CHAPTER EIGHT

When I got tired of lolling around soaking up sunshine, I got the typewriter out again and worked on the book. I put in two more hours and finished up the outline. It was nineteen pages long. I leaned back in my chair with my feet up on the porch railing, reading what I had written and liking it. Maybe you're not supposed to like your own stuff. I don't know; I had never written a book before. But everyone in the outline seemed to be a real solid person to me, someone I could summon up practically in the flesh. And every incident seemed to grow out of the one before it. I felt satisfied. I had been terribly afraid that I would poop out, that I'd go back to Wacker Drive in a few months with no novel written, like plenty of other hot-air boys who make a big stink about how they could be making better use of their talents than writing ad copy.

But that wasn't going to happen to me. My book was going to get written.

I took a pencil and went over the outline, blocking it off into chapters. It broke up pretty well into twenty-one chapters. I figured I could do an average of three chapters a week. That way it would take me seven weeks to get the first draft written, if I stuck to my schedule. Then I could stash it away for a week to let it cool, come back to it, and spend four more weeks editing it into shape, cutting and rewriting, and finally sweating it into what I thought would be the finished draft. When I got back to Chicago I could give the book to a typist, and by the middle of September it would be ready to go off to a publisher.

For a second I had a nice vision of the finished book, typed with a nice dark ribbon on crinkly white paper, lying in a box just before I packed it up and shipped it off to New York. It was a nice vision.

But I told myself you didn't write books in your dreams. You had to sweat them out, word by word, before that magic final day when it was all neat and packed up to go to the publisher.

I would begin Chapter One tomorrow, I told myself.

I riffed the sheets of the outline together, stuck a paper clip on them, and carefully slipped them into the folder. I laid that folder away in my dresser drawer as reverently as a new mother tucking her baby into his crib. Then I went outside.

It was three in the afternoon. The sun was strong, now, and I remembered to wear my sunglasses. I remembered how it had been at breakfast, all cloudy and cold, but that seemed long ago, on some other day.

The place was hopping. I guess there were close to forty-five people on the premises, now—getting near to capacity—and wherever you looked there were naked people having a good time. Some were just sprawled out on blankets, writing letters or reading books or dozing. The volleyball game had been resumed and was going along full blast. I watched it for a while, marveling at the way Joanie and Dr. Richards and Ernie Bryan and the others batted that ball around as though their lives depended on it.

Before they had a chance to invite me to join the game, I moved away, heading down the hill toward the lake area. Four teenage boys and two wiry-looking teenage girls were batting fungoes on the baseball diamond. All they wore were sneakers and baseball gloves. I thought back to my own teens and tried to picture myself chasing fly balls in my birthday suit while a bare-fannied girl of fifteen took the throw-ins. Somehow I couldn't see it at all. Casual nudity between the sexes wasn't the way we had been brought up. I remembered the photos Eddie Root had passed around when we were fourteen, the photos of potbellied naked models who stared tiredly at the camera and made no attempt to look glamorous. Those photos had really heated us up.

But here—

A nicely-developed kid of sixteen was batting grounders now. He pounded one down to third and a lean, tanned blonde girl gobbled it up like a pro and rifled it across the diamond to the kid at first. The fact that the third-baseman had a nice pair of breasts didn't attract any attention at all. Nor was the third-baseman at all upset by the exceedingly mature maleness of the kid at the plate. And the center-fielder, a wiry girl whose breasts were just mere points, was yelling for one to be hit to her. "Come on, Mickey, hit one over my head!"

Mickey hit one over her head. She raced back, lost it in the sun, went tumbling headlong. The boy in left field retrieved the ball, tossed it in, and went over to help the girl to her feet. She came up grinning and yelled for another chance.

It couldn't have been a sharper contrast to the kind of adolescence 99% of kids have. I remembered my summer at camp, and how we spent hours watching the girls taking showers, peeking through a knot-hole in the showerhouse wall. That kind of hole-and-corner spying was unknown here. And no loss, either.

I went past the baseball diamond and over to the tennis court. Nick Riccio and Lorraine were on one court, volleying. On the adjoining court was a couple that had arrived that morning. A fellow of about twenty-five, a girl slightly younger. They weren't married, just good friends going away together for a vacation. She was a creamy-skinned blonde, very fair, and to protect herself from the sun she had donned an eyeshade and a kind of bolero jacket that covered her shoulders but did not quite reach down below her breasts. That was all she had on, except for tennis sneakers.

I came across Meehan down near the dock, talking to one of the new waitresses. Not the skinny one, but a full-blown brunette with oversize breasts. They didn't seem to mind company, so I went over to join them. Meehan was examining a sun-hat that the girl had given him.

"Look at this thing, Al," he said, holding it up for my inspection. "Al Fieldston, Mary Kinowski. It's damn clever, Al."

I smiled at the girl and took the sun-hat from him. It had a zipper pocket in front. I opened the pocket and looked in. It contained a comb, a pair of sunglasses, and a pack of cigarettes.

Meehan said, "Now you know where nudists carry their personal effects. This is a nudist special, manufactured for use here."

"You don't have to carry things in your hat, though," Mary said. "A lot of men tuck things into the tops of their socks."

I laughed. I hadn't been faced with the problem of where to keep things. My crewcut removed any bother of carrying a comb, and I rarely smoked more than a couple of cigarettes a day. As for carrying around money or keys—you just didn't do that here.

Mary looked up at me. "Jack tells me you're an advertising man," she said. "Which agency?"

I told her. She smiled. "That's what I thought," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you remember me?"

I looked at her, aghast. "Am I supposed to?"

"I worked there last year in the secretarial pool. You made a pass at me during a coffee break."

I felt myself turning red all over. I closed my eyes, trying to remember. In my imagination I clothed Mary, covering her ample breasts and heavy thighs, and in a moment I had my picture—of a dark-haired, stacked-looking girl who had caught my fancy momentarily the winter before.

"Now I remember," I said. "But—but you look so different with—"

"—with clothes on?" she asked. She stood up, patting her tummy in an earthy gesture. "Maybe it was the girdle. I always wore a tight girdle in the office. Maybe you just didn't think I had such a big butt."

We laughed over that. Score another one for this weird nudist world. Boss could meet secretary, banker meet borrower, and the shock of nudity would blank out recognition. Sometimes even a familiar face might look strange because the unencumbered body was not what you expected. The Mary I remembered had been bosomy but well laced. This spreading full-bodied girl looked entirely different.

The afternoon passed pleasantly. I swam, played some volleyball, even got a couple of turns at bat on the ball field. I popped a couple up, then lined a sizzler down to third, but the husky kid playing there scooped it up without batting an eye. On my next swing I hit a fly to center, and watched the lithe blonde girl make the catch. I felt full of pep, better than I had felt in ages. By dinnertime I was ravenously hungry. The day had turned cool again, and I went up to the mess hall fully dressed.

There were hamburgers for dinner. I guess I ate about a dozen of them. I asked for and got some beer to wash them down.

Beer was the strongest stuff you could consume in the camp, and the supply was strictly doled out—one can at a time, and you had to prove you were holding it before you got another. The colony directors didn't want anybody drunk and disorderly on the premises.

One beer was all I wanted, though. For someone whose daily routine had included ten or twelve ounces of gin as a matter of course, I had surprisingly little interest in alcohol. I felt so healthy at the moment that the mere thought of drinking a martini was distasteful.

Bonnie cornered me after dinner.

She was dressed, more or less, wearing a thin T-shirt through which her breasts and nipples were clearly visible, and a pair of bermuda shorts. She came up to me before I could escape and said, "Al, can I talk to you?"

"Sure." What else was I supposed to say?

"Al, come to my cabin tonight. Cabin Thirteen, on the left-hand side. I want you."

Just as simple as that.

I hesitated for a moment before I said, "Please, Bonnie, don't start up."

"I kept away from you all day!! Just—just come to my cabin."

I shook my head. "Tonight's my night for celibacy."

"Darling—"

"Look," I said with some firmness. "We had our little interlude, I told you. Can't you find someone else for tonight? What about that fellow I saw you with this morning, eh?"

Scorn made Bonnie look more popeyed than ever. "He's a boy. I need a man, Al."

"Not this one," I said.

"I'm not ugly, am I? I'm as attractive as that waitress of yours. Or is it the Richards slut you're after tonight? Anyone but me, eh, Al?"

"Come off it, Bonnie," I said annoyedly. "I'm not interested in any of them. I just want a good night's sleep tonight. Clear?"

Her shoulders sagged. "All right," she murmured in a theatrical whisper. "Take me and cast me aside. Just like all men. You—"

I didn't give her a chance to finish. Nodding curtly, I strode away from her and into the Social Hall.

The program for tonight was movies. Amateur movies, taken at the colony the summer before by Dr. Richards, and edited over the winter. I entered the Social Hall and found Joanie Baker and a couple of others busily getting benches lined up and the screen assembled. Joanie was more completely dressed than I had ever seen her before—a button-front sweater and a pair of toreador pants. The sweater was open in front, leaving her breasts all but bare, and the pants molded her figure sensuously. I grinned at her and pitched in with the benches. After five minutes the place was in order for the evening presentation.

"Whew!" Joanie said. "I'm all sweated up." Unself-consciously, she slipped out of her sweater and used it to blot up the perspiration on her breasts and arms. "I saw Bonnie talking to you again. If she's bothering you we can give her a warning."

"No, leave her be," I said. "I think she'll call off the hounds now."

"Let's hope so. You must be all tired out after today," she said brightly. "I saw you playing baseball, and volleyball, and swimming—"

"I had a busy day," I told her. "I got a lot of writing done too."

"I'm glad," she said. She flashed that wonderful girl-scout smile and I knew she really was glad. Then, splendid breasts bobbing, she skipped off to get the projector ready. Dr. Richards walked in, carrying a can of film. Behind him came Sandra. She was fully dressed, looking seductive and kittenish in her tight sweater and tighter blue jeans. She gave me a slow, deliberately sensuous look, and walked on past.

The colonists began to assemble now. It was definitely a cool night, and there wasn't an exposed thigh or buttock to be seen—nor bosom either, after Joanie donned her sweater again. We were quite a decently attired assemblage that evening as the projector was snapped on.

The film was called, with a coyness that failed to amuse me, SUNNY DAYS AT SUNLAND. It was eight-millimeter stuff, in color. There was no soundtrack, but somebody had dubbed in a musical accompaniment. It was strictly home-movie stuff, but not bad, as home-movie stuff goes. And if the footage had fallen into the right hands it could have made quite a nifty item for the college fraternity set.

The film opened with a solid background, flesh-colored, which turned out to be a woman's back right up against the camera. She began to walk away from the lens, and it was easy to see that that back and those buttocks could belong only to Joanie Baker. When she was twenty feet away she turned and waved at the camera, front view, an effect that could blind someone who wasn't prepared for a body of such splendor.

Then the camera showed Joanie bounding across the lawn, laughing in delight as she ran, over to the volleyball court. A moment later a game was in full swing, and the camera picked up some amusing angle shots of jiggling breasts and backsides that caused general laughter. I recognized about half the players. There was a good deal of "There I am!" stuff from the audience, as well as identification of campers who had not returned this year.

After the volleyball match, the camera showed some activity down at the swimming area, and then an inning or two of a nude and coeducational baseball game. A highlight of that came when Don Riemann tagged a girl out at second base by slapping the ball down hard on her plump posterior. I caught sight of a younger-looking Sandra Richards in the outfield. The camera panned to a couple of the teenage set, who giggled shrilly as they saw their immature selves of a year earlier.

After visits to the crafts shop, the mess hall, and the music room, the film concluded with an end-of-season event, the coronation of the King and Queen of Sunland. I saw Don Riemann and Joanie Baker marching in an imposing procession, wearing nothing but gilded crowns, while at their sides walked two nice-looking teenagers I didn't know, the Prince and Princess of last year's contest. There was a pageant, some nude gymnastics, and the picture came to its end. I joined in the general applause. I was almost coming to feel like a veteran member of the colony myself, by this time.

For gags, Dr. Richards then put on a black-and-white film that had been made eight years earlier. There were gasps and screams whenever anyone familiar appeared on the screen. I was duly amused to see a breastless and quite unseductive-looking Sandra wander across the screen. There was a shot of Joanie, too, looking about fourteen years old, already big and good-looking but with small breasts and narrow hips. She was shown with a woman of about thirty-eight, identified as her mother, and I saw where Joanie's good looks came from.

When the films were over, refreshments were served and dance records were played. I took a couple of turns on the dance floor—one with bulky Margaret, for whom I felt sorry, one with Mary Kinowski, and one with Harriet.

It was Harriet who told me, "It's only on the cold nights that we ever do any social dancing here. Dr. Richards won't allow it unless people are dressed."

I was puzzled at first. But I could readily see how nude social dancing could violate the canons of decency. I held Harriet tight against me, feeling her hard breasts thrusting into me, and our bodies ground sensuously together as we moved. Obviously it wouldn't be wise to permit public nude dancing of this sort.

Harriet was interested in having me go back to her cabin with her, but I ducked out of the invitation. It had been a full day for me, and I was dead tired. I just wanted to get into the sack and shut my eyes.

At ten o'clock I returned to the cabin. With reveille at half past seven, I wasn't in much mood for late-owl stuff here. Meehan was nowhere around. I figured he was out somewhere with Mary Kinowski, trying to make some time with her.

I drifted off to sleep.

Sometimes later I heard footsteps on the porch and I came up out of my slumbers. It was Meehan coming home, at last, I figured. Just for the hell of it, I opened my eyes and glanced at the luminous dial of my watch. Ten minutes to five. Meehan had really made a night of it, I thought. I settled back on my pillow and screwed my eyes tight shut.

The door of my room began slowly to open.

I listened to the creaking.

"Meehan?" I asked.

"No," came the reply.

It was a woman's voice.

I looked up sleepily. The cabin was pitch-black, and all I could make out was the feminine figure standing in the doorway. The door inched closed. The figure tiptoed toward me.

Angrily, I remembered that Bonnie had begged me to come to her cabin that night. I figured that she had waited all night and, with dawn on the way, had decided to come to me instead. But I was too sleepy to make much of a fuss about it.

She crossed the room and slid into bed next to me. She was nude, her body warm and soft. She took my hands and put them to her breasts, and I felt firm round globes that throbbed with desire. Her hands wandered over my body, and I gasped in sudden desire. I was annoyed that Bonnie was making this much of a pest out of herself, but the moment her hands touched me I knew I couldn't resist. I wasn't going to throw her out of my bed.

Her breathing was harsh against me. My eyes remained closed, and I let her toy with me, and my hands cupped the soft fullness of her breasts, feeling the nipples hard and sharp and hot against my palms. The bed creaked with the steady motion of her hips as she rocked back and forth, waiting impatiently for me to take her. But I was still half asleep, and I was in no hurry. I stroked her body, caressing her, making her gasp with longing.

Our lips met. Her tongue slipped into my mouth. Her hands caught my shoulders, pulling me over as she tried to slip beneath me. She had a sweet, musky smell—the smell of an animal in heat. I clung tight to her, no longer able to control my body, no longer annoyed because she was plaguing me this way.

She drew me down on top of her.

I nestled on the firm pillow of her breasts. Her legs parted to receive me. She gasped in pleasure.

"Give it to me, Al! Give me everything!"

The voice was not Bonnie's.

I opened my eyes and let them become accustomed to the dark. I stared down in surprise.

The girl beneath me was not Bonnie at all.

Not Bonnie at all.

She was Sandra.

Sixteen-year-old Sandra. Jailbait Sandra. Writhing in a frenzy beneath me on the bed.