Can't Fix Cupid

I nod. “Brand with a singing soul. Got it.”

She looks very pleased with my answer.

I guess Hummingbird Judy Sunshower really has a thing with names. Who would’ve guessed?

Chapter 9

After walking for about ten minutes, I follow the trio into the back of a van.

Okay, yeah. It’s probably not the smartest thing to do. I mean, everyone knows better than to follow strangers into vans.

But in my defense, this one has bright purple flowers hand-painted on the side of it, and huge bubble letters with the slogan, “Nothin’ but good vibes and smooth rides,” so I feel like it’s a safe bet. Although, if I’m being honest, the drive is a bit bumpy.

I sit in the back with Hummingbird Judy and Surfer Hale while Bruce Willis Rob drives. The back has bench seats all along the interior walls, with purple shag carpeting on the floor and a boom box built into the middle console. Floral curtains flap happily against the half-open window, and there’s a distinct smell wafting from the front, though I don’t know what it is.

I relax, listening to the three of them as they talk about their impressive cucumber yield this year. I wonder if that’s some sort of sex euphemism or if they really are just this enthusiastic about gardening.

But all thoughts of cucumbers go out the window when the van comes to a stop and I step outside.

They brought me to a nudist colony.

An honest-to-gods, everyone walking around in their birthday suits, totally nekkid commune.

Boobs and penises everywhere.

I look back at the gate that we passed through, seeing a sign that says, “Why be rude when you can be nude?”

“Is this because of the whole I’m naked beneath the men’s suit jacket thing?” I ask Judy. “Because this was an accident,” I assure her, pulling the jacket down over my ass.

She blinks at me. “Nudity is nothing to be ashamed of,” she replies.

I’ll take that as a yes.

The colony is made up of a hodgepodge of huts. Most of them look like they’re made of concrete or stucco, while others look more like art projects decorated with murals of neon paint and put together with sticks and hope.

“So…this is where you guys live?”

“This is our oasis,” Hummingbird Judy Sunshower says with a dreamy look on her face. “I knew your aura would fit right in.”

I look around the wide open space with a bit of awe. I never knew this existed here. After two months of flying around freely in this area, who knew there was this little hidden community?

For the most part, everyone seems like they’re around retirement age, so there’s a lot of sagginess going on. But once you get past the wrinkly balls and the boobs married to their belly buttons, you pick up on the unique energy of this place.

Besides the metal gate that goes around the whole thing to block the view from outsiders, this place is really open and friendly. There’s an artsy, freeing vibe here that you can’t help but feel.

We walk past the dirt lot where there’s everything from golf carts to BMWs parked in rows. Walking along the painted pavers, Hummingbird Judy leads us down the path, where I see an in-ground pool and spa area, a rec center, and a greenhouse. These nudists have it good.

At the center of a grassy quad, there’s a kumbaya circle thing going on where people are gathered, currently doing some yoga poses and chanting. I have to look away when they all bend over for Downward Dog, because that’s just a lot of asscrack hair.

A little further down, there’s a circle of nudies playing music. A short older dude is leading the impromptu concert, one leg crossed over the other as he balances his guitar in front of his Wiener Schnitzel.

There’s a woman behind him, swaying to the music and shaking a cymbal as she gyrates to the beat. I get a little distracted by the impressive mound of hair between her legs. Her vagina whiskers are long enough to braid. Which I know for certainty since it is, in fact, braided.

“This is our music space,” Hummingbird Judy tells me. “Wonderfully talented, aren’t they?”

I can’t really discern an actual beat to be honest, though I don’t say that. The people clapping out of sync aren’t helping, and the dude with the ukulele isn’t trying to harmonize at all. The lady with the rainstick is kicking ass though.

We pass the music space, and then we come to a path that looks like something out of an artist’s wet dream. Right alongside the palm trees, there’s a short wall that’s covered in art. The wall itself is only about three feet high, but it’s littered with hanging canvases and raw paintings done right on the wall itself.