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 Dee STP 25 By Peregrinf

   Yeeowwww!  That water was cold!

   Whirling on my assailant I showered some bystanders.  Missy shrieked and
twisted and capered in my stinging spray, her adorable little boobies with
their raisin nipples dancing merrily.  She totally lost control of her
nozzle, wetting down others I missed.  They didn't mind.  After all, it was
a hot spring day, and they had been warned.  The instructions handed to
each driver in line are specific: make sure all windows are tightly closed
and exit your vehicle at your own risk.  We will not be held responsible if
you get hosed.  A carwash is five dollars.  The shower is free.

   Even pedestrians have been known to run like kids through a lawn
sprinkler.  They get a freebee soaking, but there's always someone handy
with a towel and a donation bucket.

   Hey!  One secret of our fundraising success is the fun we have!  Water
fights are guaranteed.

   During our brief skirmish Missy and I did manage to sluice away some of
the suds we were supposed to be removing from a soon-to-be-gleaming SUV. 
Never mind that I also caught some of my classmates as they rubbed and
scrubbed.

   Another reason for the popularity of Central High's Naked in School
Annual Fundraising Car Wash was that we were totally naked, male and female
alike, graduating seniors all.  Included among us were my lunch bunch, swim
team members, and sundry other luminaries.  Two naked cheerleaders were out
by the curb waving signs, bare breasts bouncing invitingly.  Not that they
were really needed -- the cheerleaders I mean.  Breasts are standard
equipment on cheerleaders.

   We had so many vehicles backed up into the street the police were
directing traffic.  We didn't lack for volunteer washers, but the gas
station had room for only so many hose connections and cars.  You'd think
after years of Naked in School Outreach people would be immune to such
openly displayed charms, but the event never failed to draw a crowd.  And
believe it or not, in spite of our frivolity we were getting a lot of cars
washed and raising a ton of money for the local chapter of the Missing and
Exploited Children Foundation.

   And whose bright idea was this endeavor?  Central High Emeritus Luminary
Matt "Mongo" Mozilla, shortly before he became "emeritus" by graduating
four years ago.  I'd been hoping he'd be here as a spectator or customer,
but I guess his schedule at Harvard hadn't cooperated.  He'd suggested it
back when I was chairing the SACNISP meeting the Monday after I'd
triumphantly planted of my foot on Pastor Paul's humiliated ass.

   After the reading and approval of the minutes of the last meeting I'd
apologized for being somewhat distracted and thanking Heather McKenzie for
filling in for me.

   "Your absence wouldn't have had anything to do with the Restored Temple
of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church's pastor and most
of its so-called Board of Elders winding up in jail would it?" Mrs.  Devers
asked suspiciously.

   She knows me too well.  Having taken lessons from her in the poker-face
department I managed a wide-eyed "Why in the world would you think that?"
sort of look.

   "It had all the earmarks of a Dee Walker operation," Heather pointed
out.

   "Just sayin'," she added in response to my put-a-cork-in-it frown,
quickly changing the subject.  "As for my filling in for you I don't
deserve much credit.  We need to do some serious ass-kicking if we're ever
going to accomplish anything."

   She surveyed the faces around the conference table.  They returned her
look with a tsunami of gloom and guilt, especially Henrietta "Retta" Jones
and the aforementioned Matt Mozilla, whose subcommittees were stalled over
a couple of knotty issues.

   "There'll be no ass-kicking," I assured them with a rap of the gavel. 
"We're all in this together and I haven't been much help.  Let's deal with
that old business first, then we've got a new problem to discuss.  I've got
some ideas."

   "Uh oh," Mike Collins muttered.  He had experience with my ideas.  I
ignored him.

   "Retta, where do we stand on disciplining someone who messes with a
Program participant?"

   Retta frowned and glared through the fashionably shaped horn-rims that
were all she wore.  Jeez she's got great tits.  "You know where I stand.  I
say let 'em get a taste of their own medicine.  Put 'em in The Program. 
Some people here -- I don't want to mention any names -- don't agree."

   She meant me, of course, so I trotted out my usual argument.  "The
Program is supposed to be a positive learning experience, not punishment. I
say it can be done.  We managed it with that clueless fanny pincher Wil
Williams."

   "But that was a special case," Samantha Keeler, our resident nitpicker,
pointed out in her precise way.  "You partnered that virgin soph with a
horny, drop-dead gorgeous senior volleyball player.  One whose -- ah --
lusty appetites are well known, I might add."

   "But she was his victim," I pointed out.

   "Victim?" Walter snorted.  "She was no victim.  She could have
dismembered him.  He's lucky he still had his pinching hand attached when
she dragged him to the school office.  Then after his weekend of being
naked with her he was strutting the halls like stud of the year, though
something other than his shoulder was sore, come to think of it.  And she
was walking bow-legged.  Some punishment!"

   "But he learned his lesson," I pointed out.

   "Some lesson!" Mike observed.

   I think he was jealous, and couldn't blame him.  I would have loved a
roll in the hay with that girl myself.

   "So here's my idea," I went on.  "If possible we continue to partner up
the offender and the offended in The Program, looking for similar results.
As you say, Retta, a taste of their own medicine, but delivered less
vindictively and in a more personal way."

   "As executioner I'm willing to try it," Mrs.  Devers put in.  She and
I'd discussed this in our morning meeting, part of our agreement not to
have secrets.  "But I'm not sure it can always be manipulated it as
smoothly as it was with Wil."

   I looked around the table and counted the nods.  Consensus would be
nice, but I'd settle for a majority vote.

   "What if they're the same sex?" Retta asked.  Some of the worst flack
she'd gotten had been from girls envious of her double Ds.

   "We partner them, regardless.  Though it may seem so, sex between
partners is not the point of being Naked in School.  The idea is to have
the perp walk a mile in the victim's shoes.

   "Take your experience with Tasha, for example.  If you'd been partnered
with her Tasha would have gotten to know you better as a person.  She would
have seen what it's like to be in your -- uh -- cups, the challenges you
face because you're so buxom, bearing up without a bra for a week, putting
up with the attention you attract.  Maybe if it had been handled the way I
suggest she'd have become more sympathetic instead of being resentful. 
Shaming is a lousy form of discipline."

   That got some nods, especially from Mrs.  Devers.

   "If it's two guys -- well, they could learn that size isn't everything,
that it's how you use what you've got that counts -- or something," I
finished awkwardly, ignoring Matt's skeptical snort.  I don't suppose
anything will ever get rid of that testosterone fueled
mine-is-bigger'n-yours locker-room competition.  A closeted gay as a
sophomore, during his Program week Matt had faced his own special
challenges.  Now a senior, still not formally out of the closet, he
regularly defended gays from our small but noisy homophobic clique.  As
captain of the football team he commanded the respect to carry it off.

   "What do we do with someone who assaults a participant because he wants
to be partnered with his victim for some reason?" Max Wang asked.  "Like,
say, some jerk has a hard-on for some girl who doesn't like him, or just
broke up with him, and he uses it as a way to get to her?"

   "Ah.  That's where we come in," I explained.  "The Program as punishment
would be exactly the wrong thing, obviously.  Before Mrs.  Devers comes
down on anyone we interview them so we can suggest the appropriate
punishment."

   "Are you talking about setting up a student court again?" Samantha
warned.

   "No I am not.  We don't have the authority to do that," I pointed out
delicately.  "I'm suggesting that as the Student Advisory Committee on the
Naked in School Program we do have a responsibility to investigate
incidents, looking for ways to improve The Program, and along the way...."

   "You sound like you're running for Congress," Matt Mozilla observed
wryly and Mrs.  Devers let out a snort.

   I let that pass.  "...and along the way we interview those involved and
any witnesses, and not as a full committee.  When a case comes up three of
us investigate as soon as possible.  It doesn't have to be the same three
every time.  We report to Mrs.  Devers so she knows what's what before she
deals discipline.  In the case of a stalker we might recommend community
service or detention, along with counseling, instead of Program
participation.

   "Of course Mrs.  Devers makes the final decision," I added with a polite
nod in her direction.  No more dressed than any of us I took a moment to
appreciate her attributes.  She is buff!

   "That's why I'm paid the big bucks," she observed with a shrug that
jiggled her assets enticingly.  I think she did that deliberately.

   "Maybe you should ask for a raise," Heather suggested.

   That brought a laugh and I started feeling more optimistic.  I sat back
to let them bat the idea around for a few minutes before asking for a
motion.  While Retta was still dubious the proposal was approved on trial
basis for the rest of the year.

   As I'd hoped, Matt jumped on the plan to also solve his problem: using
The Program for punishing non-Program involved violations, like general
bullying or disrespect.  Some people who have already had Program
experience seem look for an excuse to get naked.  Some masochistic urge,
maybe.  If they wanted to get naked all they had to do was strip without
the hassle.

   We'd suggest whether putting the offender in The Program was appropriate
from our perspective.  It was agreed that the chances were high we'd
recommend against.  Even though this removed a favorite weapon from a
teacher's arsenal of disciplinary choices it just wasn't right!  Mrs. 
Devers thought the teachers would go along with us -- at least on a trial
basis.  They could still hand out extra assignments or detention, or take
away privileges.  Just the threat of a visit to Mrs.  Devers's office was
often enough to nip trouble in the bud.

   Corporal punishment had already been taken off the table.

   Though she and I hadn't actually discussed it I was pretty sure Mrs. 
Devers would use these procedures as examples to push her student court. 
Why The Powers That Be hadn't approve it for the high school since the
middle school already had it was a mystery.  At least we'd avoided SACNISP
suddenly turning into a de facto court.

   The last big issue still on the table was deciding reasonable request
disputes.  Those came up relatively often, particularly with freshmen early
in the year.  There was always some dork who wanted to test the limits. 
Normally the Program Coordinator would decide, but a replacement for the
Worm was still mired in the bureaucratic swamp of the Federal Office of
Social Awareness.  Again I suggested assembling an ad hoc subcommittee to
rule on the spot, based on program guidelines.  That passed as well,
putting more of The Program's fate in our hands, freeing Mrs.  Devers from
resolving those disputes.

   All that had been four years ago and only that last idea hadn't worked
out.  It was too slow and cumbersome.  Since we still didn't have a Program
Coordinator Mrs.  Devers was stuck with those decisions.  No one in the
Social Awareness chain of command wanted to take the risk of appointing
another pedo.  Using that incident certain Congress-critters are still
trying to repeal The Program outright.

   As for Mrs.  Devers's Student Court the local PTB are so firmly on the
fence they have pickets up their asses.  They keep saying "maybe next
year," but she keeps trying.  The woman has the patience of a saint and the
tenacity of a pit bull.

   I swooshed the sponge-load of suds over the next car in line.  Enjoying
the memory of that meeting, and the sun on my bare back -- and other parts
of me.

   Then I bent over to wash a hubcap, giving the peanut gallery a moon view
of my tight bottom and Wow!  Some wise-ass hit me right in the butt with a
big sponge that had been soaked in ice water.

   That got my attention, I tell you.

   When I looked around my boyfriend Lance, about twenty feet away, was,
studiously polishing the outside mirror on a Mazda, looking suspiciously
innocent.  An open ice chest was right behind him.

   Why was a South High student here?  Since he and I were on track to
different colleges we do all we can to be together despite our conflicting
scholastic loyalties.  He'd done his stint in South High School's program,
of course, and was as willing a participant in my activities as I was in
his, even going so far as to openly consort at swimming meets.

   But getting back to that long-ago SACNISP meeting, after we'd dealt with
the old business I presented our new problem.

   "We've gotten rid of the Restored Temple yada yada yada...." I pointed
out to the committee.

   "And good riddance," Matt interrupted.  "Jeez!  Pedophilia, child
pornography, sex trafficking...."

   Wielding my gavel I ruled him out of order.  When I went after the
pedophiles I didn't realize I'd only grabbed a loose end.  I'd pulled one
tail on a ball of snakes, unraveling an extra-large-shit-soaked sweater of
corruption, to mangle a metaphor beyond redemption.  In addition to the sex
charges the church's leadership and others, including local politicians,
were accused of fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, bribery, extortion and
racketeering.  The state was investigating the board of assessors, the
building codes office and zoning board.  In addition to interstate child
pornography and sex trafficking the Feds were digging into money laundering
and God only knows what else.  The mayor and half the city council have
suddenly decided they're not running for reelection, saying they want more
time with their families.

   Maybe they'll be allowed conjugal visits.

   Regardless, I really did not want us going there.  If word got out of my
involvement the next thing I'd know I'd be in the witness protection
program living as Enid Guntz in Great Falls, Montana.

   "That's someone else's problem," I pointed out.  "Without The Restored
yada yada we're still left with all these well-meaning people picketing and
demonstrating.  Many are deeply religious, or at least claim to be, maybe
they're sincere.  Most of 'em equate nudity with sex and sex with sin and
see the Naked in School Program as a license to fornicate and a threat to
society.  They're not well-organized, so there's no one point of attack. 
Dealing with them is like trying to swat a swarm of mosquitoes."

   "Let them demonstrate," Max suggested.  "What harm can they do?"

   Mrs.  Devers picked up that one.  "Plenty.  They're pressuring the
school board, city hall, and anyone else they can, even the governor, to
shut The Program down.  That it's a Federally mandated program only irks
them more.  Some people are even blaming it for what went on at the
Restored Temple yada yada."

   I thought Heather was going to explode.  "That's -- that's like blaming
the rape victim instead of the rapist!"

   Matt rested a calming hand on her arm.  They made a nice couple.  Too
bad it would never go beyond friendship, he being gay while she's still
dealing with memories of The Worm.

   Mrs.  Devers nodded.  "I agree.  That's reprehensible, inexcusable, but
not the real problem.  The danger is that the Board of Ed or someone else
might just cave in.  With Washington dead in the water there's no help
there.  As it is other states and localities have already taken The Program
to court."

   "And?" Retta asked.

   "And, not to get too deep in the technicalities, a local judge issues an
injunction against the program.  On appeal the next one up the food chain
lifts it.  It just ladders up from there.  It'll be fought all the way up
to the Supreme Court, which may take years."

   "We don't want to wait for that," I put in.  "If we can change the minds
of enough of these people we can ease the local pressure, maybe even
encourage other districts to follow our example, building enough popular
support to keep The Program safe from these morons.  The question is, how
do we do that?  Any ideas?"

   "Counter demonstrations?" Mike Collins suggested, giving his thumbs a
rest from taking the minutes.  "We've got the numbers to put on quite a
parade."

   Mrs.  Devers shook her head.  "All counter demonstrations do is raise
the noise level.  People wind up yelling at each other, no one listens, and
sweet reason is the first victim."

   "As for a parade, Bessie's Resurrection Ride didn't exactly endear us to
commuters," I reminded him.

   "Don't they realize we're just kids, trying to figure out the world?"
Samantha asked.  "Most of us, once we've gone through The Program,
appreciate what it's done for us, and most parents are more than grateful
as well.  If nothing else they avoid having to give 'the lecture.' The
numbers on stuff like teen pregnancies prove its value."

   "Nobody pays attention to numbers.  We need more concrete favorable
publicity," Matt suggested.  "Something to counter the nay-sayers."

   Wondering why I couldn't just keep my mouth shut for a change I admitted
I knew a friendly reporter at the newspaper.  She'd gone through the
program with Carl's class and interviewed me after Bessie's ride.

   "Unfortunately that's what led to my GabFest appearance," I added.  I'd
barely escaped with my reputation intact, such as it was, thanks to some
fast footwork on Mom's and my part.

   "What do you mean 'unfortunately?' That got people talking and changed a
few minds," Matt pointed out.

   "And thinking," Heather added.  "What about another appearance?"

   "Been there, done that, I am not going to do it again."

   I quickly changed the subject.  "It bothers me, too, that we've still
got kids quaking in their socks when they're called up for The Program,
especially in the freshman class.  Maybe they wouldn't be so scared if they
knew what it was really like.  When was the last time the school paper did
a story on The Program, something to take the edge off in here?"

   "It's been a long time," Mrs.  Devers admitted.  "Now that it's well
established it's old news."

   "How about a regular series to un-scare them, some puff-piece like 'My
Week in the Program'?" Heather mused.  "I can suggest it to the editor. 
Maybe even a photo feature, interviews with participants at the end of
their week.  They could put a nice glow on it."

   "That's a good idea, but be careful," I warned.  "Honesty is the best
policy.  Make it warts and all, the good, the bad...."

   "...and the ugly," Matt finished for me.

   "I beg your pardon, I resemble that remark!" Max Wang tossed out,
bobbing his eyebrows up and down in his best Groucho Marx imitation.  Given
his ethnicity he's about as Groucho as Chairman Mao, so he always draws a
laugh with it.

   At least we were moving again!  I was marveling how much getting
something accomplished boosted morale.

   So we made plans for a publicity program -- I'd take on the newspaper,
Heather the broadcast media.

   "Publicity is fine," Walter Miflin mused when that was done, "but we've
been studying in civics how most people only read and watch stuff they
already know they'll agree with.  It makes 'em feel comfortable.  If we
want 'em to pay attention to our way of thinking we need to grab 'em by the
ears."

   "Maybe if we could meet them on their own turf, one-on-one,
face-to-face, we'd get somewhere.  Where do they congregate?" Samantha
(never call her "Sam") asked.

   "That's easy.  Congregate is the right word," Retta Jones observed.  "A
lot of them are good church goers -- my church, for example.  It's full of
'em, including the pastor."

   "How'd they handle you being in The Program?" Max asked.

   "They didn't.  I wore my Sunday go to meetin' best rather than face them
naked," she admitted, a bit ashamed.  "And I skipped the Wednesday youth
meeting."

   A light went on in my head.

   "How many of us have been to church at all in the last six months?" I
asked, raising my own hand.

   Retta raised hers, as did Heather, Samantha and Mrs.  Devers -- four out
of nine.

   "Naked," I added, keeping my own hand up.  All the others went down.

   "You went to church naked?" Max Wang reacted.

   I didn't want to admit that it had not been exactly willingly.  Rather
than go into details I said I'd gone with a friend to Mass one Sunday, that
she'd dared me to be naked.  Actually I'd been handcuffed to Maria.  It's
only a little white lie, okay?  But I'd do it again.

   I got to the point.  "Try this on for size.  We all begin going to
church -- any church -- naked.  I've done it.  Beth Finch did it the year
she was in The Program.  She even did a reading and gave a little -- what
do they call it?  -- a homily.  Nothing confrontational, just go as
worshippers, respectful, polite...."

   "And naked?" Retta asked dubiously.

   "Naked.  It's legal.  If anyone asks we explain why we are naked.  I
know it takes guts.  They'll gape, but with church attendance as low as it
is the pastors may not object.  We might even bring in voyeurs who don't
normally go.  Churches will do almost anything to get the people in to fill
the pews and the collection plates.  If someone does get bent out of shape
just leave quietly, but show up again the next Sunday, and again, until
they give in.

   "Encourage your friends who're in The Program now or who have been in it
to do the same thing.  Take a friend along with you -- there's comfort in
numbers.  If you don't have a church of your own go to whatever church you
want, but spread it around.  We need the exposure -- pun intended."

   Chuckles.

   I shut up to let them talk that over for a while, until they seemed to
agree to try it, even discussing who would take which church.  I promised
Retta I'd go with her to her church.

   Go team!

   You got it!

   "And Outreach has fallen off, we need to revive it," I went on.  "Some
businesses that used to offer discounts to naked or even semi-naked
customers don't anymore.  I pay for my Brazilian wax jobs by getting them
done in the front window of the Minute Spa...."

   "Well yeah!" Retta countered.  "But everyone knows you're an
exhibitionist!"

   "And proud of it," I admitted to the laughter.  "The fact is, the salon
is doing better than ever.

   "Look," I went on.  "Alphonse, the guy who runs the salon, told me some
places that used to encourage NiSers have given into threats of a boycott.
He stood up to 'em 'cause he likes me and I bring in business.

   "I'm not saying we should try to crash a boycott, though a sit-in is
tempting...."

   "Just remember to take a towel," Mrs.  Devers suggested dryly.

   I laughed and nodded.  "If the sign says 'No shirt - no shoes - no
service' wear a crop top and sneakers.  Challenge them.

   "Also, make it a point to patronize businesses that accept you naked,
that have stood up to the opposition.  Be proudly naked.  Take friends with
you, naked or not.  If you go in a place even just to look, try to buy
something and thank them for serving you.  Pass the word on who supports
The Program to people you know so they make it a point to go there -- naked
or not -- and have them mention that they like the pro-Program attitude. 
Again, encourage your classmates.  Maybe we can initiate an informal
counter-boycott."

   "Take The Program viral," Mike suggested.

   I could feel the enthusiasm building.  "Any other ideas?  We need to
prove we're a credit to the school and the community."

   Matt was looking thoughtful.  "How about some kind of a fundraiser?"

   "We don't need funds," Mrs.  Devers pointed out.

   "We don't, but how about some charity that does?" he countered, toying
with his pencil.  "Last year the football team and the cheerleaders raised
a bundle for the youth football program with a carwash."

   "And the cheerleaders weren't even naked!" Heather put in.

   "Why not?"

   "It was held at that convenience store less than a block from Guess
Who's church.  When he heard 'naked cheerleaders' he mobilized his thugs --
I mean his congregation," she noted ruefully.  "We felt threatened."

   "Well he's out of the picture now," Matt pointed out.  "This time we do
it naked, all of us.  The station is willing.  It brings in customers.  "

   Heather nodded.  "This time it's to benefit the American Center for
Exploited Children.  They actively support the NiS Program.  We should
support them."

   "If it works maybe it could become an annual thing.  The senior class's
spring community service project," Matt tossed out.

   The motion was made, seconded and passed unanimously, subject to
approval of the senior class, of course, which was a given with Matt behind
it.

   "While we're at it," Mike Collins put in, "how about each class's NiSers
develop their own annual naked fundraiser, something that draws public
participation, and do it for some local charity.  We frosh could do a fun
run for the Scouts or the Y or sports programs that need funding...."

   "Try to make them children-focused charities," I suggested.

   By then I sensed the ball was rolling full steam -- there I go, mixing a
metaphor again -- and I let it roll.

   Now that I'm a senior I see the result all around me - Central High's
Fourth Annual Senior Class Naked in School Charity Fundraising Car Wash.

   Jeez!  That name's as bad as the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer
Reformed Evangelical One True Church.  Forget I said it.

   As a freshman I ran in my class's 5K Naked Fun Run for the benefit of
Youth Soccer.  That's now also in its fourth year, this time raising money
for the summer softball league.  As a sophomore I'd served -- nude, of
course, except for a health-department-mandated hair net -- at the Rotary
Club's pancake brunch that ran all morning.

   That was a multiple charity event.  The homeless got showers at the
nearby Salvation Army shelter, and ate for free while their laundry was
done for nothing by more naked sophs at the Wash-O-Mat.  The way the
homeless ate we were lucky everything was donated or we'd have lost money.
Everyone else paid, and the proceeds from that benefited the Rotaries
exchange student program.

   Her dad being a Rotarian that whole thing was organized by Missy with
her mom's help.

   As a junior it was The Swim for the Kids Relay, again open to anyone,
nudity encouraged.  It turned it into an all-day skinny-dip.  It was
organized by wannabe doctor Inez of my lunch bunch.  All proceeds went to
the Candy Striper Teddy Bear Giveaway.  At her urging we visited the kids
in the pediatric ward, in the buff of course, handing out stuffed animals,
toys and games and visiting with the kids, talking with the parents that
were there.  Some of us wound up helping out the parents delivering hot
meals to their homes, babysitting siblings to give mom and dad a break.

   Now, some of those kids ...  well, 'nuff said.  I loved 'em all, and
some of them are no longer with us, dammit.

   Remembering the wet sponge attack I'd been filling a bucket while
keeping an eye on Lance, adding ice from my own nearby cooler just to make
it more interesting.  When I had the bucket nearly filled and he was
distracted, I picked it up, trying not to spill too much.  Some spectators
were watching, so I put my finger to my lips to keep them quiet while I
tiptoed theatrically in Lance's direction.  They began nudging their
neighbors and pointing and pretty soon I had the attention of almost
everyone but Lance.

   It was a biiiig bucket, one of those ones paint or spackle come in. 
Five gallons.

   You know those Gatorade showers that football coaches get when their
team wins?  Imagine getting one of those when you're stark naked.

   Have I ever mentioned I'm a strong girl?  I suppose I have, and tall,
too.  I'd finally topped out at six-foot-two -- taller than Elaine had
estimated when I'd seen her for my first gyno exam, taller than Lance,
though he denies it -- and I wanted optimum revenge -- massive retaliation.

   I sneaked -- snuck?  -- up behind my dreamboat.  The crowd grew hushed
as I raised the bucket, the suspense building.

   Lance was so busy getting bird poop off the windshield he didn't notice
a thing.  Holding the bucket high, I got him to straighten up by saying
oh-so sweetly and seductively "oh Laaaannnnnce darling."

   He straightened -- started to turn -- and I tipped the bucket.

   Rather than just dumping it I poured it over his head, gallons of ice
water cascading down, ice cubes bouncing off his head and shoulders.

   His eyes bulged, his chest heaved and his mouth gaped like a fish out of
water as he fought for breath, the water and ice still streaming down, a
few ice cubes even sticking in his hair before being sluiced away by the
last dribbles.  His pecker, half erect from the naked displays around him
and, I like to think, my seductive presence, instantly shriveled to the
size of a peanut, while his testicles did their damndest to vanish up
inside his abdomen.

   Now, class, this is very important, so pay close attention.  When the
human body is suddenly immersed in cold water breathing stops, the
metabolism drops to nearly nothing, the pulse is suppressed, circulation is
limited almost entirely to the brain and lungs.  It's called the dolphin
reflex or mammalian diving reflex, and while the victim appears dead it can
be a lifesaver.  Even after being completely submerged for half an hour or
more in near freezing water victims -- especially young children with a low
body mass -- have been successfully revived.  For that reason you should
never ever give up on mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or CPR until an
experienced trauma physician formally declares the patient dead.

   I learned that in my lifesaving course.

   I was afraid I'd overdone it with the ice.  For a moment Lance was a
statue, Michelangelo's David without the sling -- or a visible dick, for
that matter.

   When he got his breath back his whoop was heard for blocks, along with
some words that would have vastly enriched the curse jar had we been at my
house.

   Of course I had been prepared to initiate mouth-to-mouth, but once I was
sure he was breathing again I dropped the bucket and took off, dodging in
and out among the spectators, the cars and the car washers with him in hot
pursuit.  Well, maybe not exactly hot.  I bet even his nipples had
goosebumps.

   The crowd loved it, cheering us on.  The car washers interrupted their
work to add their voices to the chorus, hosing us down as we sprinted past.


   After his icy shower that water probably felt hot to Lance, but not to
me.

   I finally let him catch me right where I'd intended, center stage
between car washers and cheering spectators.  Screaming I struggled,
uselessly of course because he is so much stronger than me.  In the end I
gave a little hop so -- ahem -- I mean he tossed me over his shoulder like
a sack of potatoes, where I kicked my long legs in front of him and
ineffectively pounded on his muscular back with my fists.  He, of course,
proceeded to quite effectively spank my naked ass, much to the audience's
enjoyment.

   And mine.  It was all in good fun.  The pursuit and physical exercise
having visibly restored his reproductive equipment to full functionality he
spirited me away still kicking and protesting to a place where we could
consummate the foreplay he'd initiated with that sponge.

   The restroom's sink felt almost as cold on my butt as the ice water must
have on him, but that did nothing to chill my ardor.  I spread my legs wide
as he directed his burgeoning phallus at my already oozing cunt.  Hard as
it was his cock was still cold on the outside, while I was hot and ready on
the inside and what an interesting sensation that was!  Sort of like a
sweet and sour porking, or a Baked Alaska screw you might say.

   He proceeded to give me a jolly rogering right there in the gas
station's ladies room, the friction of cock and cunt quickly banishing the
last of the chill down there, the cold hard faucet poking me close, oh so
close to my asshole, but I couldn't quite manage to get things lined up.

   For sanitary reasons it was probably just as well.

   What with the teasing we'd been giving each other all day it was pure
animal sex.  His body was still chilled from the dousing I'd given him so I
did my best to warm him up by wrapping myself around him like a blanket. 
His lips were cold but his tongue was hot and I breathed warm air into him
while he pumped his cock into me, rocking my world, until he filled me with
hot, hot come, and my body burned from the inside out.

   Oh, I was going to miss him so much!  After graduation we'd have the
summer, and then....

   I didn't want to think about it, so I concentrated on storing every
scrumptious sensation away to be brought out when I was lonely.

   Or horny.

   After a suitable period of cooling down and cleaning up we emerged from
the restroom to rejoin the carwash, just in time to help with cleanup,
rolling up hoses, emptying buckets, washing suds off the pavement.

   From there it was a subdued stroll down the street to The Church of
Christ the Teacher, formerly the home of the unlamented Restored Temple of
the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church, formerly the
neighborhood's Baptist Church.  The carwash was one of the last milestones
of our time together at Central High.  Commencement was only a week away
and everyone was feeling kinda nostalgic.

   At the church Missy's Mom greeted us.  The organizer of our post-carwash
meal, she was not naked like we were -- she'd loosened up a lot but that
was still far outside her comfort zone.  Some of the servers at the buffet
were bare.  Her greeting was sincerely warm and welcoming, her hug for me
especially affectionate.  To say there had been a dramatic change in our
relationship was putting it mildly.  The day of that memorable SACNISP
meeting Missy had asked me to come over, that her mom wanted to see me.

   I remembered how I'd agonized -- to dress or not to dress, that was the
question.  Whether 'twas nobler in the mind to smother myself in layers of
fabric, or bare myself to the wind and weather and risk a reception so
hostile I'd be forever banished from my sweet BFF's house.  I'd utterly
demolished the woman's spiritual guide right in front of her.  She'd placed
her faith in the hands of a charlatan and a pervert, and I'd exposed him
for what he was.

   In the end I decided she should take me as I am, warts and all, as Matt
would say.  My clothes remained in my backpack as I rode Bessie, the wind
having its usual joyful way with my exposed flesh.  Still under the Bard's
spell, I found myself thinking "once more into the breach" as I headed up
Missy's front walk.  I wasn't sure I wanted to be one of those English dead
piled high on the ramparts, but sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta
do.

   "She's upstairs," Missy directed after we shared a warm hug.

   "You coming with me?"

   She shook her head.  "She wants to see you alone.  Dad's still at work,
but he'll be home soon."

   She wouldn't say any more, so I trudged up the stairs, trading
Shakespeare for Dickens, feeling maybe like that guy in A Tale of Two
Cities on his way to the guillotine.  What was it he'd said?  Something
like "it is a far, far better thing" and yada yada yada.

   What was I supposed to do?  Apologize for what I'd done?  I couldn't
honestly do that, since the sonofabitch had gotten exactly what he deserved
and I was glad I'd been the one to give it to him.

   But then I realized I could at least apologize for what it had done to
her.  That I did regret.

   I tapped softly at the closed bedroom door.  "Mrs.  Wilson?  It's me,
Dee."

   Her "come in" was barely audible.

   She wasn't as much of a mess as I expected, but she wasn't as carefully
turned out as usual, either -- no makeup, dark circles under her eyes.  The
bed wasn't made.  Normally everything around her was just perfect.

   She'd always been thin, in a way that I thought of as all sharp angles.
She still was, but it was like the angles had softened, melted, sagged.  I
guess you could say this had taken the starch out of her.

   She didn't comment on the fact that I was naked.  Without even thinking
I put my arms around her.  She stiffened, and I almost let go, feeling I'd
made a terrible mistake, but she slumped against me, put her arms around
me, laid her hands on my bare back, rested her cheek on me below my chin --
yeah, I was that much taller -- and we just held on to each other for a
while.

   At least she didn't cry.  I wasn't sure I could have handled that.

   "I was such a fool," she whispered, her breath brushing my flesh.  "How
could I have been such a fool?"

   I thought that over.  "You weren't the only one," I finally ventured. 
"He was -- very convincing."

   "But you knew what he was, didn't you, from the start.  You weren't
taken in."

   I sighed.  "If it hadn't been for Missy I might have been."

   That surprised her and she drew away to look up at me.  Then together we
settled on the soft white floral patterned satin spread covering the bed.
She let my revelation sit in our laps while we contemplated it, my arm
around her thin shoulders.  She felt as fragile as glass.

   I remembered what that service -- was it only a week ago?  -- had been
like.  That sermon, or whatever it was, had been like a riptide at the
beach, one of those things that carries swimmers out into water over their
heads before they know it.  I'd almost been swept out with the
congregation. Missy had been my lifeguard.  Her touch had somehow gotten me
out of the flow and back to sanity and reason.

   "When he called for people to come to the front, to accept his message,
I almost was taken in," I admitted to her.  "He was so -- I don't know --
convincing?  I guess that's what the word 'charismatic' really means.  He
-- it was like we were all swept up and just carried along by his -- I
don't know the word I want...."

   "Eloquence?"' she ventured thoughtfully.  "Rhetoric."

   "I guess that's the word.  The only reason I didn't go right along with
you, and the rest, was because Missy put a hand on me, and -- woke me up --
I guess you could say.  She was my lifeline."

   "She knew."

   "She knew.  She was anchored, maybe because her Sunday school teacher
had...well...."

   "I should have listened to her.  Why didn't I listen to her, my own
daughter?"

   "It's hard to believe anyone would be like that, and he was a real
spell-binder."

   "I went to church yesterday -- what used to be the church," she
announced softly.

   "Wasn't it all wrapped up in that yellow crime-scene tape?"

   "It was.  But I wasn't the only one.  We -- had to see it to believe it,
I guess.  There were only a few of us, and we had to sneak in.

   "I suppose if we'd been caught we would have been arrested or something.
We didn't care.  For a while we all just sort of sat there, scattered
around in our customary seats.  It was quiet -- no organ or choir.  Quiet.
I'd never heard it so quiet.  The only sounds were our breathing, maybe a
cough, the creak of a pew when someone shifted.

   "Always before there had been music, or preaching, constant noise.  I
realized that had been part of the problem -- you couldn't hear yourself
think.  I suppose that was deliberate on his part.  For a change I could
listen to nothing, my mind blank.  Nobody said anything.  For a long time,
maybe half an hour, we just sat there.

   "Then something made me want to -- move down front, to the steps going
up to the altar, and I knelt there.  I didn't pray, I just knelt there. 
And by ones and twos the others came down and joined me, all of us kneeling
along the steps like we were waiting to take communion.  For the longest
time we just knelt there."

   I didn't say anything.  I almost held my breath with the feeling that
maybe something good -- something other than having the bad guys locked up
-- might come out of this yet.

   "Then, still without a word, we all got up and sneaked out.  The
Assistant Pastor was outside, talking to the police.  I guess he kept us
from being arrested.  Somehow he'd avoided being sucked into that whole
awful mess.  I don't know why Pastor Paul hired him, he kept the poor boy
pretty much under his thumb, though some people went to him for counseling
rather than Paul.  Now I understand why.

   "He invited us to his quarters for coffee.  He's young, not long out of
the seminary, kind of quiet.  For a while he held Bible classes for the
adults Wednesday nights while the children's choir rehearsed, until Pastor
Paul told him to stop.  Probably because he -- Jeff, his name is Jeff --
has a different slant on the scriptures.  Instead of this whole being saved
thing he had us discussing the teachings of Christ, the lessons; love thy
neighbor, do unto others, blessed are the meek, the peacemakers, the story
of the Good Samaritan.  We explored the meanings behind the parables, the
Sermon on the Mount.

   "He thinks that maybe that's what Christ really meant when he said that
the way to the Kingdom of Heaven was through Him.  Not that all you need to
do was believe in Him as the Son of God, that He died for our sins, that by
that we're forgiven and guaranteed to go to heaven.  Jeff thinks -- no,
suggests -- that the way to heaven is by living the way He tried to teach
us."

   While my own ideas of God and heaven and hell were still pretty nebulous
I told her I liked that idea.

   "He said it is deeds that matter, more than beliefs, that for that
reason the door is open even for non-Christians.  We should have listened
to him, instead of that snake!" she finished venomously.

   "We're going to try to keep the church going with him as pastor.  We'll
change the name, of course, to something simpler."

   "That's a good start!" I blurted out.

   She laughed.  She actually laughed.  "I agree."

   Then she sobered.  "It won't be easy.  We're probably broke.  The
finances are a mess, and the government may try to take the buildings --
fruits of a criminal enterprise or something like that.  Actual ownership
is a bit tangled, but one of us is a lawyer and says he thinks he can sort
it out.  There are good people there, the ones that are left.  Maybe we'll
have to sell off the old school, but we think we can pull it off."

   "That's good," I said, giving her a little squeeze.

   "Dee, how can I ever thank you?  I owe you my life, and my daughter's
life at least twice over."

   "Mrs.  Wilson, you don't need to thank me.  I love Missy more than life
itself."

   I didn't go into detail of how I loved her of course.  Mrs.  Wilson was
a lot better, but she wasn't ready for that!

   Instead I went on.  "I'm sorry you had to go through -- last Thursday. I
wish there had been another way, at another time, another place, so you
didn't have to see it.  I didn't intend for that to happen when I came
over. I was just there to support Missy.  But sometimes things just -- seem
to happen around me."

   She gave me a reassuring hug.  "It's just as well that I was there or I
might not have believed you.  You showed me what a vile person that man
was. You don't hate me?" she asked hopefully.

   I gave her another squeeze, resting my head against hers for a moment,
like maybe we could exchange some brain cells.  "Of course not.  How could
I?  You're Missy's Mom.  You love her.  Missy loves you.  I love Missy.  I
guess it's like algebra or logic or something.  If I love Missy and she
loves you then I love you.  It's a package deal.  I know things have been
rough between you and Missy, but I'm sure they'll get better."

   Missy was glad to see us come downstairs together, holding hands.  After
sharing a three-way hug I'd left for home, feeling a lot better.

   Now here we are, after four years, breaking bread in The Church of
Christ the Teacher.  The congregation is small, but growing with Pastor
Jeff preaching his message not from the pulpit, but with a cordless mike,
walking among the worshipers.

   I've attended with Missy -- both of us naked of course -- and always
felt welcome.  Terrell Ford, the Dirty Dozen's musical prodigy, young as he
is, is the organist and choir director.  Missy's mom is -- I guess you
could call her chairwoman of the board.  She's in her element, and she and
Missy are getting along better than ever.  When the meal was over all of us
helped with the cleanup of the basement that's now the church's social
room. In the end they had sold off the school to pay off the debts.

   Pastor Jeff, in a tattered, sleeveless Princeton sweatshirt, pitched in,
elbows deep in soapy water.  He washed, I rinsed.  I'd gotten to know him
well.

   "Have you started packing yet?" he asked me puckishly.

   "No, but I've got 'Old Nassau' memorized."

   To say I was looking forward to college was putting it mildly.  I was
jumping for joy.  He'd interviewed me, recruited me, actually.  An
undergrad at Princeton University he'd gone on to the Princeton Theological
Seminary for his Master's.  When I once asked him how he'd let himself get
sucked in as Pastor Paul's assistant he wryly answered, "He talked a good
game."

   "Didn't he though," I'd agreed.

   By then, the furor having died down and we'd both laughed.  He still had
no idea of the part I'd played.

   But before I took that next big step into the unknown came Commencement.


   "Got your invocation written yet?" I asked him.

   He handed me a plate.  "Working on it.  Got your commencement address
written yet?"

   "Working on it."
   We both laughed.