The Parade

People began to leave the sidewalk, easing into the street to take pictures from closer range. Others were posing next to me and putting their arms around my shoulders or my waist. Some of them, even including some of the women, approached me only to stop and rudely aim their cameras lenses right at my pelvis. I began to bristle at their presumption but then thought, "You brought this on yourself. What did you expect?" Even so, it made my flesh crawl, and I know my whole body must have turned as red as my clitoris. Yet, through it all, I had to maintain an attitude of cheerful acquiescence. I had painted myself into a corner, and now I could only stand naked in that corner, waiting for the paint to dry.

Sure enough, when I later saw my pictures on those porn sites there were some extreme close-ups of my vulva. Some of those spectators had not only approached so closely but had zoomed their lenses and blown up the resultant photos. At least you couldn't see my face (or any other part of my body), but titles like, "Santa Reyes Mayor Shelly Simon's Pussy" didn't help matters any. They had managed to turn my naked walk into something seemingly pornographic, after all. I failed to grasp the erotic appeal of something that looked like a specialty cut of meat (and a pixelated one at that) arranged in a butcher's display case. But then Monica had once told me, "There are a lot of innate human needs that can go badly wrong. Like eating disorders, for one. But nothing can go off the rails quite like human sexuality. The stories I could write. Not for a family newspaper, though."

Then things got even worse. My vagina, for some inexplicable reason, started to get wet, and I felt that tingling sensation that could only conclude with an orgasm. I was even struck by a powerful impulse, mercifully stifled, to begin touching and rubbing my clitoris right then and there in front of everyone. That simply would not do. Standing naked in the middle of the street, masturbating in front of hundreds of people and then collapsing to the pavement with a shuddering orgasm would have been the end of me. When I got home, I would have had to fill my tub with warm water, climb in and slit my wrists. But even this morbid thought couldn't hold off that orgasm. I began trembling and quickly closed my eyelids to cover the fact that my eyeballs were rolling back in their sockets. But, like Sally had warned, I couldn't cover up what was going on with my nipples. At least not without clapping my hands over my breasts and alerting everyone to my predicament. My toes began to curl and gripped the pavement like talons. This atheist began praying desperately that no one had noticed.

When the spasm subsided and my legs steadied, I had my first good idea. I moved away from the people who were so violating what was left of my personal space and went into full-on politician mode. I walked over to one side of the street and began shaking hands, taking questions and, yes, accepting congratulations. One exchange was disconcerting, though. An attractive, middle-aged woman warmly shook my hand, gave me a leering smile and raised her eyebrows as she said, "That looked like fun, Dear." She knew.

I then worked the other side of the street until I heard Tommy's tractor start up, resumed my position in front of it and began walking again. As I did, I kept wondering about that orgasm. Could I have possibly found this ordeal sexually stimulating? Then I remembered a friend of mine who once had a fear orgasm. She had been walking along a path in the woods when a snake slithered across it in front of her and scared her half to death. But she also had an orgasm. Unless you're into some thoroughly-discredited Freudian nonsense, you have to accept that that orgasm was just the result of a major burst of adrenaline. I hope so, anyway.

When I finally reached the end of the parade route, Sally was there to drive me back to my car. I accepted my keys from Tommy, thanked him and started toward Sally's car but was intercepted by Monica, notepad in hand. She was beaming. "You really fucking did it. That was the single coolest thing I've ever seen. And the hottest, too. You looked so beautiful out there naked." As soon as Monica began talking to me, a crowd gathered around us, jostling for position and getting uncomfortably close to me. She noticed this and took my arm, leading me to her car and opening the front passenger door. "Let's finish our talk in here," she said, ushering me inside. She walked around the car and got in, and we sat in silence for a moment.

Then I said, "Monica, I think I made a fool of myself."

"No way. What you did was extraordinarily courageous."

No, it wasn't. I was terrified."

"Shelly, that's what real courage is. Being truly afraid of doing something and doing it anyway. If you were the wildest stripper at Mike's Gentlemen's Club, it would have just been great, exhibitionistic fun. You would have been having a field day out there. In my job, you learn to read people pretty well, and despite your convincing attempt to look like you were enjoying yourself, you really weren't. Look, obviously I have to report on this. I mean, everyone saw it, anyway. But everything else here is off the record. I'm intrigued by you and want to know more about you."

"You won't embarrass me? Any more than I've already embarrassed myself?"

"Shelly, I'm telling you, this is not for publication. How old are you?"

"I'm 25."

"And, I suspect, a very private person. And a modest one. And you really did do this for your constituents. And, sorry to say, you're more than a little naive. You probably should have had a security detail along to keep people on the sidewalk."

I looked down at my hands. "Yes to all that."

"Shelly, you're my hero. A couple more questions. They're kind of personal."

"I trust you."

"Thank you. I'm flattered. But don't make that mistake with any other reporter. And, believe me, there will be some more reporters now. You can't say I didn't warn you."

"I know."

"When I saw you approaching the end of the parade, I couldn't help but notice something about your vulva."

Oh, God," I blanched. "My clitoris?"

"Well, that too, but this was more about the way your vulva is positioned. Most women, their vulva is kind of tucked down between their legs out of sight, but yours is, like, higher, more toward the front of your body. So when you're naked, especially given the way you groom your pubic hair, your vulva is really on full display. Just curious, why do you groom your pubic hair like that?"

"I like looking at it in the mirror."

"Well, that's exactly how it looks to other people, too. I just thought you'd want to know that. I am embarrassing you, aren't I?"

"Yes. I didn't know I was abnormal down there."

"No, no, no. Not abnormal. Just a little . . . north of average. I've seen it before. Have you ever been to a nude beach?"

"No. I've never really done much of anything."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No, I'm not attracted to guys."

"A girlfriend?"

"No. Once in college, my roommate and I were lying in her bed talking, and we fell asleep and woke up in each other's arms. But that's all. I still think I'm a lesbian, though." I barked out a harsh laugh. "Some lesbian. I don't think I've ever even seen another woman's vulva."

"Please don't think this is weird," Monica said as she lifted her bottom up off the seat, raised her skirt and peeled off her panties. She pivoted to face me, opening her legs as she did. She was fully bare down there, and I just stared at it in fascination. It really was pretty.

"Sorry, but you needed to see that. To know what you've been showing everyone. You were a lot more naked out there than you thought. Plus, as a budding lesbian, you should at least see someone else's vulva, to see if it's something you think you could develop a taste for. So to speak."

I blushed at her phrasing. "Monica, you're terrible. It did look very nice, though."

She laughed briefly then turned serious. "Tell me. What are you feeling about all this right now?"

"Well, all I wanted was to humble myself before my constituents," I said glumly. "And preclude any chance of seeking higher office. I guess my walk was a resounding success on both counts. But I think I bit off way more than I could chew."

"Maybe so. But you really pulled it off. And like a champ, too. Shelly, you're still a virgin aren't you?"

"Yes. But I do masturbate a lot. And something else. When that float broke down, and I was standing there naked in the middle of the street with everyone staring at me, I had an orgasm."

"I know. I was following you along. Believe me, it wasn't easy pushing my way through all those rabid onlookers. That was a fear orgasm, wasn't it?"

"How did you know about that?"

"I've been around a lot longer than you, and, as a reporter, I've seen, or heard, just about everything."

She sat there looking at me for a while, then said, "Shelly, I've figured you out."

"Uh, oh."

"No, I think you'll like it. You are the most honest and sincere person I've ever met. You're guileless and don't have a malicious bone in your body. You live to help other people. You're innocent and naive, and people will take advantage of you because of that, maybe even hurt you, but please don't ever change. What you did today was the most splendidly unselfish act I've ever witnessed, and that you didn't enjoy it but only endured it is what made it so bold. And special. I know you could never run for higher office now, but if you just keep doing what you're doing, including on every 4th of July, this town will still be reelecting you when you're 100. And by the way, if you ever need any advice, particularly about the press, or if you just want some one to talk to, call me. Oh, and if I ever become a lesbian, or even bisexual, I'm going to burn you to the ground."

"Thank you. I'll take you up on that, the talking part, anyway. Maybe even the other thing, too. But I don't think anyone will want to see their 100-year-old mayor marching down the street naked."

She smiled and said, "You might be surprised. The older a town gets, the more it embraces its traditions. And I think you just started one today."

She rearranged herself, pulled her car away from the curb and drove me the short distance to Sally's car. As Sally began to drive me back to my own car, she looked over at me and asked, "Well?"

"It wasn't what I expected."

"Better? Worse?"

"Much, much worse."

"I thought it would be. So, are you going to do it again next year?"

"Yes."

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