A Natural Phenomenon
I’m sitting on the couch, sipping a Sprite between two naked women. They pass a blunt back and forth across my lap, as if I’m simply part of the furniture.
I misread the invitation.
I am fully clothed at a clothing-optional party.
There is nothing charged about their nakedness. They slouch against the sofa—bellies folding over themselves, arms and legs spread, exposing dark bushes to the low light of early evening.
I don’t know whose house it is, but women come and go as if they are all owners of the space, of their bodies, of their bodies in space. Nakedness (not nudity) is such a plain, unassuming state; a rare sight, when a woman feels completely safe.
Though I am clothed, I am not without my place. I am content, sipping Sprite, inhaling second-hand sativa. I am me in the most undefined, shapeless way possible.
The women shed their skin. They are figures of light, frameless. They kiss and blend: citrus and indigo, violet and daisy. The room is warm and slow. The air smells ripe and tender. I sway in and out of sleep while they cover each other in kisses that bloom tie-dye. The light saturates my eyes. I smile and bleed into the couch.
We’ve evolved beyond the need for wholeness. We are oceans of light, endless, edgeless, never still, quiet, or contained.
