Revenge, Best Served Nude

I hated his guts, and desired the rest of him.

I did everything I could to send the same attitude back at him. "We'll see," I said, in liquid tones. "If we leave you alone, can you settle for your legion of bimbos?"

Wow, what a sneer he put on. "That's highly disrespectful of your fellow STEM achievers. I thought sisterhood was powerful."

"They can make their own choices, just as we make ours," I said, not making a fist. "We're definitely aiming for the heights." I took a step right at him, close enough that he could surely see the sweat beads gleaming on the upper arcs of my breasts. "Far beyond the level of a bunch of dickheads at the boathouse."

Brent chose to act like he didn't buy that. His eyes widened from my approach, and I think his hands had begun to lift, but he maintained his snotty expression. "We'll see," he said, and with a look at all of us, he chortled, and ambled away. His minions shuffled after.

Cora could see him in profile. "Brent, that's at least a thirty-degree uptwitch by your junk. Guess we're a danger to your cool."

We laughed, and so did many other folks nearby. That wiped the smile off Brent's face. He walked a little faster.

***

Did we need more than this? The real revenge might be that we had gone beyond the revenge we thought, in January, that we wanted. We didn't need the douchebags to become our sex slaves. Does anyone, hoping to establish a career, have time for that? We had won through to again being smart, adult women, with better things to do. And probably better men to do, if we ever have the time. (I was already committed to experiments with Dylan first.)

The rest of the day was pleasant and drama-free. There were nice dips in the water, and a couple volleyball games with no apparent scorekeeping (and people switching sides as the spirit moved them), and meeting new people (some of them men, who might turn out to be better), and even acceptance of snacks Rusalka had brought.

We went nowhere near the boathouse. We didn't see Marcus or Brent again. Some of the other guys hovered in the distance, gazing at us as much as they could get away with.

At our towel zones, Dylan's presence nearby gave us someone to regale with tales of our six months of self-improvement. He listened politely, and I think was really amped by acceptance in the friendship of hot naked women. I was fine with that...I think...but in my mind I retained an echo of Cora asking me: Yours?

Thus, my parting words to Dylan were a quiet monotone, just to him: "I only have one roommate." I planned a chat with said roommate, about exclusivity.

Dylan smiled eagerly.

Draw your own conclusions.

On the way out, I took one last trip to the WAHH tent, and emailed myself what I'd written on the laptop. To this text I am now adding, while back home, what I learned as we exited.

"Hey, 129?" I heard as we started for the lockers. "Wait a second, please. The rest of you? 130, one, two?"

I stopped, wondering what this had to do with me. Then I remembered that 129 was the number on my thigh-band.

Our photogs showed us our group shot on a monitor, with rectangular blurs upholding our modesty. I don't think we knew at the time that our expressions were triumphant, satisfied, and most important, happy.

"Your imagery," said the female photog, "has brought in a whole lot, but this one is really popular. So far, it's raised more than eleven hundred dollars from people who wanted to get rid of your blurs."

We cheered heartily.

"There's this cliche about the best revenge," I said. "These women look like they're living well."