Nude Men

“Mister Jeremy Acidophilus.” She added the “mister.” She keeps staring at my name on the napkin, looking puzzled, and I know what’s coming next. She says, “Acidophilus, as in the yogurt culture?”
    Here we go. One of the big dramas of my life. “Yes, the yogurt culture,” I reply.
    “Is there a story behind that?”
    Although the truthful answer would be “None that I know of,” I decide instead, perhaps because I’m slightly masochistic, to say: “When my father was a young man, he saw the word on a yogurt container and thought it sounded very intelligent and interesting. He made it his name.” This is a lie I made up a few years ago but never had the guts to use on anyone. The most daring thing I ever do, sometimes, when people ask me my name, is to adopt a James Bond tone and reply “Acidophilus. Jeremy Acidophilus.” The truth about my name is that there is no anecdote about it, not even a rumor. Some people are named Bazooka, others are named Fender; why should some not be named Acidophilus?
    She folds the napkin in four, looking at me with a tiny smile. Mocking? Perhaps. Playful? More likely. She slips the napkin in her purse and gets up, hitting the edge of the table with her stomach again, a little harder this time. The two and a half cubes of gelatin dessert dance in unison.
    “Well, Mister Active Yogurt Culture, Mister Friendly Bacteria, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” she says, shaking my hand with small, hard fingers that are nevertheless not rough.
    She walks toward the door. I don’t turn around to watch her go out. I’m not the type to stare at a woman’s backside; not that I don’t want to, but I’m afraid someone might see me do it. At the last minute, however, I do look back and I see it, just before it disappears behind the door. It’s nice, small but not too, with a clearly defined pit, or slit, or whatever you call it, that I can see through the fabric of her skirt. I heard recently that some women undergo cosmetic surgery to have the cheeks of their backside spread farther apart. Supposedly it makes a nicer outline, nicer definition. I can imagine how that might be, though it seems a little too finicky. Anyway, I’m glad to report that my new woman will never need that surgery.
    I stare at my two and a half cubes of green with satisfaction. I do not eat them.
    That was a very pleasant encounter indeed. I look around the room very bluntly. No meek sweeps of the head, no furtiveness. Large, broad sweeps of the head. Where is my rejected woman? I feel eternally grateful to her. If it hadn’t been for her, I would never have felt the need, nor had the courage, to return my new woman’s smile. I would have accused my eyesight of fooling me. I would have buried my nose in my book, even held up my book as a shield against the charm of the plump upper lip.
    I pay my bill, get up, and look at all the faces as I walk toward the door. I would like to find her, smile and nod my head as I pass her. She is not there. I leave Grandma Julie’s. I think I will walk the extra distance in the future. Who knows, I might even share my table with a stranger.
     

chapter two
     
     
    I go back to the office, holding my briefcase in one hand and my Jell-O spoon in the other. I would have taken a cube of Jell-O as a souvenir if it had been practical, but it obviously was not, so I decided to steal the spoon. Walking down the street holding that stainless-steel spoon firmly in my hand makes me feel like Dumbo the elephant, clutching his feather and flying.
    My magic Jell-O feather carries me straight to a newsstand. I spot Playgirl magazine, whip it open to the second-to-last page, and find myself confronted with a pretty painting of a pretty naked man, the type of man I imagine could make me gay if I could be made gay. It is signed by Lady Henrietta. At least she told me the truth about painting nude men. As for what she truly wants to do with me, that is a separate question entirely. It seems that one way or the other, I can only be flattered. If she wants to paint me, I am flattered that she finds me attractive enough. If she just wants to sleep with me, I am even more flattered. I buy the magazine.
    As I walk back to the office;, I am conscious of my naked body under my clothes. I feel the fabric rubbing against my skin, everywhere. I am aware of general nakedness in the world, of people’s bodies rubbing against their clothes. I feel sexy. But then I get frightened by a