My Flagrant Public Nudity Ch. 02

For several months after my outlandish naked escapades in Southern California, it seemed like Susan and I spoke of little else. Almost every conversation eventually wound its way back to the events of that day. We had agreed that I was unbelievably lucky not to have ended up on some sex offender registry. (Don't laugh. I've since learned that you don't have to be a serial child molester to get Sexual Predator branded on your forehead and be prohibited from living within 3000 miles of a school. In some benighted states, public urination will do the trick.)

As you might imagine, that day was indelibly memorable for me. But it also had a profound impact on Susan. Not only has she persisted in saying, "You owe me one," but a few months ago while we were talking on the phone, I heard her take a deep breath before saying, "Liz, I gotta tell you that when I left you there on the quad that morning, I became really aroused. It wasn't just from looking at you all naked and restrained; it was still pretty dark out, anyway. It was from the very idea of it all, the inescapably exposed and humiliating situation you were in. I went back to my room and masturbated even though my roommate was there. I just said, 'Sorry, Fran, but I gotta do this.'"

She said, "Hey, pretend I'm not here. Better yet, pretend I'm sitting over there between your legs and watching you."

"Well, I threw off my blanket, and she did exactly that, which was pretty cool, but when I ran back outside along with everyone else and finally got up close to you, I was beside myself. Your naked body, with your hips cocked forward and my whole little world staring at you, was the second sexiest thing I've ever seen. If not for the threat of certain expulsion, I would have rushed up to you, fallen to my knees and buried my face in your sex. But the absolutely, number one, sexiest thing I've ever seen was an Internet video of you masturbating in the street by your hotel. As I watched it, I was matching you orgasm for orgasm. Do you think maybe I'm becoming a lesbian, and does that freak you out?"

"No and no. But that reminds me: did you position those cuffs that way to force me into such a gratuitously lewd stance?"

"Yeah. Did you like it?"

"Well, not at first, but it kind of grew on me."

Changing the subject (slightly), Susan asked, "Did I tell you about my pubic hair?"

"No, but that's a real conversation starter. Let's hear this."

"Okay, as you know, I've never shaved or waxed mine. But when I was looking at you that day, it really turned me on to see how much more of your vulva was on display and how your clitoris looked like a minor erection. Even so, I still don't want to lose my black patch. I like the way it stands out. Like, when you're some distance away, say, on a long beach, and you see a waxed nude woman, for all you know she could be wearing a flesh-colored swimsuit. But if you can see that black triangle, then it's, 'Whoa! That woman is naked!' So I decided to go for the best of both worlds. I had everything from the top of my vulva down waxed but left the rest of my bush intact above it. Now, when I open my legs, it's like being seen naked all over again. But even more so."

"Well, I have to admit that's fairly unassailable logic. I think I'll even try it myself. I've been growing mine back, but a blonde triangle might not provide such a dramatic contrast."

"You could dye it with shoe polish."

"Susan, please. They'll just have to move in a little closer."

"That would work."

"Susan?"

"Yeah."

"I think I've come up with something to discharge my debt to you. Especially since I've become acutely weary of hearing you say, 'You owe me one.' Even though I do."

"Lay it on me."

"Okay, It looks like the sale of my parents' business to that Portland software behemoth is going to go through. I've been spending a lot of time out there, and I noted that the Portland World Naked Bike Ride is coming up early this summer. It draws thousands of people. It's still a few weeks off, though. Can you wait that long, and will you ride in it? I can borrow a bike for you from someone at Behemoth."

Susan laughed at that and said, "Yeah, I can wait. And I'd be all in for a naked bike ride. Do you really call them 'Behemoth?'"

"Not to their face."

"Could I ride completely naked? No helmet, no shoes, no jewelry and certainly none of that tacky-ass paint?"

"Of course. A lot of people do."

"It sounds like fun, but riding around with thousands of other naked people is kinda like getting caught naked at the nude beach. Where's the humiliation in that?"

"I think I've created a monster."

"Yeah, it's all your fault. I was just thinking that, well, with this ride you're not exactly the only one naked."

"Oh, but you could be. There are going to be plenty of of places along whatever route they select that will be happy to let you stop in for something to drink or a bathroom break. Portland, by the way, may have the world's only secret naked bike ride. They're trying to hold down the number of both riders and spectators since it's gotten so popular. I think last year they had some 10,000 entries. Anyway, what if you came back outside after your break and found that your bike had been stolen?"

"Right. And what are the odds of that?"

"100%"

"And how can you be so . . . oooh. You're going to steal it."

"Bingo. As time for the ride approaches, we'll find a parking space nearby and a little ahead of the starting line with your bike in the trunk. You can take it out and ride it to the staging area. Meanwhile, I'll go looking for place for you to stop, and I'll hang out in front of it. When you see me, leave your bike a short distance away, preferably in an alley. When you go inside, I'll ride your bike back to the car, stash it back in the trunk and maybe go out for drinks and dinner.

"And you, who will have deliberately started at the back of the pack, will find yourself left behind, bare-assed naked and with nothing to your name. No identification, no money, no clothes and no friends. You'll be unconditionally nude in a city you've never even seen before. You might as well be in downtown Chicago. But then you'd probably be both naked and dodging stray bullets.

"You'll have to walk for some distance through the streets of the city back to the hotel. And here is the real beauty of this. If you're questioned, you'll have a perfectly truthful and plausible excuse: you stopped to pee during the WNBR, and your bike got stolen. None of those lame naked dare or lost bet excuses. And if you're accosted by the police, I'm sure you can squeeze out a tear or two to go along with your story. You'll be fine with the cops as long as you don't blurt out, 'I had my girlfriend steal my bike, so I could walk home naked.'" Susan gave me the evil eye over that bit of speculation.

When the time for the ride at last arrived, Susan was in a state of keen anticipation. She'd had plenty of time to envision her naked walk. I guess I should give you some idea what Susan looks like. She's about four inches shorter than me and a raven-haired beauty, nicely proportioned with breasts that fit her body. Unlike me, however, she has no anomalous features. She has to actually be aroused before her clitoris pokes its snout out of its burrow, so she's able to casually walk around naked without having to worry about looking like some female Priapus all the time.

Sorry to say, I had missed Susan's graduation earlier in the month. We thought that my presence there could have proved to be a major distraction, even if I was only sitting in the audience, doing nothing (and keeping my hands in full view at all times). We both felt bad about it, though.

Anyway, we need to turn to Susan now, so here is her story as she related it to me and which I recorded, transcribed and lightly edited:

When I got out the bike, you wished me luck and informed me that if I got back to the hotel before you, you had left an extra key card under the potted plant next to our floor's elevators. When I arrived at the staging area, I got naked immediately. I started walking around, tending to gravitate to clothed and partially clothed people and making sure that I wandered into the sight lines of the photographers. That made me much more conscious of my own nudity.

Liz, I really don't understand what's going on with this. I'm not usually an attention whore. I really do keep a low profile. Until I lose my clothes. When I feel the sunlight and the breeze on my exposed nipples and vulva, and people stare at my nude body, then all bets are off. I want everyone to look my labia and my vagina and stare right at them. I want to pull back my hood and say, "Look at my clit." I want to play with it and plunge my fingers into my vagina and masturbate for them until I come so hard that I go into ecstatic spasms right before their eyes. I want the feeling of naked vulnerability to be palpable. I want to be distilled into an essence of pure sexuality and intemperate exhibitionism. Go figure.

You know, though, it's funny how some men, at least the more gentlemanly types, go to great lengths to avoid staring at your most intimate parts. Like, if you catch them staring at your breasts or your ass or your vulva, you're going to chastise them. Hello! The reason I'm standing here naked in front of you and pretending to be interested in whatever it is you're saying is because I want you to do exactly that: stare.

You practically have to extend an invitation to them to get them to really look at you. Of course, once you do give them permission, they immediately turn into gynecologists. I was talking to three still-clothed young guys about the ride, and one of them kept his eyes locked on mine while the other two were looking at the sky like they were searching for birds or interestingly shaped cloud formations or something.

Finally, I said, "This is my first naked bike ride, and I'm worried about maybe chafing this area." I pointed between my legs and added, "You can see that I waxed my vulva from here on down so there's no cushion of pubic hair there anymore. I'm also kind of worried that if the bike seat pushes back the hood from my clitoris," which I demonstrated, "I could become aroused, and I really don't want to fall off my bike in the throes of a bicycle-seat induced orgasm."

Now I had their undivided attention right where I wanted it. They must have thought they had just met the most naively innocent young woman this side of a one-burro village in the mountains of Afghanistan.

One of them said, "Uh, I usually rub some talcum powder between my legs just in case." How that would prevent arousal was beyond me. Chafing maybe, but even so. . . . "I have some in my backpack if you want it."

Although I suspected that it was probably for his feet, I said, "That would be great." He pulled a can out of the pack he had laid on a picnic table and offered it to me. But rather than accept it, I said, "Do you mind? Oh, wait, this will make it easier for you." I hopped up on the table, lay back and spread my legs.

He shook some talc in his hand and tentatively sprinkled some on my pussy. Meeting no resistance whatsoever, he proceeded to coat my labia and, noticing my emerging clitoris, began studiously rubbing the powder on it. One of his friends even pointed vaguely in the direction of my vulva and said, "Stan, I think you missed a spot."

At least he didn't try to rub some on the inside of my vagina; that would have been a bridge too far. Nevertheless, all this was definitely attracting the notice of nearby riders. All the better. When he reluctantly finished, I graciously thanked him and got up and moved on, saying loudly, "Thanks. You guys are such gentlemen." There were a lot more eyes on me now, some of them no doubt wondering if there were some further assistance they could render.

After standing around for a while with my hands on my hips or casually scratching an imaginary itch on my ass or raising both arms up to needlessly fiddle with my hair, the ride got underway. It took some time for those of us in the rear to start moving. When we did, we'd only gone about a quarter of a mile when I saw you. I left the bike in an alley like you said, and when I entered the cafe, I had a major rush, knowing that when I came out, I was going to be emerging into a completely different world.

I walked out of the cafe after pretending to use the restroom, made a little show of looking for my bike and began to walk along the sidewalk back in the direction of the staging area. Then it hit me like a locomotive: I was lost.

Son of a bitch! You had picked me up at the airport after dark, driven us into the city and parked in a garage beneath our hotel. Then we had taken the elevator up to your floor. Today we had left the hotel the same way. We were talking, and I was only dimly aware of my surroundings to begin with. So I had no fucking clue what the name of our hotel was, not to mention where it was located. Then that same locomotive screeched to a halt, backed down the tracks and ran my ass over again.

You had made what was now an obvious show of leaving your phone behind in the room. When I had reminded you that it was on the bed, you had said, "Leave it. I really don't want to be taking any calls from Behemoth today." I didn't make anything of it then, but you had been subtly letting me know that if I lost my nerve, there would be no way to contact you and no possibility of help from you. I felt very naked and very stupid and very much on my own.

After breathing my way out of a panic attack and pulling myself together a little, I had the glimmer of an idea. You had MY phone, but it was in a bike saddlebag in your trunk along with my clothes. Could you even hear it? If so, would you answer it or suppose it was just a call for me that would be forwarded to voicemail? Or would you deliberately ignore it, thinking that it was me calling for a some kind of rescue that you had no intention of providing. You couldn't have known how dire my circumstances were.

Voicemail. That was my only chance. I borrowed a phone from a twenty-something woman on the sidewalk and called myself. I was lucky to remember the number; it's not like I had ever called it before. Since I was still on the bike ride route, I wasn't attracting much attention. You had told me that nudity sometimes broke out among the spectators, and, anyway, they had already seen thousands of naked people ride by, so they were pretty well conditioned to nudity by now. That all changed when my call triggered the voicemail. I started screaming my fool head off. "Liz! Liz! Pick up! Pick up! I don't know where the fucking hotel is!" Nothing.

Even naked I had felt fairly unobtrusive, but now I was making a real spectacle of myself. I handed the phone back to the startled woman, thanked her and strode off, feeling as embarrassed as all get out and still having no idea where I was going. I just walked. I knew that the hotel was in what appeared to be the city's center. So that was something. I also remembered us crossing a bridge over a river. Great.

As I got farther and farther from the site of the ride, I understandably attracted more and more attention. But I was determined to at least enjoy my walk. I mean, that's what I'd signed up for after all, although not with this particular development in mind: wandering the streets of Portland, Oregon, totally naked and totally lost. On the bright side, I had wanted to feel really exposed, and this pretty much met with my hopes.

People on the street would clap and shout out questions. Or the same question over and over again. It was always, "What happened to your clothes?" At one sidewalk cafe, in response, I stopped to talk to some of the patrons, explaining what had ostensibly transpired but not daring to let them know I was lost. Who would have thought that I'd be so excited to be naked in front of everyone but too humiliated to admit that I was lost?

During some of those conversations, I'd prop a bare foot on a vacant chair, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that I was now showing my entire vulva. And I was aroused enough that my clitoris was swelling up and coming out to feed. All of this didn't elicit so much as a raised eyebrow from either the men or the women. It occurred to me that they were studiously avoiding any look or gesture that might curtail the show. At one table of friendly and jovial people, who even bought me a drink, I did what I promised myself I wouldn't do. Even in Portland.

I again had my foot up on a chair and casually went to brush something nonexistent off my now distended clitoris. As I touched it, I let out a surprised, "Ooh." At this I was astonished to see at least two of the couples nod in apparent approval. Needing no further encouragement, I began to slowly rub my clitoris, making gentle moans in appreciation of my building pleasure. The people turned to stone, not wanting to breathe or move and possibly break the spell. Of course, what had started so slowly was rapidly transformed into a wanton exhibition of unbridled sexual frenzy. My fingers slipped into my vagina and became a blur of kinetic, desperate need, and I began to thrust my hips forward to meet my hectic hand. My consequent orgasm could have easily been mistaken for a seizure.

When I recovered, I looked around at my mesmerized audience. Everyone out front, those inside peering through the glass and the surprised passersby who had stopped on the sidewalk to watch me all broke into resounding applause. I was transported. When the cheering began to subside, I gave them an exultant smile, said "It was so nice chatting with you," and resumed my walk, looking back over my shoulder to wave goodbye. God, I thought, I'm falling in love with Portland.

Then, a couple of minutes later, a police car came rolling to a stop beside me. My first thought was that someone had ratted me out about the public masturbation and that I was in deep trouble. But the officer in the passenger seat just rolled down his window and asked me if there was a problem. I laid the naked ride and stolen bike story on him, and he said, "I'm really sorry about that, Ma'am. Do you need a lift?"

Not only did I not want a lift (even though it would seem pretty suspicious to refuse one), I was horrified by the prospect of getting in the police car and, when asked the inevitable question, "Where to?" could have only answered, "I have no fucking idea."

They probably would have locked me up for psychiatric observation, so I just said, "Thanks, but my apartment's in the next block."

That satisfied him, and he said, "Well, I hope the rest of your day gets better." They sped away, and I darted into a nearby bar, which turned out to be a strip club, and made it into a bathroom stall, which turned out to be in the men's room, but I lost only a minimum volume of pee on the floor in the process. I finally calmed down and headed back to the front door, politely declining a job offer on the way out.

After walking a few more blocks, nodding and smiling to my fellow pedestrians, I was struck by the fact that while almost everyone tended to whip out their phones, no one ever offered me anything to cover myself with (not that I wanted them to). I'm sure if people saw a naked woman crouching in the gutter, tightly hugging herself and bawling her eyes out, they would have rushed to assist her, but when they saw me strolling along naked and swinging my hips as if to some internal rhythm, they just thought, "I gotta get video of this."

Come to think of it, Liz, one of the very few advantages that women have over men is that when people see a naked woman walking down the street, they whip out their phones and start taking pictures. If they see a naked man, they whip out their phones and call the police.