Saturday's Storyteller: "Last time I checked, private nudity was legal."
by Belinda Roddie
"Last time I checked, private nudity was legal."
Lawrence was pretty sure he had gone blind for a brief moment - at least, up until he saw the glimpse of denim in the periphery of his vision. Erik was very sheepishly pulling on his jeans, his face more gray than red as he looked upon his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend sitting on the battered couch watching Pulp Fiction. Samuel L. Jackson's voice seemed somehow more disorienting than it usually was at the moment, with the two young men staring awkwardly at each other for some time.
"Right." Leslie pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. "I don't think Larry and I have any tiffs with...um...'private nudity'...but private is private, dude."
Erik hung his head. "I thought you guys were out."
(Deep down, Lawrence wished he were out at the pizza place still. Or at least a little unhinged from cheap beer to endure this.)
"No, man," he said, sighing. "We've been here for a couple of hours."
His face twitching a bit, Erik excused himself and stumbled back into his room. Leslie gave a rather apologetic look to Lawrence, who still wanted soap for his eyes.
"If it makes you feel better," she murmured, wrapping an arm around Lawrence's waist, "I was this close to laughing."
"I don't know if that does make me feel better."
"Okay, then you're a mammoth against a muskrat. Be happy."
Lawrence laughed just as onscreen, John Travolta shot Phil LaMarr in the face.
***
Sherman was fast asleep in Erik's bed. In the other bed was Cindy. She was sweaty and naked and sleeping without a comforter. From a distance, she looked more like a man than her sleeping counterpart was.
Erik settled down in front his computer, still shaken from unintentionally flaunting his "stuff" at Lawrence and Leslie, and didn't bother zipping his fly. If he had really wanted to show off, he would have at least worn make-up and a boa. Now all he could do was groan as he plugged in his headphones and turned on the first punk rock album he could find.
Last time I checked, private nudity was legal. Where the fuck did he think of that? It certainly was an original response to Lawrence's rather sharpshooter-appropriate question. But regardless, it wasn't something Erik was proud of. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and felt his brain skip onto the remarkable tangent of whether or not he would be bald at the age of twenty.
When the music got to him, he went out onto the patio and lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled around Erik's bare chest like a living, breathing dragon tattoo. Somewhere in his subconscious, he was back home in his parents' garage, jammed inside the latest high school cheerleader he had flirted with at the local burger place. Those were the days.
***
"Honey, have you seen the ladle?" Harry asked Sherman, his arm buried deep within the cavernous drawer that held all the house's spare cutlery.
Sherman was playing the latest "kill all the damn Nazis" video game, his fingers hot against the buttons of the controller. His face was decorated with ceremonious creases as he sought out pixelated glory.
"Hon."
"No," Sherman said, without looking away from the TV. "I haven't."
Harry's upper lip quivered beneath his John Waters mustache as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the milk carton. The dairy had curdled again. He would have to buy a new carton on his next grocery trip.
He missed Sherman's kisses.
***
Lisa was Harry's ex-wife. She worked as a maid at the closest Holiday Inn and lived in one of the spare rooms. Her manager didn't mind it. He was more than understanding. He probably still tasted her in his mouth.
She was going to eat another store bought container of loaded mashed potatoes for dinner, the microwave serving as the core of her culinary artistry. She was gaining weight and knew it, but she hardly cared. Bacon bits and cheese felt better to her than a slim waist and angular hips.
In the room next to her, an older couple was planning out their next trip to San Francisco. The city never got old for them. Especially when it came to the queers. They took lots of pictures with the handsome, speedo-wearing men who participated in the typical pride parades. Some of them looked a lot like Freddie Mercury.
The microwave dinged loudly and Lisa smiled. Fifteen hundred calories in the form of starch were waiting for her. She could feel herself salivate. This was better than sex.
***
There's a young man running naked across all of suburbia. He's scared out of his mind. His wife just threatened to cut him up with a machete. And now he's just running.
Never feeling strain. Never stopping to catch his breath. Lactic acid is simply a drug to him. He just keeps going.
He finds a condemned house to spend the night in. It's January, but the cold isn't getting to him. He digs himself a bed in the broken floorboards and sleeps. He doesn't wake up until he sees red and blue lights in his dreams.
Officer Lawrence Jeremy is gawking at him. He had already endured his roommate Erik's "weaponry" three days ago. He wasn't expecting to deal with his doppelganger.
At least, he thinks it's his doppelganger. It doesn't help that he's got the same complexion. And the same thinning hair. And the same punchline.
"Last time I checked, officer...private nudity was legal."
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Josh Low.
"Last time I checked, private nudity was legal."
Lawrence was pretty sure he had gone blind for a brief moment - at least, up until he saw the glimpse of denim in the periphery of his vision. Erik was very sheepishly pulling on his jeans, his face more gray than red as he looked upon his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend sitting on the battered couch watching Pulp Fiction. Samuel L. Jackson's voice seemed somehow more disorienting than it usually was at the moment, with the two young men staring awkwardly at each other for some time.
"Right." Leslie pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. "I don't think Larry and I have any tiffs with...um...'private nudity'...but private is private, dude."
Erik hung his head. "I thought you guys were out."
(Deep down, Lawrence wished he were out at the pizza place still. Or at least a little unhinged from cheap beer to endure this.)
"No, man," he said, sighing. "We've been here for a couple of hours."
His face twitching a bit, Erik excused himself and stumbled back into his room. Leslie gave a rather apologetic look to Lawrence, who still wanted soap for his eyes.
"If it makes you feel better," she murmured, wrapping an arm around Lawrence's waist, "I was this close to laughing."
"I don't know if that does make me feel better."
"Okay, then you're a mammoth against a muskrat. Be happy."
Lawrence laughed just as onscreen, John Travolta shot Phil LaMarr in the face.
***
Sherman was fast asleep in Erik's bed. In the other bed was Cindy. She was sweaty and naked and sleeping without a comforter. From a distance, she looked more like a man than her sleeping counterpart was.
Erik settled down in front his computer, still shaken from unintentionally flaunting his "stuff" at Lawrence and Leslie, and didn't bother zipping his fly. If he had really wanted to show off, he would have at least worn make-up and a boa. Now all he could do was groan as he plugged in his headphones and turned on the first punk rock album he could find.
Last time I checked, private nudity was legal. Where the fuck did he think of that? It certainly was an original response to Lawrence's rather sharpshooter-appropriate question. But regardless, it wasn't something Erik was proud of. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and felt his brain skip onto the remarkable tangent of whether or not he would be bald at the age of twenty.
When the music got to him, he went out onto the patio and lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled around Erik's bare chest like a living, breathing dragon tattoo. Somewhere in his subconscious, he was back home in his parents' garage, jammed inside the latest high school cheerleader he had flirted with at the local burger place. Those were the days.
***
"Honey, have you seen the ladle?" Harry asked Sherman, his arm buried deep within the cavernous drawer that held all the house's spare cutlery.
Sherman was playing the latest "kill all the damn Nazis" video game, his fingers hot against the buttons of the controller. His face was decorated with ceremonious creases as he sought out pixelated glory.
"Hon."
"No," Sherman said, without looking away from the TV. "I haven't."
Harry's upper lip quivered beneath his John Waters mustache as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the milk carton. The dairy had curdled again. He would have to buy a new carton on his next grocery trip.
He missed Sherman's kisses.
***
Lisa was Harry's ex-wife. She worked as a maid at the closest Holiday Inn and lived in one of the spare rooms. Her manager didn't mind it. He was more than understanding. He probably still tasted her in his mouth.
She was going to eat another store bought container of loaded mashed potatoes for dinner, the microwave serving as the core of her culinary artistry. She was gaining weight and knew it, but she hardly cared. Bacon bits and cheese felt better to her than a slim waist and angular hips.
In the room next to her, an older couple was planning out their next trip to San Francisco. The city never got old for them. Especially when it came to the queers. They took lots of pictures with the handsome, speedo-wearing men who participated in the typical pride parades. Some of them looked a lot like Freddie Mercury.
The microwave dinged loudly and Lisa smiled. Fifteen hundred calories in the form of starch were waiting for her. She could feel herself salivate. This was better than sex.
***
There's a young man running naked across all of suburbia. He's scared out of his mind. His wife just threatened to cut him up with a machete. And now he's just running.
Never feeling strain. Never stopping to catch his breath. Lactic acid is simply a drug to him. He just keeps going.
He finds a condemned house to spend the night in. It's January, but the cold isn't getting to him. He digs himself a bed in the broken floorboards and sleeps. He doesn't wake up until he sees red and blue lights in his dreams.
Officer Lawrence Jeremy is gawking at him. He had already endured his roommate Erik's "weaponry" three days ago. He wasn't expecting to deal with his doppelganger.
At least, he thinks it's his doppelganger. It doesn't help that he's got the same complexion. And the same thinning hair. And the same punchline.
"Last time I checked, officer...private nudity was legal."
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Josh Low.
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