Outward Browned: The Book Girl

By Sailor Sim

Beatense is a young lady who has a genetic mutation where she is ideally muscled and burns very tan. Right away you hate her, but, she improves people's lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664109513

Book preview

1

ATMOSPHERIC TESTING

D espite their shore summers the juniors of older wealth were passive and pale. Poor kids derided them, but their later cousins of the bomb testing years were raved-over toasted taut. The isotopes also awarded their formed cheeks, probing eyes and tuffeted peeky-ears hair. Taking notice of their sunny status, us impressed lessers never tried for that free prestige ourselves. And unlike …

The finer-breds we failed in mind and make, we had buzz cut hair and we went baggy jeans and T-shirts un-prestiged. But with 1965’s Varsity ten-speed advent, the nascent atomical athleticals saw lethal prospects. In a twenty year romp on street, turf, sand and court, these warrior slims, exalting in just in their six inch wrap denim jean cut-off shorts, and proudly feared for their hard sunned long waist uppers and hard sunned long legs lowers, strafed saddlery shined.

Winter they sadly faded, but the sea and ski jetters were ever sun luxuriant. Low folk resented this shock ostentation, but 1970 these betters upped the ante, by ennobling themselves with long hair, inter-shifting spilly thick. Controversial, strikingly defiant, but also free. For the labor lows this extravagance was…

Decadently amoral. This Cannot Be. Overlooked, their own boys also went plentiful to look insolent, only to look innocent. But I, no appeal. Being clumsy, anemic, underweight and pallid, I envied Roblon, an almost pepsi cola saturated (not exaggerated) terror, who gave swim meet fame to our local Woodvue pool.

Roblon’s games play with his admiring but befuddled friends trained in his leaned build, while Erik’s tawny chlorine blaze also endowed a swim team edge. And all-pro Jeff exuded a raisiny metallic ravishing. Youngsters also stung.

We saw this stellar deity in Barton Park. Mark griped, Lucky brat’s ski boat hosing. Barton Park, that upper realm where that brat’s shape and sizzle were for that part of town a given. In white knee-cut deck jeans on his Stingray bike, with belly sunk, he roiling glared. So did the sun flooded tennis titan Scott of the trim linen shorts. At the time girls were less receptive to the bomb genetics, but Scott, his little brother Nack and whole armies were sun vicious sensations.

Or a neighbors-revered sun star, a flagrant distractor on a look-at-me walk, and swim class Bob, each superbly fifteen and pan fudge slathered. Or prodigy Essen’s sinister sun session slayings: Sullenly sadistic ten-to-two torchings.

But others simply loved that solar lantern. The lazily lanky Lang, as a burnt copper no-shirter, his muscles only flexed upon need, like tossing rocks in his uncle’s torrid quarry. Gray days, a stunner. The limber Paeter’s fervor lent him his bran velvet blur, and an in-shorts ball-player just ten, ice cream bar fatal. Or neck-beads Dryden washing the car, also fudge blurred, all sudsy. Also…

A hot day rural bike boy, miracle son farm lads, sand specters, park lagoon fawns, select teen scantlings, boater hawks, eager new sunners and a tail-gate seated corn seller, all pristine brilliant and dense deep radiant. With their brutal grill-outs and snooty sailing-shorts strolls the elites deep radiated too, and they were dirt bike, steep ski, ice hockey and skate or surfboard radicals. Many…

Elaborated their rebelly cascade anthems with pretentious mid-back shags, and the bike youth resplendents flaunted scruffy haystacks or abundant shucks. And in the 1970s, worshipful mothers on their own enabled provocative, spirally unsnipped garlands for their gifted, milken pure or very brown celestials.

Back in 1965, that stinger we saw was a fellow Woody. Yes, we belonged, but most girls there were plainfully so-so and doughy bland, and wore their ugly orthopedic swimsuits complacently. Just as their cut-offs only brothers city-wide clashed. Just as the doughs were losing out to their nuked twig-like rivals.

Just as these vitality thins, in rejecting the prude 1950s of amused recall, in their 1970 spring tropical travels, even the academics dared to wear the blatant new string bikinis. Worse, in dorm-plaza baking back on campus (some bravely indecent) they pointedly presided with a peach, pelvic and patella agitation. Still worse, disdaining dean warnings and parental panic, work-out tuned work-outs. The rules were changed, to the grief of their here we go again roommates.

Those tie pieces edged ever riskier, until in public settings, some in nothing. July 1983, a boy-tough pretzel with white breasts pressed out, lay blithely bared on her sand cot within a beach mob, in full teasy view. Willfully relaxed, chaste she reveled in being not. Staring as I wobbled by her she elbowed…

Up to eye my sun savagery (since 67), my butt-cut shorts and my sailboat’s spiffy rudder on my shoulder. Wide smile. Her proclivity came in steps, going back to her library love giving way to the alluring 70s itch, and her hitting beach, also street, in her grandparents-gift top-patches and banana peel. When I later saw her as a collegiate, life for her and all skinny adventurists was a hoot. But they owed it to those first 1970 string intrepids, whose willowy statures triggered their floaty frock or leggy jean enticing, and guiltless effulging. Leading the…

Charge of these wanton sunners, the family-beach pushy Sylphire: Beddy ready, aristocrat lineage, turquoise eyes and mini-kini, squirmy belly, kaffe rays deluged. Or a hitch-hiker: Stately stern, wispy twisty, twin triangles, tight three inch zipper jeans, squirmy belly, kaffe rays deluged. Outlaws like these made badder better, so the sensible achievers, sensitive artists, steady workers, staid scholars and silly daughters all deluge and effulge indulged. Their insistence…

On sun hit with the most disturbing turbulence back with the fission mission radioactive activity, that except for exceptions was slowly test-ban erased.

A 1969 U-235 inheritor was the impudent, pouty faced pool devotee Matt, a head-tossing uncut-hair sun ravager. Once I saw him ride Dayton Street by all the proper shoppers. Then, walking his race bike through the crowds, seething sheened and dangerously out of place, in spite of his boyhood age that cut-offs clad marauder commandingly intimidated those fearful, fretful fools.

I noted; this stab at old era decorum took real audacity, and I learned to do my own vitality edification. But a sun scarce week of work, dirt mud. In 1971 at sunset Scott and Roblon patrolled their Varsities along, as they shimmered with alarming violence from their drought infusions. Horrified, I took off after.

I caught up shaking and eyed those ultraviolet lashed heroes, and the sure thrust of their long, strenuated thighs. Like with downtown Matt, the sun danced upon the succulent skin of their arched backs. They looked at me in surprised contempt, for my queer chase and pitiful deviance. I fled in pathetic confusion.

Years later got a look at this bright moptop of twelve fishing. He was just in high-cuffed cut-offs set to his hips and neatly creased into his wee buttem. Pole in hand, precisely pretty and door key yarn hung, he gleamed so very brown he just swarmed. I looked. Bar thugs would look too, from the safety of their faked disinterest, of course. Saw him again fishing with friends, breathtaking dark.

Then 1983, this light and tight lass in her smart winter coat, leaning into the corner of the elevator, perusing her Finance Journal: Cookie complexion with eyebrows inquisitively set. Ethereal. That is, not quite of this world, nor that of the Beyond. That serene, blue eyed conceit. First time ever, I looked. So that summer, done sailing with boat stowed by ten, until four I laid in the sun in the adjoining park, right in with the girl aggressors. I saw those sun overdone…

Maidens, all earnestly urgent in their filmy micro tie-pieces. Less courage than that sand cot craver, who put the law’s tacit lenience to use. Tacit too, me foraying my toxic sun intensity with expo walks, and campus, city or county bike rides. My being so inexplicably deluged, reactions were revulsion, disbelieving mirth, fellow fanatic respect, wondering awe, friendly protest, fright, wistful envy, gay inklings, interest or flimsy excuses to look. But sailing, stray boats only.

So, the two boys burst into Scott’s house, laughing about that faggot run-in. Scott’s parents chuckled but they were alarmed by this account, because of the potential danger posed by me as the resident perv. The question was, how did Scott, and the gut-kick Roblon, make it this long without other run-ins? The two were merciless in showing off, tempting other losers, so they decided to vacate Scott for awhile, to get him out of my deviated sight. Yeah, blame me.

They told him they needed him to check out their investment farm way up in Clarendon, run by Sid Muggert and family. They expected a fight, but Scott was all for this trip, not guessing he was being exiled. Nor did the precocious Nack (real life, Matt’s little brother), who begged to go too. Scott was convinced.

Also he was a suburban boy; this was his opportunity to get real honest soil underfoot and maybe drive a tractor. Thus at the local Maher Ridge station he boarded the Queen Of Steel (the only way to make the trip, no jets in the north) with alacrity. In trademark tennis shorts and short cropped tank-top he got the crabby old conductor to stare, from the safety of his position, of course.

The Queen was a streamliner from days gone by, and Scott settled into his Roomette smiling with expectation. But as fast as the train roared northward he felt confined, until just in his butt-cut shorts he got himself noticed.

As he alighted from the train in Meredith the farmer Muggert was irresistibly drawn to him, with the excuse of asking if he knew of this Scott feller. He almost fell over when the boy (a boy, with that long hair?) said he was Scott. He never had seen anyone so divinely crafted, and like everybody else, me also, he was struck by his smoothed arabica snap. What would the family think?

For Scott, it was surprising how crudely misshapen everyone was, and how backward this land was. He took out his cellular phone to call home, only to see Searching For Signal. He had to use a phone booth instead, that was provided with a built-in stool, and a light and vent fan that came on as he pulled the door shut. Waiting for the connection he saw a top cut girl with scratty really full hair walk erectly by with a few magazines. She too was a sun addict. But worse.

Damn, if I just wasn’t on this stupid… "Oh, hi, Dad? I’m here!"

As they drove from the station Scott saw that all of the cars were old styled, just like in the vintage car shows back home. Great towering buildings of grey stone loomed over the streets, and their stores at sidewalk level had tall, narrow signs alight with neon, that spelled out the businesses vertically. A strong smell of vehicle exhaust filled the air, adding to an odd hint of foreboding Scott felt.

The downtowns he knew were friendly social places with fountains, modern statuary and flowers. Not here. The pedestrians hurrying to catch their 50 foot streetcars (What the hell are those?) were all tiredly gaunt and worried looking.

But the boy did notice that he had been stared at in wonder, and this was better than back home, where he was a stand-out but not very unusual, despite his exorbitant sun crackle. Everyone marveled at his long hair and cold ice blue eyes. Their interest gratified him, but it didn’t make up for his eventually finding out that there were no hamburgers and pizzas, and nary a single one of those paragons of kitchen efficiency, the microwave. TV, black and white?

Scott won the Muggerts over. The daughters took to him. He helped with the chores and errands in the morning, then when the family took their naps he went exploring. As soon as he was out of sight he hung his T-shirt on a branch and breezily ran. He didn’t think he would be seen in the surrounding isolation, but he was, and this got back to his hosts. Mr. Muggert said it would be foolish for him to help with the second cutting hot in his shirt. So in just his tennis…

Shorts he stacked the bales, muscles singing. Next day he rode with to the suddenly silent feed mill. He sat down to dinner shirtless, and he snapped with such energy his lath-like form seemed to hum. The mother, girls too, felt quite dizzy, as they took in his high quality looks, crackling aura and handfuls hair.

Evening visitors marveled at him. His last week for outside Scott advanced to no shorts. Nap times he ran the steamy fenceline trail to the creek to lie out, and one day he came upon that magazine girl. Yes! All that brush pile hair!

She was bare too as she lay upon the flagstones. He already knew of her. She and her father were running a survey just a mile away, and the family talked of her animatedly each evening over dinner. She was so hair explosive and sun soaked she was famous, and all libraries had books of her explicit photos.

She was said to be working the Foxdell Road survey stitchless. This is why the family let Scott go similarly dressed, if out of sight. And now like himself the girl was luridly sunned, with pert baseballs lifted. He was on intimate terms with the girls back at home, all all-night gymnastic, but this complex creature was far beyond them. Like a bicycle spoke. He stood shaking. The girl sprang over to him. Her fluids always unsettled, she sparkled in panting anticipation.

Hey, how’s it going? Oh n-not b-bad. Nervous laugh. Glad to meet you. I’m Beatense. H-Hi, I’m Scott. Hey, Scott. Wanna lay in the sun with me?

Cross-legged, two face each other, sunk curved bellies sultry smoking.

Later her father, in search of girl after his tavern lunch, came upon the two. He backed off and lit his pipe. Then, Beeter! Where the pisspot hell are you? Yer not fixing for me to do all this work myself, ain’t you? Come outta hiding!

They part at last, laughing. Girl splashes away mess. Runs off.

The boy then heard all kinds of yelling, and he crept over behind a bush to watch. He saw who appeared to be the girl’s father cursing and shaking his fist in stamping fury, but to his surprise she just laughed and shouted right back at him. She pointed out her own list of faults. The dispute abruptly ended and the two companionably walked side by side back to their work site. Scott was in a quandary, what to do, but then ran after the belligerents. He didn’t know how to find them, but he heard more arguing and homed in on it. The girl saw him.

Scott! Pop, meet my friend here! We were very bad! But nice exercise!

The boy felt jittery about this remark. Their being bad, plus his nature look. The surly old surveyor greeted Scott by spitting aside in disgust. Actually taken aback. Wow! The splendid zephyrs helped run the county road’s offsets, while the father swore nonstop. The boy laughed nonstop. Was borrowed overnight for beach outing next day. One AM, Stan returned from Smitty’s, grousing.

Big mistake, that desert surveying camp. Runty fourteen, sweat rust nakie, iron strappety. Tornado hair, little jugs. Scott, you can’t stay! So, that’s why sofa empty! Taken to clinic. Hi, I’m Lesta. Puppet here wishes to play it safe. Maybe not mistake. Back home kid goes beachy bare, agent spots her, photo sessions. Scott, no, I… Uh-Aghhhh! So, he is staying. Book published, with advance buys Spook, gallops very bareback. Agh-Agh-Agh! No sleep me.

So, Roblon draws up on his bike by this sun avid older guy just in cut-offs. Mixing time, place, fact and fiction, this was me, that chaser of years ago. This goes back to my first college year 1967. April Saturday, everyone getting sun, I explored the terrain nearby. Found rock ledge, down to underpants, secret sun. Next morning, peanutty me! In mirror, still reed-like, but more substantial.

This was a transformation I was unprepared for. But every cafeteria dinner was like Sunday supper. I was no longer the blob who went unnoticed. Quickly, made cut-offs, left the dorm, crossed street into fields, shirt off, native scout me! Sun all day, cut-offs rumpled for half-mast butted line, kraft caramel me! More events, mazola slippery. In all four years, just one dorm-side interlude. Felt too compulsive, no overkill intent yet. Back to inconvenient distant seclusion.

So, striding along in my cut-offs, with the cuffs snugged up high and the belt loops just held, setting off my weavy waist, I roamed ridge and road far afield to find refuge. Hours later, returning my bread crust bloom to campus, discretely entered the dorm’s far end stairwell. But walking our floor, high protest. Also…

Nerved my face and limbs into class or cafeteria. Same agenda next three springs, with two summers of just-jeans surveying. Senior year, winter sunlamp and peeky ears hair. In May imposed a campus-wide shorts-only walk-through, rolled towel and mazola in hand. Six hours later, another reprehensible tour.

But school end 1970, UV degree only. Back home, backyard blastings. Job August 1971, July 1973 first apartment, took week off. No backyard, no hidden spots, so just in my cuffed cut-offs and strut narrowed, shot my Varsity with the traffic to the beach, towel and mazola back on the rack. Arrived, empty sands. By noon big crowd, but was reconciled to my sickening overkill giving pause.

Nine all-daze cruelty endrenchings, seems Sylphire wanted a wink. Riding home exuded my vibrato deluge, abusing hundreds. Photo proof: Matched old penny Lang, hung biceps, shoulder and collarbone detail, placketed belly, chest bulked. Restaurants, stores, other situations, bare limbed nerve continued.

But in 1976 morbid crisis, got fat. The Laguna surfer kids, the stallion riding Shiloh and a bar-bending tennis expert, all were beer bottle braised and sit-up reps-rippled threats. Finally in 1978 skiing, a hershey-faced racer boy irked me into fighting back. Culminated in a two week western odyssey, got very brown.

Bondi NSW too and Acapulco. And my sailboat pier-side and bikini-me old penny hot and belly sunk, sat talking with these voluble kayakers. Or in butt-cut shorts, sailed over to my singles club picnic: Vivid enrontery, high protest. Also pushy beach, prairie camp or local venue displays, and did old penny flights to stirrups and no stirrups. Or that misguided invite, Get that shirt off. But failure again 1994, I quit bike, broil and boat. Skiing too, and the later six mile runs.

My shit impact went all flab. But roller-bladed, biked, barbelled and basted back to tactless no-shirted guilt, and retired in the 2008 Pacific Beach summer, with tactless no-shirted guilt I yet again menaced the slendy bendy D sacreds.

The diligent and intelligent Self Deifiers exert their capable, natural authority as a reluctant duty. They seek sun to enforce their assured sensual poise. The tinty-tanty Deniers (magic Megan et al) dread being showy and glowy, but urged by friends many enroll in sun study. As if tolerating their sun skills the Deplorers day-long summer simmer from grim primal need, and then coerce reactions with their exotic bearing. The like minded Deployers advance their sun voltage with street, dance bar, beach and bed impunity,. Bodily assault is unlawful, but by judicial lapse these elegants can still damage. The Delighters are lively kindred spirits of sportsy/outdoorsy very, very brown. Like the diligent Deifiers they too celebrate that wholesome sun, all fervently trusting, I too, This I must be.

The Ds share in uncommon the glorious Bs. Bone, where the muscles are tensioned, shaped and aligned to exactify their lyrical frames. Blood: Fortitude, pride, hungered character and pedigree. And Bright, luminous health.

2

ONE GIRL’S OBSESSION

B eatense Colwell age twenty, yes runty but stalk steeled, with rabid sun habits, riffled through her Chez Health magazine. Wow, not only beach illegal, like hesitant modest me, but she’s altogether in that mote!? Ah, here it is.

Cont’d from pp 69.... Early the next morning me and Ely ran to Coco dare bared! So are you weary dreary? Tired of your rut? Need a quick realign? Go jet! Bitsy Yo Bitty, active much? But ease off that sun. Super cacao slam dunk! But our mag advertises SPF! You might lose us some sponsors! But bed action? Be bad! C/H so if you’re made right you look right. Another fact, sadly true, but a university study showed that every toddler will by instinct head to the bright pint-sized gals, happily, but the big or plain women in the room caused fussing. Perhaps a deadly blow, but suck it up, we all like wide eyes and wide smiles! (Cont’d pp 287, Col 2) out of science fiction at its wackiest worst! And with its balconies hovering at five story intervals like gravity defying golden haloes, and with its sea green exterior of mis-placed bathtub tiles, how can our poor attempt begin to describe this weird spectacle? Be sure you put this uggo building in your itinerary! C/H

Is that slick! What a fun world, where she can openly live that way. Well, I do too, I’m obscene! But I better look into that hostel! And that Cocojo!

That other article brought back memories. At age ten little Beatense read this story, Jam Session At Abby’s, about a girl who hoped to have her chorale group over to sing, but she was ashamed of her miserably drab apartment. She thought, maybe a little paint would help. She asked her father and he said yes, so when her friends came over they exclaimed over the bright new look.

Beatense closed the book and looked around at her own prisony bedroom with its stained, dull ocher paint and age blackened bureau. With trepidation the girl went to her father to ask if she could paint her room. He was cold, distant and mean, so after much disapproving comment he asked how she was going to pay for this paint. This was awkward for her, of course she had no money. But he actually pulled out a tenner and without a word went back to his box scores.

A disaster. The idea of painting her room did seem easy, but the reality for this picked-on, sad little girl was a blotchy, splotchy mess. Her father heard her defeated sobbing and peeked in on her. For the first time since Trudy died he felt sorry for his lonely, and paint splattered, daughter. He wiped his own tears.

Now, here there, darter, lets me shows yer how yer do it. Yer gots a good startie, but the trick is long, smooth strokes. Here now, watch how I do this.

The two worked together and the girl’s bedroom was transformed into an awful Peony Pink. She loved it, but more important, she and her father laughed and became fast friends. The dresser next, hideous Plessy Ferguson red.

Father and daughter went to Rentschler’s and they decided on a cozy little bed, a bedside table and a just right desk for doing homework.

Now there ya are, darter, I knew it! I wents and got yer all spoilded! Fancy this and schmancy that! Next youse will wants ter paints the living roomie!

"Well, Pop, as long as you brought it up…"

"You jest hesh! We ain’t paintin no living room, sech foolishness! But if we was to paint it, ahem, what color do ya rackermand, all these notions of yers!"

She fell onto the nearby sofa laughing. The flattered father pointed it out to the clerk and said, Aye, we’ll be taking that too, her blubbering it all up!

The living room was done in Lettuce Snow. Clothes next. Beatense ended up with a dozen nice new dresses, quite the rarity in this struggling world.

This was a land of endless, gritty slums. Of walk-up flats and flowers set in empty pickle jars. Of fish sticks, liver, canned mackerel, pot pies and sardines. The father, sitting at the table in his sleeveless T-shirt, would get two full scoops of tuna glop, while the son in high school got one scoop, plus a little more. The mother and young sister would each get one scoop. It was never enough. Give McDonald’s credit, until then us poor people didn’t know food had actual taste.

The high school senior cited above had to wear his father’s flapping old suit to the prom, but as mortifying as this was, he knew that all the other guys heard the same coarse shouting, What’s wrong with it? It’s a perfectly good suit!

When the truck came to deliver the couch it got everyone’s attention. What the deliverymen dreaded was the 5 story hike. The old sofa was so typical; the cushions were worn through top and bottom and the cotton stuffing was coming out. Car seats were the same way, but those cushions couldn’t be turned over. The smart motorists invested in seat covers when their cars were new, thinking this would save the upholstery, but with the action of their getting in and out the fabric wore through anyway. There was talk that down in Xanthallado clothes and carpets lasted forever. Travelers returning from there swore that they saw ten year old cars there that looked like they had never been driven.

The drawback with little Beatense’s new dresses was that their bright floral prints enhanced her natural high color complexion, and she was called gypsy or gypper. Inevitably in summer she got tan, a skin contamination she detested.

One asset she did have was that she looked clever. There was a particular structure to her face and eyes that her teachers responded to. Her grades five, six and seven established her as a bright, able and popular student. By twelve her quick dexterity made her sought after in gym class. Happy times.

In her thirteenth summer old Stan brought her along surveying. Better than Mrs. Picky, who never saw the girl anyway, because she spent her days playing street games (in building shade) or at the library. In surveying, to stay pale she wore bib overalls and long sleeves, but for back-country work she couldn’t resist swimming unfettered in an inviting pond and drying off in the nice sun. She had to face it, all tobacco gold. Once a farmer saw her, and springing up she ran.

Hey you, come back here! She lightly flew away and shot up a tree.

As perched up in the branches a wonderful idea came over her; she loved being all woodland walnutty. And she didn’t realize how fast her long legs could carry her. For the surveying jaunts she stripped as soon as she got out of sight of her father and old Julius, and lying all day in the sun she sharply enriched her smoothed doeskin patina. This gained a profoundly captivating life of its own.

The only problem was when she heard the truck horn she had to hurry back and get civilized again. She kept up her habit even for the subdivision platting surveys right in town, by scampering to the top of the various dirt piles and lying out there, weed hidden. This was taking quite a chance with the city all around, but these plats had their access limited to old truck paths. Her father wondered where she disappeared to, but she always returned to the truck smiling.

These dirt piles were not there for her convenience. What happened was that bulldozers pushed the black dirt up into piles, for later sale to landscaping companies. There were no handy earthen piles for surveys in the city’s peopled parts, but the girl discovered her building’s rooftop for weekend sun medication.

Far, far to the south lay the province of Xanthallado. Back at age twelve Beatense knew all about it, at least from the perspective of its women’s fashion magazines. She went to the nearby train station every few days to scout up any of these magazines that were too rarely left behind on the waiting hall benches. Her father loudly objected as she brought them home, but for all that by her age thirteen she had quite a stack in her room, plus a few mail order dresses.

He loudly lectured her as she paged through them at the kitchen table, with woodland walnutty sticks in play, and she absently repeated, Oh, shut up!

Thems maggies are keruptin ya, darter! I tain’t never seen no sech trash! Them clothes tain’t fittin to wipe up an axeedent runnin to the bathroom!

Oh, shut up! Just because they’re teaching me what’s what in life.

Life! I’m telling yer, darter, them mags is fillin yer nog with all silly idees!

She didn’t let her father see any of her magazines, but turning thirteen there was one she did show. An article that truly stirred Beatense’s blood told of the centuries ago prairie hunters. The artist picture showed sun splashed kid killers galloping bareback in the tiniest of leather scraps, tied in place with thongs.

See, Pop? This explains why I get like a rotty banana! I’m a prairie girl!

Better not I don’t see you in town none in no outfit like that, girl!

Her heart pounded. He agreed! From buckskin and leather cords the girl made three inch triangles for a crude top and a strip cut to bookmark size for her bottom. She tied them on. With her bloodlines they felt a part of her. When she showed her father he objected to her lack of reserved restraint, saying,

You start sunning in that up on that roof, instedda all nudie-toodie!

The girl’s mouth fell open. Whenever she did get sun up there, she always suspensefully lay behind some old apple crates and figured no one saw her.

"But I was always hidden! You… People know about me… Doing that?"

When didn’t we? Yer the talk of the building, yakking and fussing!

But he never confronted her! He might even accept her farmland splurges!

Beatense flopped back into the dusty old armchair. In the dim lighting she appeared as a live streak of sun ripened energy, almost a match for prune rum. Her hips stuck out, her belly lay wasted sunk, and her apples bulged against the triangles of her top. Her tangly hair was all atoss. She was weight deprived.

She sprang up and over to the hall closet mirror. A backside look at herself gave the jarring shock of her vertical butt-thong lying hidden within her divide, and this breezy look, at first glance, did persist frontally. Her baseball breasts were indeed that small (and almost as firm) but the thong bridge of the buckskin triangles lent them a very visible pronouncing. Her heart pounded.

The advantage of her bikini quickly occurred to her with the surveying work, in that she could help with it while still getting full sun. No more urgent searches for secret spots. Then one grey morning she broke her bikini in for city use by venturing out in it when the streets were still fairly empty. She ran two miles.

Later, the sky cleared, Beatense hit the roof. Several neighbor ladies hung laundry as she hid back of her barricade. At rest, the girl lay in a melted butter dream. At noon the laundry visits finally ended, she untied to lie all afternoon.

At five, getting her pieces back on, Beatense took the stairs down and ran the streets again. She ran often, including to the beach, in the same pieces.

That thirteenth summer was followed by the fourteenth summer’s surveying camp at the Superior and Commercial Oil drilling fields, out in the great Geode Desert, five miles from the Allegan River Gurney branch. Beatense signed up for the first two week term. Class and lab mornings and evenings, afternoons off.

Also on the Allegan was the lonely Nywot Transfer. No town here, nothing. It was a stop at the edge of the Desert for the trains and occasional road traffic hellishly making the Clarendon and Xanthallado trip. Boats also stopped here.

Beatense and her father got off the southbound Queen Of Steel here and awaited the oil company bus. The girl ran and swam, then baked at the end of the platform in oil only. In desert heat this began her rusty iron journey. Long night in the waiting room. The girl hit four more hours, then the Queen came up from Xanthallado, with those campers. Then the bus. Girl got on her thong.

With thin arm held before her protectively she confronted her father with the other campers watching in wonder. He cursed and stamped, and threw his hat on the ground, but he had never seen such a jolting, or indeed dangerous sight. Deeply lashed by the sun to a wicked shine, she was intricately emaciated with native strength. Her chiseled face looked like she knew all kinds of lurking, evil secrets, and her thick sun bleached hair fell tously fly-away, as if she had never been civilized and would kill anyone who dared tame her. Her dark eyes bored into her overawed old father with majestic threat. Her lifted breasts were placed like two peaches, with nips stuck well out, her little butt was carved into two tight bulges, and her stretched thighs were lightly twisted. Belly board hard.

The little whip of fourteen sang with vitality, as the flexions of her long waist quivered. Father’s anger all an act. Last hug, he boarded the train. By the bus Beatense put on her butt-cut shorts and T-shirt, then the driver Lesta got out.

Skeletal, sun immersion all over. Hey, guys, no AC, bus or camp, so get comfortable! Shocking the train passengers, they did, Beatense also. As the lone Meredith sign-up, yet she was cute, long lined and ray reeky, with hair wild piled. Arriving at the oil camp outpost, by then she was known as Puppet.

Next afternoon the sun immersed, skeletal petro interns trained the kids in pool-side weight lifting. Music scary loud, that night they hosted an erotic dance rave. Puppet learned their snaky-waist pivoting hips jerking impossibly in need.

Boy Darcy, Don’t be afraid, hold him if you like. He just wants to make you happy. Lesta talked her along. Next day she took the noisy novice in for pill safety, and signed for her implant surgery. Have fun, miss, but wait a day.

Puppet joined the pool-side nudes the afternoons, followed by legs-gripping gallops from the small stable. And with the convert’s zeal the crazed bug went deep active. But Geddy, the chemist’s lonely daughter, said it was very wrong.

"Nice advice, GidGad! But let MY overworked belly do the aching! Idiot!"

Truck driver from supply barge reported big elderly boat camp. The stable and wheelie-snarling dirt-bike kids rioted. Evening video, as blonded and sweat blacked, Puppet howled atop her unruly horse. Still in usual costume, she played pool later at the club with Geddy and grateful parents. Then, repeated aching.

On way home, Nywot. Just in her Lesta-given thick-knit crochet patch and Camp Gurney half-tee, the energy burst sprang from the train. Tearful hugs.

I just wore air, Pop, even in the lab tallying the mud logs or dancing at the club! Plus I rode Feisty, and fucked! But poor Geddy scolded me for that.

Saves me the trouble. Fueled by her activities, moody looks and attack tan the kid burned to play free, but she was told except for her bikini runs, for street or store her tie-top and damn fool butt-cut shorts were minimum. She wept.

Like the Deployers, I too, she needed to assert and hurt. Our victims stare, as if this brings comfort. Like the Deployers, I too, Beatense had kind concerns for soothing them. Sobs subsided: Roof, beach and agrarian liberty.

Still, she was insatiable. Pop, let’s move to Gurney! They need a surveyor to stake out the new wells and pipelines. And for me, there’s Geddy and Lesta, and I can sell my clothes and raid intruder camps, and exercise! Even precious young girls begged, Me-Me-Me! And myself, I fitted in there, unlike here!

Yes, all the idealized depictions of young damsels in portrait art, books and garden figurines, always rendered them as exquisitely defined and small. But in this sagging world any examples of this ideal were limited to just Miss Colwell of the complex eyes, compelling cheek-points, low chin, upturned nose, rank hide and forest princess hair, that straw-like fell all about in hopeless tangles. It was still unknown to her that others besides one sad friend could proudly adore her.

But for the present, just in crochet, she entered the library. Police escorted, the blinding offender faced her father who had just gotten a certain phone call.

Pop, I was just returning a book! And this is lots more than at the beach!

Beach, you say? You bestest go easy staying nakie at that beach, darter. You starts to get drownded and no lifeguard will wants to get near youse!

You said I could go naked there! I even walk around and swim naked!

Her father hid his fond approval, even as the miscreant stood before him in her half ounce patch, that prudently she did wear into the building. But it wasn’t him she had to worry about. In their beach patrols the police did seem to veer a little too close to her, so she needed to know how arrestable she was.

One evening, in the big white cotton office shirt she bought at Choates, with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and five appalling buttons opened, she returned to the library and, ignoring the hostile staff, she checked the ordinances. In the index, no dress codes. Her beautiful glistening was all she needed, anywhere.

Even now, but for her long shirt Beatense was bare. On impulse, removed. Heart pounding, she held out her long, slim leg and eyed its live vibrance. Shirt off as she left, everyone stared. Back on her street played tag, in zero, and next day bought and hefted her own weights atop the roof, zero. Workday’s end, still in zero hopped from her father’s truck. Quick up the stairs. Then the photos.

All zero: Sweat run, sweat barbells, wet lard beach. There the girl and the poor sleepy Slat of Xanthallado, an archetypal thin teen-age boy, ran, splashed, swam, oiled each other, lay in the sun and played catch. Then Flying Free.

With part of her ten thousand cut the predator adopted the steed she rode, Spook. Her nights with Slat she had to coax him, he of such tender inclination they had to cut the beach sex scene, but she did get got to keep the paint-tight three-inch zipper jeans, as worn for the no-shirters.

With her open and honest face, feral hair, hung biceps, bony shoulders, out shifted breasts, jutted collarbones, empty belly, gaunt hips, light twisting of thigh muscle, and extreme grey photo tones, plus Slat’s charming confusion, Puppet went top ten. Libraries ordered for their art reference, and stores sold fast too, seeing that the book was rated Family. Xanthallado bought too, gaylords full.

But the suddenly adulated Book Girl still helped with the lowly surveying.

Pop, I set the wrong point! We gotta redo that line, you miserable jerk!

I saw that coming! You just watch what yer doing instedda yerself!

Not easy, I was also often caught eyeballing. And with this being a land of indifferent physical disfunction, Beatense was far above the crude rabble of her bank failure and lay-off world. People were sadly malformed and homely plain, as if they were put together from left-over parts bins. If not bloated their lives of laboring toil made them stringy or diseased away. So if Puppet was to admire anyone it had to be her own reflection. Even before the book her unique traits gave her honor. Especially since there was no cuddling adoration of parents for their children of any age, because they didn’t have those whimsical wide eyed looks of wonder in life. Back in the 1950s most of us had this same lack, so we looked hard at any wealth-cultured supremacy boys. We marveled at…

Those blooded superiors, but for exceptional specimens, girls too, it still is bad form to both be or see. But in the surveying, the ever zero Beatense kept things moving. She and old Julius could do both the back and foresights at the same time, and for the topographic elevations they got two level rods going.

If a sight line was obscured by brush the heat burned streak of hard muscle flailed the machete at it like a fury. Her father watched too as she snapped the transit legs together and ran it under her arm to the next turning point, then set the transit back up, with the plumb bob centered on the stake driven in with the last set-up. She then took the backsight on the range pole held by Julius.

Mr. Colwell turned the angle to the next corner, then put the chaining pin on line as held by Beatense, who then ran ahead to hold the measuring chain so she could set the new point. She was always greased with liquid lard.

Meanwhile she had Spook. She found him a stable, but with his blood he required lots more time than she counted on. But she did become a true prairie girl. She took off days from surveying to ride, getting to the stable on her clunky bike. Once astride she tossed off tie-top and crochet, and galloped ridge, road and gulley in bareback abandon. Any witnesses watched her fly by in worship.

School began, tie top and shorts. Refused. Her deep vee white shirt, again denied. Do you know who I am? Back home, put on an airy mail order dress, and long legs in play, she was admitted into ninth grade. The teachers dreaded this animal, but as she faded the untamed camp kid influence also ebbed away.

In her fifteenth summer, offered a counselor job, the girl begged to return to camp, "so I can go bad again, Pop!" He almost let her but did not, so she went on with her beach, farm and roof exposures. As the neighborhhod celebrity she went crochet topless along her own block of Sarnia Street. Folks gazed warmly as she played in the games. All sleek oiled she was illustrious.

One day over lunch in this fifteenth summer is when she encountered Scott. At last, another bout since Slat. She still resented the silly restraint of her book. Just that boy’s half in would have paid an extra dollar a copy, even beyond her contracted hundred fifty thousand, which sadly was closing in fast. Once she hit this, for small orders her dollar per book would fall to an insulting fifty cents.

She decided to make a chancy beach run, then told her father she wouldn’t be helping the next day. Oh? Help, you call it? Towel in hand Beatense sprang the stairs to the street, but once past her own block naked she felt awkward, so she ran full tilt to the safety of the beach, six blocks. Then at four the trick was getting back. The girl felt all sunned out, unusual for her but it was dead hot.

In a lethargic fog she walked. Even in this foreign stretch her startling state was nicely accepted, but she had established her bikini habit through here. And the book did set her apart for special rights. And so she expected to go all out ever after, but told her father that some indoor situations might be ill advised.

Absolutely, darter! I always thoughts yer was smart, and this proves it!

I think we can intelligently discuss my plans without your obstruction!

That’s right, I forgot what subject we was on! Yer being modest, right?

Uplifting is what I am, like with poetry, fine art or symphony.

The inspirer’s working rural bare was easy for her, but platting the new tract right in town the next day, she hesitated. Crochet topless, perfect. The rest of summer, the same. Later as a new sophomore Beatense entered high school.

For that her white shirt, plunge opened. This time the principal admitted the famed girl, whose irrepressible shine was burned to a painful russet dark fury.

She later learned in health class that sex led to dissolution and ruin.

Just like Geddy, old Miss Cole said sex is bad, Pop! How ignorant!

I tain’t so sure you shoonta done that, darter, imprapper as it twas!

So I said I made a hundred thousand being sexual, so how am I ruined?

Don’t get too cocky. Another few grand yer take will be cut in half!

It would be ten times that if Slat was anything like those boys at camp.

Living in a scrabby flat, nice things always out of reach, Miss Cole resented how this incorrigible’s evil ways made her so wealthy. Everyone else could feel this way too. Meredith was in a rut of grinding labor, but to its citizenry’s credit they quietly endured their bleak lives. The city had none of Xanthallado’s racy glamor, but it did boast the futuristic new Inctin Tower. But this was little help to Miss Cole, and Beatense, by chance seeing her enter her sad old building, was torn with guilt. She often visited with her after school but to no avail. Persisting, at last her wide placed eyes were convincing. You silly little toothpick.

Next spring Beatense ordered a little frock from a magazine ad, done in see through fabric. Too small, it barely fit, but it did appease her in-town bare urges. Athough its light weight did show her vulgarly, the girl felt she could enter most situations, school too. The new principal, expecting to deny her, stared into that breasts-showing opened vee, and shook violently. Miss Cole happened to step in. Oh, let her! Rasping, he agreed to that day only. Except, until she faded, Beatense wore it other times, plus her other glorious styles from Xanthallado.

When the girl was back in school for her senior year, she got another break, that involved the combination dirigible mooring mast and radio broadcast tower atop the great Inctin building. It seemed her singing voice had a mournful husky crackle that interfered with its pure tones. The manager of DWBD saw her solo in the Spring Sing, and later approached her for singing commercials.

She and her father entered the palatial lobby of that landmark building, and were escorted to the studios on the 69th floor. As they discussed the details the Presence gazed in wonder at the view. There were two options, either wait at the music union and take potluck as they work through the tiredly hopeful other musicians, or DWBD could sign her directly as inhouse talent. This meant lower rates, but then she wouldn’t have to loiter at the hiring hall for placements.

With the new summer already hot, Beatense jumped at that. At graduation, gleaming very brown under her gown, she and Miss Cole sang a cute duet.

Her recording sessions took place in one of the smoky, dim studios uptown. At first as she worked her jobs the singers called in from the union resented her scab ploy, but singing about soap or cigars she wasn’t a threat. They got to be friends. Beatense often brought along Flora Cole. Her father took an interest in her and joined them, cussing as usual. They got to know many of the stars who kept Meredith’s tube-set radios and phonographs warm at night. Once a singer didn’t show. Miss Cole, could you? Got $100 and contract. You traitor!

3

AGE NINETEEN

B eatense’s hair was longer, so its massive profile shag density hid all but her nose, mouth and low chin. It often distracted from her charred, long thinned thighs, with that light twisting of fine muscle, and her decorative slim arms.

This summer had been different. She was often left home to draw the maps and run the slope stake calculations, and naked and slopped with melted butter she set up shop out on the fire escape. She was right in sight of the buildings across the way, but she got used to this and no longer felt excited. She had to painstakingly pin all of her hair up for these sessions, because otherwise its full volume fell onto her back, blocking the sun. During this summer she often went whole days nonstop bare, streets too, and now she was on her way to college.

What’s wrong with my dress, Pop? It’s natural unbleached cotton!

Oh yeah, for the $600 you paid it’s got the seeds showing like a feed bag!

That’s the whole idea! What you really object to is it’s cut kind of short.

Short! Look at that, not one inch of them legs is hided! It’s disgraceful!

That’s the way it’s supposed to be. And it is a little longer if I’m standing.

Well, yer better do a lot of standing when we gits down to the college for yer registrationing! Darter, they’s likely to kicks you right off campus, but don’t look at me for no ride home, wearing that disgusting rag! Yer nippies almost shows!

It’s got a wide, deep vee cut. It’s a way of showing I’m proudly healthy.

Healthy? That sucked in belly of yorn looks like I don’t hardly never feeds you none! And yer running nake all over tarnation don’t help! Now hesh!

Now don’t you go and blab, Pop. I don’t want anyone on campus to know I’m the ad singer, so I’m going to be way more modest. No more public nudity.

They’ll know it’s you! Plus they’re lining you up to sing records too!

There’s no record deal. That was just studio talk. Or it better be. Now look here, you’re managing my welfare escrow account for people who can’t pay the rent or buy groceries. I put in fifty thousand for that. I don’t want anyone kicked out or hungry. Of course I do look hungry myself, being the picky eater I am.

Picky is right! And tell your evicted friends to quit their damn drinking!

That’s why I want you managing it. You can tell a drinker better than some social worker, being such a wasted, incompetent and useless slosh yourself.

Oh now listen to this! You got your own slosh with the sun, darter!

Well that slosh has got me worth 185 thousand, minus that fifty.

You takes that fifty back! Flora is so rich now, she can worry about it!

Boy, I wish I brought Spook with. But the school does have a riding club.

You ride decent, you hear? You say riding nakie yer at one with yer horse! You think if you gallop fast enough no one can sees yer are nake, and okay, I gives you that, but you go plodding along right along the road, too!

Well I have to rest Spook down to cool him off. And myself, of course.

Mr. Colwell grunted with bemused satisfaction, but said, Well, no more of that! Winter is coming and that might pound some sensicals into yer fool head! Flora says it’s time you civilize yerself down! I agreed but said it’s hopeless!

She says everything I do is just right. So here we are, Pop, driving down to campus in this old dump of a truck, famous me riding like a piece of freight.

He gave her an absent gaze. I cudda and shudda stuck you on a bus!

Preferable! Just hurry and get there. Try to find a back parking lot so no one sees me in this rattle-trap. A girl has to have some pride, you know.

Oh, pride now! I thought you was the shy type! I just learned something!

The girl laughed and gave her father a shove. He scowled, eyes twinkling.

Registration and orientation would be the next day; this was move-in day. As she entered the lobby she had a huge effect, especially in her frock, that showed just how slight she was. Mr. Colwell rolled up his eyes at the reactions. She was no longer famed as the Book Girl, that was five years ago, but she still cast a spell. She rested her elbows on the counter and told the staring fumbling attendant her name. Then after signing the forms and getting her key and dorm rules she asked if there was roof access. The bewildered reply was no.

As she and her father carried her things up Beatense worried about how to take advantage of the waning late summer sun. She didn’t care to break these people in to her habit by lying out in the dorm plaza, yet, but roof seclusion was denied her. But getting herself established in her room (her roommate Trinket had yet to arrive) she first saw that her dorm was right across the street from a woods that invited some investigative exploring, as unemcumbered.

Ay, darter, yer wants we get some eats at that truckie stop we went by?

She was about to say no, the sun called to her, but thought better of it.

"Yeah! It’s just eleven so I should be back here by noon, to get… Settled."

Yeah, darter, I know what kind of settling you have in mind! You get good and kicked out of here and I’ll get you backs home where yer damn belongs!

At last they stood by their panel truck, that looked like it had been built with flat sheet metal and then inflated. On the side was painted,

STANLEY COLWELL

Land Surveyor

The two hugged, and Beatense failed in hiding her tears.

"Pop, I might take you up on that, coming back home, but… Damn it all."

I don’t want you there scandalizing the whole neighborhood anymore than you did already! Now things can settle down and be normal for a change!

I might bring Spook here. So I could be home next weekend.

You cares more about that broken down foundered horse than me!

I care more about my skin, which is pure, smooth and sun kissed fresh.

She watched the truck wheeze and gasp its way down the street, then she ran back in. She got to her room (still no Trinket, probably giving her pig a final hug) and got off her dress and strip. On went her new jeans (she wore out the photo pair) ordered from a magazine ad, and her just jugs-hiding short cropped T-shirt. She stepped out into the hall and faced the several girls there with cold aplomb, popping their eyes out. Her apples pushed her T-shirt out in a loose hang, but it was her prairie huntress tan that got their attention. Gypsy.

She said hello and stepped into the stairwell and took them down two at a time. She burst out into the busy lobby filled with parents and students lugging clothes and boxes, and she sprang out the door and across Pinewood Street.

As soon as the trees half obscured her she stripped and took off through the woods, that conveniently had a network of paths. She came out into the open fields and she put a sandy ravine to hot use. It was sloped into the sun’s angle so it focused the rays, but this wasn’t enough to make up for the lateness of the season and her tan knew it. She gave her front three hours and then explored the countryside, and found an old quarry. This was at the mile distant dead end of Pinewood, that in this rural stretch was a gravel road. She followed this back to her dorm, at the extreme southwest corner of the campus, and town.

She put back on her stashed T-shirt and cut-offs and returned to the dorm. As she walked the hall toward her room, in turning aside to let several staring girls go by, her tan did seem out of place. For Beatense this was her disastrous first impression, and as if they had all been just discussing her the girls openly ignored her. She got to her room and saw that Trinket had moved in, and she was probably in that group that had just cold shouldered her.

Probably they were on their way to the cafeteria for their very first campus meal, an adventure that Beatense was excluded from. And now she knew deep fear. Four years lay ahead of her of being a social outcast, and just these few minutes were unbearable enough. She could not and would not go by herself to that cafeteria; she would have to sit alone while everyone stared at her. Luckily that tuna salad sourdough and cherry pie would tide her over nicely. She didn’t particularly care to eat, but there was tomorrow and the next day and the next.

The floor hallway lay dead silent. Trinket had an old wind-up alarm clock, and its noise seemed to bounce off the walls. Everyone had gone up to eat. For the first meal the cafeteria would want to put on a big feed, including thick slices of pot roast and heaped mashed potatoes, with gravy. Beatense imagined a cart wheeled through the tables, from which hunks of chocolate cake were given out, with ice cream. The girl sighed, then tensed as the door opened. Yipes!

Trinket was a dull blob, and for the first time in her life Beatense wished she had the same common looks: That pudgy and indifferently connected array of mis-matched body parts, along with scraggly hair and thick glasses. As a farm girl, Trinket had enough sun exposure to get the usual muddy beige smudge.

"H-Hi. You’re Trinket? I’m… I’m glad to finally meet you."

Hi, but tomorrow I’m going to the housing office to get reassigned.

No! If I’m making you uncomfortable I should be the one to move.

Trinket was disarmed by this concession. "Well, I guess we can see how it goes. How did you get so brown looking? You’re not… A gypsy, are you?"

"No, you can leave your things lying about. I might throw that noisy clock of yours out the window, though. Er, wh-what did you guys have… To eat?"

Eat? We just went for a walk around campus. They’re not serving yet.

Yet, meaning this evening, or yet, meaning not until tomorrow.

"Breakfast. The doors open at 6:30 AM. Then registration. Let’s jump right up there, Beatrice, to beat the… Boy, you sure are skinny. A lightning rod!"

This impression Beatense would cause ever after. But Trinket, I mean that about moving if you want me to. I don’t want to put you in an awkward spot.

"We’re both physics majors. I think… I think us two better stick together."

She had to turn away, looking in her closet as an excuse. She took out her cotton office shirt and jeans. Watching as she changed, Trinket was goggling. The pre-wash faded and stitch embroidered jeans fit very tightly, slimming her roommate’s legs into pencils, and were set so low to the pre-teen hips they had a three inch zipper. The back seam cleaved her into two tight curves, that gave a take-charge look. The girl’s starved face was awash with tan, giving her bone enhanced cheeks a strong, projecting force. Her wind blown, sun tipped fronds enframed both her dangerous face and long neck, and of critical threat was the projection of her tipped-nose and long-jaw profile from out of this shaking mass.

"B-Beatrice, you’re just so… Just so picture… Picture perfect!"

"Finally I get some credit. But