From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones; more from last summer...
Date: 29 Jan 93 06:22:08 GMT
From Nurse Jones,
[ANOTHER new post, untimely ripp'd from my Summer's diary...]
Summer '92
We took a vacation in the middle of last month and stayed at Jay's
parent's lake cabin in the wilds of Appalachia. Jay took us all
waterskiing. It's a lot easier than it looks. Certainly compared with
downhill snow skiing it's a snap. Of course Jay spent his summers on
the lake when he was a kid so he can ski backwards on one ski, the
showoff. He doesn't even like to ski anymore. He says sailing is much
more fun.
I agree, actually, but that's because I tried to hang onto the tow
rope after I fell and swallowed almost the entire lake and lost my
bikini top and very nearly my virginity. I'm telling you, all my sins
flashed before my eyes.
Well, okay... I couldn't actually hang on *that* long....
It sounds incredibly stupid, I know, but I just forgot to let go.
Twice. I mean, once you've fallen you remember to let go pretty
quickly, but in all the confusion your natural instinct is to hang on
to something, and I picked the rope handle instead of my top.
Anyway, that left me with only one other suit: a one piece thong-
backed black scrap of a thing that I bought on a dare and really only
intended to wear in more private places. Which was just fine with Jay
and Tom. And Neets.
Why do these things always happen to me?
Of course, whenever we went skiing after that, Jay buzzed other docks
so that everyone on the lake got the full scenic panorama.
So then I tried cutting off a tank top t-shirt to wear with my bikini
bottom, but I couldn't really swim anywhere public in it. The only
good thing about it was that it gave me a good excuse to not go
skiing: the t-shirt just wouldn't stay put and I couldn't let go of
the rope to pull it back down to where it should have been once I got
myself up and out of the water. Not that a wet t- shirt was doing much
good anyway. Besides, I had had my, er, fill of skiing.
I made up my mind to get another suit when we pulled the sailboat into
a marina for diesel fuel. The four of us were walking down this
boardwalky thing between the rows of boats and I was blithely chatting
to Neets when Jay snorted out a laugh because a large red-faced sailor
got smacked on the top of his head with a styrofoam cooler lid for
gawking at me. His wife waved the lid at him and told him that the
South had better *not* rise again, not on her vacation, and Jay's
abortive attempt to stifle a laugh did some minor damage to his
sinuses. At which point I woke up and realized that everybody and his
brother was staring at me, not just the red-faced guy rubbing his
head.
Jay said my makeshift top was so tight it didn't matter that you
couldn't see through it. "It's a shame it's dry," he said. "There's a
lot going on inside there." Of course, he just *had* to wait to point
this out to me until we were out in the middle of dozens of retirees
lounging on their boats, watching.
And of course my nipples instantly went all funny and I scurried back
down the dock with my arms artfully folded in front of me and got a
towel to drape strategically over my shoulders.
Sheesh.
Jay tried to persuade me that we wouldn't have to go near civilization
again so I didn't need to get another suit, but a few days later I
discovered that every day Neets was secretly cutting a little bit off
the bottom of my already-cut-off-enough- thankyouverymuch t-shirt. She
has a very primitive sense of humor, Neets. I pretended not to notice
for a while and just let it get shorter and shorter until it really
got so obvious that I was embarrassed to wear it even in front of Tom
so I went and bought another suit.
Jay and Tom moped around for two days and Neets adopted my ex-top as a
headband. Very comical, I'm sure. She's such a card.
Thank God I don't know anyone up there except Jay's parents. I managed
to get a towel around myself whenever they... well, you probably
aren't interested in my inlaws.
Besides, that's not what I wanted to write about anyway. We did
vacation things: we watched sunsets and went skinny dipping and cooked
marshmallows over a driftwood fire on the shore by the dock and went
camping in a quiet inlet on an uninhabited island. Most of the lake
has a red clay shoreline with rocks and tree roots, but there are
little secluded sandy beaches in the coves. Which is what I wanted to
tell you about.
There must be hundreds of these islands; we sailed over to one and
camped for a night. This place is a paradise. Believe it or not, there
were *no* mosquitos -- a miracle in the South. No stagnant water, I
guess. We anchored in a little cove and swam ashore with our things in
plastic garbage bags on a rubber raft.
There were these big rocks sticking out of the water and behind them
was a sheltered little sandy-bottomed lagoony sort of place. The water
was clear and warm from the sun and Neets and I washed our hair and
skinny dipped all by ourselves while the boys set about doing manly
camping sorts of things.
Not *that* kind of camping, you perverts. You know what I mean:
arguing over who was supposed to have brought the can opener, tearing
bits of cork out of the wine bottle with a swiss army knife instead of
a real corkscrew, starting a fire, which definitely should have been
done before solving the corkscrew problem -- those sorts of camping
things. One of them had to swim back to the boat for lighter fluid. A
real man would have done something resourceful. Rub two boy scouts
together. Whatever.
So anyway, Neets and I left them to it while we took a bath in the
sandy little lagoon. The water is so soft that your skin feels
wonderful afterward. And Neet's hair... well, she always has beautiful
hair. It was almost sunset and we were sitting on a rock in the
shallows, looking out across the lake at the glow and Neets was
playing with this big blob of red clay she had pulled out of the bank,
squishing it between her fingers.
She handed me the blob. "Feel this," she said.
"Yuck."
"But feel how smooth it is. It's like potting clay, except red."
I wasn't interested. "Lets watch the sunset," I said, handing the clay
back. I sat there next to her watching the reflections on the water,
not really paying much attention. When I looked back, she was holding
her leg out in front of her and it was smeared with the clay. It was a
kind of reddish orange and seemed to glow in the lambent (look it up,
Harlan) atmosphere.
She reached over and smeared the clay across my chest just above my
breasts.
"Hey," I protested.
"No, wait... it's not dirty. Look: it washes right off. See?" She
dipped her foot in the water and demonstrated. "And it's so smooth. I
bet it's like those mud packs they have in the european health spas. I
even bet it's good for your skin."
She took another swipe at me, this time cupping a breast in her hand
and covering me with more of the clay. She handed me a fistful of clay
and I smeared some on her arm, then on my own. She was right. It was
smooth, and it did feel... different. So just for the hell of it we
sat there and smeared clay over each other. She covered my torso and
then fingerpainted designs on me.
I started on her back but then she stood up and stepped away from me.
"Watch," she said. Her stomach was covered in the clay; she ran her
hands up her sides and over her breasts, leaving broad streaks of
bright reddish orange. Her tan lines magically disappeared. She looked
as though she was dressing herself in a skin-tight film, wiping it on.
She was intentionally trying to be erotic with this little
demonstration, but when I stepped toward her she stepped back again,
up on a rock in the shallows.
"Just watch," she said. It really was kind of seductive, the way she
wiped the color over her body and then looked at me for a reaction.
Except she seemed to be dressing rather than undressing. When she did
her legs she started at her ankles and it looked as though she were
pulling on stockings except they went all the way up to her hips: she
wrapped her clay-filled hands around her ankle and covered each leg in
almost one sweep. I watched while she stood there in the shallows and
covered herself from her neck to her ankles with the stuff. I guess
the weird thing was that it was so smooth and uniform. Her body was
all the same color.
"Do my face," she said. "Cover everything." I smoothed it around her
eyes; her eyebrows disappeared under the clay; I spread it under her
chin, on her neck, everywhere.
"Hair too," she said.
"Yuck. Not your hair.... Are you sure?"
She ran her hands through her hair and gooped it completely in clay,
and then coiled a rope of it on top of her head. She had me add more
to it, sculpting it. She was completely covered in it. She looked
fantastic. In the literal sense of the word.
"Look," she said, and struck a pose, sitting on a rock. She froze and
waited. Suddenly she *did* look like a sculpture. She looked like one
of her own terra cotta sculptures.
I applauded and presented myself arms held out to the sides. "Do me,"
I said. "Except my hair." Instead she walked over and pressed herself
against me and smeared the clay over me with her body, sliding her
thigh between my legs, rubbing against me.
She kissed me. It was a really weird kiss. Our bodies felt so odd and
gooey, pressed together -- that was kind of nice -- but I got grit in
my mouth from her lips.
"Bleah." I scooped a handful of lake and rinsed it out.
"Okay, no kissing," she said, "But this is cool."
She did look cool. Alien, almost. Something about the red clay and the
red sunset and the glowing green foliage behind her and the white sand
made her seem to have a light of her own as the last hints of the late
afternoon faded into evening.
"Wait," she said. She scooped water up and rinsed my face and part of
my chest off, and began smearing the clay over me, creating a kind of
off-the-shoulder fantasy "garment" that would never have stayed in
place if it hadn't been painted on. She took great care to make a
sharp "neckline" that just barely covered my nipples, the edges
following my natural contours. She left my face and hair and shoulders
uncovered, just as though I were wearing clothing. When I was done,
she had me step into the water and rinse my feet and hands off so she
could make sharply defined garment-like cuffs.
Then we stood back and admired each other.
Neets said it was a shame to let this artistic creation go to waste,
so she dragged me over to where the boys were cooking some brown food.
The color is very important on a camping trip. Manly food has to be
brown, salty, and pure cholesterol. I think it's some kind of male
camping rule that since you can't actually risk your life to kill
something and eat it, you have to compensate by cooking life-
threatening foods.
Plus, your modern danger-deprived male seems to feel he has to satisfy
his primitive instincts by opening cans with a Swiss Army knife
instead of bringing a proper can opener. Of course these basic drives
only emerge on camping trips. Jay wouldn't know where to begin looking
for the can opener at home.
Men.
Anyway, Neets dragged me over to where the boys were demonstrating
their Swiss Army prowess to each other. I was embarrassed, and it took
some coaxing for her to get me to walk into the camp site. But you
know me. I did it anyway. When we left the beach it was dark under the
trees.
The boys just stood there open-mouthed. Neets walked in first. She was
quite a sight. She looked a little primitive, the way her hair was
stuck to her head with the mud. She walked up to the fire and stood
there in the flickering light like some pagan wood nymph while they
stared and adjusted their cutoffs. Then she looked over to where I was
standing in the shadows and I came out too. She later said I looked
very refined and dainty, as though I were tiptoeing along in a very
clingy body suit. Actually, I was barefoot and being careful not to
step on another pine cone.
Tom found his tongue first. "Wow. Cool."
And Jay said, "So, what's all this?"
So I said, "Whatsa matter ... you never read 'Lord of the Flies'?"
Neets walked over and relieved them of their half-bottle of wine. She
took a long swig from the bottle and said, "We'll be back for dinner,"
and pulled me along after her back to the beach.
"You want company?" Tom calls after us.
"Nope. Maybe later."
When we found our way back, I told her we had to wash off. In a hurry.
I was getting turned on and couldn't stand not feeling her against me.
So we did, and ended up making love on the beach. I didn't climax,
though: too public on the beach even though nobody was within miles. I
can't do it in public, not really. I can get terribly turned on, but
my fear of discovery is too distracting. So I ended up extremely horny
all through the seven course dinner Jay had promised me in order to
get me to go camping in the first place. It turned out to be a big
plate of brown stuff and a six pack.
Ha ha, very funny. You owe me buster. Seven courses. I said.
Got 'em, too. All seven.
I dunno why I keep going on about the brown food. It bothers me. It's
just that men would *live* longer if they would eat some of the other
colors now and then. I think. We'll never know until someone tries it.
Funny: I had assumed Jay would be the first person I would make love
to on a beach. Instead, he was the first person I made love to on a
sleeping bag. Which, in mid-summer, leaves one all hot and sweaty.
Well... two, actually.
Anyway, we snuck down to the beach for a swim afterward and found Tom
and Neets already there. And we thought we were being so clever,
sneaking out of the camp without waking them. They were all hot and
sweaty too.
So I guess that makes four, actually.
Nurse Jones,
When the weather's hot and sticky,
That's no time for dunkin' dicky.
But when the frost is on the punkin...
That's the time ... um ...
God, I don't believe I'm so crude. It's all ASB's fault, I want you to
know. Let's try a different sig...
Nurse Jones,
worth
wading
for...?
no, huh...?
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