100 Naked Ladies Jumping the Fence

The doctor gave me something for the troubles with itching I've been having lately. It turned out the problem was a mix of poison ivy and chiggers. A bad combination. So now I'm taking medicine for it, which the doctor said would probably keep me wired and awake nights. Of course her words were repeated in my mind a thousand times as I tried to get to sleep last night. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut, or said you'll sleep like a baby. Because I know this is 80% mental. If you think it, it happens. I could not get to sleep, whatever I tried.

I thought, I could count sheep, then systematically aroused a mental flock in my mind, jumping as they do, one by one, over a fence in a pleasant pasture. I know from frequent experience with jumping sheep that they're used to it, they don't care, and, anyway, it's usually 10 minutes effort tops, nothing to complain about. And they're free to go back to whatever they were doing.

But the sheep weren't really catching my fancy, and I kept getting up to check one thing or another. Back to bed, then I was up again with an idea I had to jot it down, etc. My inner voice said, "You're not even giving it a chance." To which I snapped, "Yeah, well, you don't know what I'm doing, so shut up and leave me the hell alone!" Talk about wired, cussing out my inner voice! I owe myself an apology.

Then the idea suddenly hit me, Why not call forth a bunch of naked ladies to jump the fence? Just the prospect of lining up 100 girls would be appealing, yeah?  But it turned out to be harder and less satisfying than I had hoped. For one thing, they're not sheep. They had many complaints: "You brought us out here for this?" "Where are we anyway?" "Why are we naked?" And a few covered themselves like they were ashamed.

I looked over at a bus driver, and he shrugged, as if to say, "They've been that way the whole trip." I had to wonder: I only had this idea five minutes ago and someone organized a trip, which would've taken hours? Someone had to find the ladies, get them to consent to a trip, explain to them they would be nude, find the buses, the bus drivers, and others to take care of their comfort needs along the way, etc. The logistics being extraordinary for such a potentially minor outing -- with me likely to go to sleep in 10 minutes -- it had to be UPS! And who's paying them? Who's taking out the taxes, keeping track of the bookwork, and all that? Life is complicated. You can't eat, sleep, or even die without it being big business.

Regardless of all that -- and I never found out the answers -- there they were, 100 of the finest naked women this side of my wildest fantasies as a 14-year-old, which were normally far more exciting than those of a 60-year-old. A lot of these gals were clearly old enough to know better, and actually one had no qualms about ruining it for me. "I ain't jumping over no damned fence, sugga," was what this flashy woman said. I helped her with her purple kimono -- I could tell she'd had a hard scrabble life -- and suggested she sit this one out on the bus.

That left me with 99 who were more or less game for jumping the fence. That is, after we wasted a bunch of time talking it over. "No, seriously, I really want you to jump the fence." I got various responses. Again, some were covering themselves, talking it over with boyfriends, saying they wouldn't, etc., and, "Who are you anyway?" I patiently explained again, "I'm just guy trying to get to sleep." Then I had a question of my own: "What are you doing naked in my thoughts if you don't know me?" "This is no good," one of them said, dismissively. But once the others started, she didn't sit out.

But then it became very clear very fast that the jumping wasn't going to work. Only a few gals managed to jump. We had some dives, some side straddles, and one Fosbury flop. In each case they were banged up pretty badly. These girls weren't at all used to the basics of fence jumping, which UPS might have considered when picking them. After a while, if I wanted to salvage anything, I really had no choice but to simply open the gate and let them walk through.

OK, so they're walking and I'm counting: "1, take a look and let her go. 2, take a look at let her go. 3, take a look..." Then the bus driver came up to me and said, "What are you doing, bro, just counting? I'm not complaining but that's it?" "Yes," I said, "were you expecting something more?" Then I looked across the field and saw such an assortment of beds, bathtubs, hotel attendants, and druggists stocked with all manner of protection, that I could only think, "Such logistics, UPS had to have done this!" But someone had gotten ahead of himself, since counting was all I had in mind.

And yet ... as they passed, 1, 2, 3, etc., it was working its special magic on me -- something of the sparkle of life that you don't get counting sheep. 40, 41, 42. A lot of bowing and blowing of kisses. 50, 51, 52 ... hey, don't forget 55, wow! By now I had really stretched out and was taking it in, stretched on my bed, that is. We got to 60-something and I felt like Hefner, warm in his terrycloth bathrobe. The 70s passed, which was an international group, mostly Eastern European. Lots of odd looking hairdos and tough muscular gals doing boastful leg squats, very unappealing. By the time the 80s passed, I was happy for the change, as these were some of the ladies from home, about my age and relatively uncomfortable in the nude. But they were reasonably well-kept, better than me, frankly.

Then the 90s came, and -- please, may I have a moment? -- we were getting much warmer. I literally fell in love 10 times. But the love I had for the first nine was nothing like the love I had for the last one, Number 99! I love you, 99! UPS kept the best till last, the sweetest, coolest, and most beautiful girl of my dreams!

I should explain. She looked like everything I've ever wanted. You know? Miss July meets Farmer's Daughter meets Mom-as-a-Teenager meets Joan Jett meets Hayley Mills. And a great personality, whoa! And she also writes a blog, the female version of mine, and she's also very obsessive/compulsive! The perfect match! We were locked there in a feverish embrace, rolling around, grabbing one another like the supermarket sweepstakes. I was going for the bigger stuff, almost too much to handle. She also was going for the bigger stuff, which I know by experience can be dynamite.

Suddenly, and unwelcome to one and all, there was a clouding over of the sky and a torrential downpour. The heavens opened with such fury, it couldn't be stopped, a terrific deluge. Everyone ran for cover, myself and my darling 99 included. But as I trudged along, my feet became sore from sinking in the mud, and I felt myself becoming so sleepy that I collapsed. I was only able to look up once more, and saw 99 had also slipped in the mud. But by now I was gone, I couldn't help her.

The Next Generation - What Do I Care?

I was out having ice cream. After a while, quite a few other customers were there. Suddenly, I noticed they were all women. I was the only guy. It made me think of what might happen if all the restrictions and mores of civilization were suddenly removed, like if we were all stranded hopelessly on a desert island.

In that case, they'd probably notice me sitting there, instead of being oblivious. As it was, they were having ordinary conversations, unaware of my presence. But on a desert island, and as the situation became obviously hopeless, they might have different ideas. Such as what I might have to offer, in addition to building huts and keeping down weeds.

But I can picture myself as not all that interested. Because I'm no pushover. I might even protest, "Ladies, I'm 58!" They'd probably think, "Beggars can't be choosers," which is true. I imagine they'd try to sweet talk me, "58 is the new 28." To which I'd have to counter, "I used to be 28. It's nothing like 58."

In this scenario, they'd have a big women's council, trying to pressure me into bringing satisfaction to them, which I would resist with everything in me. And it's not like there was anything wrong with them. There were a few younger than me, like 35-45. They didn't look too bad. I saw some tight jeans and hips adequate to any task. There were a couple high school girls, probably underage, depending on what jurisdiction the island was in. I wouldn't touch them.

But still, I don't want the pressure that goes with being the only guy. In desperation, suddenly, they're trying to force me, making me flee to a remote part of the island. I'm hiding out in the trees, in a cave, etc., and not wanting to make a sound lest they hear me. Finally, a few of them get ahold of me and I'm strung up on a stick, hands and feet, being carried upside down back to the council headquarters, around a raging bonfire. They take me into a hut, manned by their queen, who tries to reason with me: "We are going to need to raise up the next generation. We're looking to you to father children who will keep our lines going."

My obvious protest is that we are on an island, we are not the only people in the world. There's no reason for us to worry about the next generation. But she makes a good point, that the legacy of some of these ladies is right here. Maybe they want to have kids. And maybe they want to pass on a heritage to them, how Fate brought us to this island to learn lessons and pass on a heritage.

But I'm very blunt: "The next generation? What do I care? I've never cared about the next generation!" So I resist the best I can, but I have to say, forgetting about the next generation, a little human companionship might do me some good. I've got my eyes on those tight jeans. She's standing in one spot, reaching over to the left to get something. The right leg comes up off the ground. I'm sitting on a bench, getting an eyeful. Is it by accident or design? Nothing happens on this beach by accident, I decide. It's all meant as a seduction, and it's only by the greatest willpower that I don't take her right then and there!

I try to retreat to the other side of the island again. Perhaps I can spell out SOS on the one of the beaches with coconuts. But I look up -- it's been 10 years and they're all very desperate -- and here they come, waving machetes. Making it clear that I'm either going to submit or they'll extract what they need with the machetes, raising up children by hook or crook.

In the end, I have no choice but to relax and everything gives way. All my objections melt in the first rush of release. Next thing I know -- and I would've never guessed it -- they're lined up outside my hut morning, noon, and night, wearing me out like crazy. The years pass. I now have a number of grown sons to handle the heavy lifting with the ladies. Obviously, inbreeding is a concern, but what do I care? I've never cared about the next generation...

Then, at long last, I have all the time to do what I want. I sit and look at the ocean and hope someday they'll rescue us. At least me. I'll leave the next generation behind.

Incredible Atmosphere At This Bar

The minute I walked in the room, she could tell I was a man of distinction.

I was dressed like usual, including your usual brimmed cap. Leading the solitary woman at the bar to ask me if I'd been fishing. Oh, baby, with a come on like that, I love it! "No," I said, "I haven't been fishing for years. Why, do I smell bad?"

"Maybe you do but I can't tell from here," she was direct, "it's just the cap made me think of fishing, that's all."

"No, and I'm not really a cap guy, but my doctor thought I needed to wear one, you know," (I gestured at the ceiling where the sun would be if we were outside and it was daylight), "the dangers of skin cancer..."

Right away, I thought, no one mentions skin cancer, that's crazy, and I'm not -- I'm probably not -- in any danger of skin cancer. But that's what most people think, then, WHAM!, the doctor lays the bad news on them.

I looked around. This bar had an incredible atmosphere, small, cozy, a sweet little place that no one ever goes, except for a group of people out on the fire escape, a few people in the front room, then off to the side a few more, then me, then the bartender, and finally the solitary woman at the bar.

The bartender told her, "I'm cutting you off." She didn't seem sloshed, but she was loose enough to ask about my cap.

She clinked her glass a little, giving the ice something to do. I looked down, thinking this would be a great time to share a laugh if only something funny would happen. The bartender needed to go to the bathroom, so who would he trust to watch the tip jar? It was just her and me. I knew he could trust me; we've met before, whether he realized it or not. But she was telling him he could trust her.

He unzipped his pants and went off to the bathroom, perhaps not in that order. That left two people in the actual barroom, me ... and her. This doesn't happen to me very often, like this is the first time. I told her about the community event I'd just come in from. Then she got a call and complained that her phone doesn't work very well if her fingers are wet.

At that point, I got up and made my way to another room. To be, as it turned out, by myself in the dark. In the room you see in the picture above, with the three dim lights. Incredible atmosphere at this bar!

The bartender came out of the bathroom and was spiffing up the place. He wondered aloud whether the woman at the bar had bothered me. I said no, that I just wanted to be in this other room for a while. I needed to get the picture of the three lights for this blog. So there I am, arranging the tables, propping up the camera. This is one of those cameras where you have to push a virtual button (iPod) to take the picture, so that's what I did. It's a lovely picture, isn't it?

Then I dialed a service I subscribe to, a labeling service, and told them the caption I wanted to put on it, "INCREDIBLE ATMOSPHERE AT THIS BAR." I sat there nursing a Guinness while they worked on it. Then they messaged me right away, so I had to pull the Guinness away from my breast and confirm that I got it back.

I couldn't help thinking later, in one of those reveries that men have -- even well-established, safe-living men like me -- of what might've happened with the solitary woman at the bar. "Hey baby, do you date younger men?" "What do you mean younger men? You're pressing 60!" "Yeah, but with just these three dim lights, I have to look 20 years younger!"

Then, let's say I was married. She'd go, "Are you married?" And I'd go, "My wife! God rest her soul!" "So she's passed on?" "No, I'm just saying God rest her soul!"