clothes."

Part 4

In the driveway, next to the tracks in the snow left by Rod's jeep, was an old, old yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Yvette, freezing in the doorway, watched in astonishment as Tami, holding up the key chain with one hand to separate out the correct key, walked over to it slowly and casually, bare feet slopping through the slushy snow covered with two inches of fluffy powder from last night. As she got to the driver's side she called back. "C'mon, Yvette. You'll be O.K. It's all in the mind. Besides, it's a real short ride."

It was a bright morning. The new snow was almost blinding. Yvette looked both ways, wondering if anyone saw this crazy naked girl, then rushed into the car.

She watched silently as Tami pumped the gas, bare toes curling over the padless metal that must feel colder than ice. Her breasts jiggled as she pulled the manual choke -- this was a really old model, like her grandfather used to have in Abitibi. Then Tami got out to the rear, opened the hood, and threw some kind of switch that got the motor to reluctantly kick over.

"Six volt system," she explained as bare buns settled back onto the ripped vinyl of the driver's seat. "The juice doesn't carry in the cold, so I had to put in a bypass on the fan shroud."

Yvette nodded like she knew what Tami was talking about. And then the old car lurched into action.

"Whoaa!" Yvette cried out as it swerved along the driveway, steadily propelled from behind but with the destination of the front end more uncertain. Tami swung the steering wheel back and forth like it was a bumper car in an amusement park. Yvette didn't feel in danger. This was fun. Tami laughed. "VW's are great in the snow. That's why I got this one."

Yvette was hoping for some heat, but then remembered that her grandfather's car was always cold. As they came to a stop sign she looked at the blank knobs on the dashboard. "Is there heat?"

"Theoretical heat, but not real. This has a stale air system. It's O.K., you don't really need heat in a car, unless you're on a long ride." Yvette did not ask what this naked girl did for long rides.

Now they turned onto what looked like the main street. Yvette had never been in the center of this town; Teaser's was on the outskirts. She looked around to see if anyone was noticing Tami's bareness. The tops of her breasts, at least, would be showing. But now a professor-looking type on the sidewalk waved at her. And a young couple carrying bookbags. Now, an old lady toting a cart with groceries. Tami waved back cheerfully to each.

Yvette smiled. "Everyone seems to know you."

"I've been here almost the whole four years." Then she turned closer to Yvette's face. "Also, I'm easy to recognize."

They pulled up to a church. Good God! Is she going to walk naked into --

When they got out it turned out they were actually going into a small clapboard house next to the church. A knock on the door and . . .

It was Rev. Josiah Stipend, a tall and strong-looking man in a rumpled minister's suit with gray hair almost covering his collar. "Welcome, Miss Tami," he said, not in a Southern accent, but in that lilt that Baptist preachers sometimes have.

"Good morning Reverend," Tami said respectfully but amiably. "This young woman stayed with me last night. Her name is Yvette. She could use some clothes."

The reverend nodded at Tami for a long second, then without looking below either woman's face, led them in a gentlemanly manner through a hallway, down some stairs, and into what looked like it might have originally been the house's garage. Aisles of donated clothes and shoes beckoned, so narrow that there was hardly room to get through.

A middle-aged woman, a kerchief holding back her hair, sat nearby sorting clothes on a low table. Behind her was a washer and dryer. "Hi Tami."

"Hi Mrs. Stipend."

Tami led her guest into the aisles, obviously knowing how the place was organized. "First you'll need some real pants . . ."

The Stipends looked at each other and then at the nakedness among the clothes. Rev. Stipend could not help reflecting on his past experience with Tami. He used to be a real firebrand, one of the hellfire members of the college Scholarship Committee. He could not forget the committee's visit to the Dixon Mill to see Tami at her grounds crew assignment, her sweating nakedness on display as her bare feet trod the blades of that awful double treadmill. How he had berated her sinfulness then, and also later when she was summoned to appear before the committee in those special bra and panties which contained protrusions invading her inner cavities, bringing her to climax after climax while being forced to answer their questions.