Friday, January 6, 2017

Fiesta (Part 1)

     We walked towards the entrance of the trattoria.  The man we were dining with, Robert DeNiro, was sitting on a bench just outside.  He saw us coming and rose, taking us in.  Bekka he was familiar with, but he was meeting me for the first time.   When this little dinner date had been arranged I asked Bekka if I should gussy up a little.  She dismissed this idea, reminding me that she could count on one hand she had ever not seen me in my Levis or Ben Davis, boots, punk rock t-shirt, and spike bracelets.  My spike-and-pin covered denim jacket was sometimes absent, but nearby.  If I showed up at the trattoria in a tie, the staff might not even recognize me.

     Bekka had already described me to Mr. DeNiro, so he  was not alarmed at my appearance.  He greeted Bekka with a chaste hug, then stuck his hand out to me.  "Bobby DeNiro.  You must be Lenny Schneider."
     "Hello sir," I said, shaking the hand.  "Pleased to meet you, you've influenced my sense of style in the past.  I used to have the same haircut as Travis Bickle."
     DeNiro chuckled at this and said, "And remember, 'Taxi Driver' came out in 1976, punk rock didn't really exist yet.  At least you didn't decide you were gonna dress like Harvey Keitel's character."
    "Oh shit no.  Too Seventies.  I survived a Reagan era adolescence, I could never figure out if Keitel --- or his character --- realized just how horrible he would appear in another five years.  He was not exactly dressing the stereotype for a pimp."
     "Yeah, both of you be glad you missed the Seventies," smirked DeNiro.  "Between Quaaludes, bell bottoms, disco, and the Carter administration, we weren't thinking too clearly.  Let's just say we were making some poor choices."
     "The Eighties had its own sources of shame," commented Bekka.  "Instead of leisure suits, we had parachute pants."
     "And Member's Only jackets," I added.  "Those damn things made you look like some sort of hipster security guard."
     We went in.  I stepped around a couple wearing matching sweats and fanny packs to give a wave at Bruno the maitre'd.  He cut off his conversation with the sweats couple in mid-word and came out from behind his little podium, all smiles and a hand out to be shaken.  "Mr. Schneider, sir!  Good evening!  How many dining tonight?"
     "Just three of us," I replied.  "Glad to see you too, Bruno, you're looking good."
     "Thank you, sweetie.  Let me find a place for you, back in two shakes."  Bruno scampered into the patio area to cordon off an appropriate table.
     DeNiro observed this with raised eyebrows.  "They know you here, then?" he asked.
     "Oh yeah.  When we're in the mood for Italian, this is where we come, their food is the best, and they have fantastic service.  They're used to us."
     "Jesus.  When did you make your reservations?  I gotta wait three weeks for a table in this joint."
     I gave a modest smile and said, "Well.... Actually, I didn't make reservations.  I never do.  I'm a good friend of the owner, who has instructed his staff to give me and anyone with me patio seating immediately whenever I show up.  If they need to, they'll drag another table into the middle of the patio so we'll have someplace to sit."
     "The owner of the trattoria is Angel Morelli," continued Bekka.  "He also owns Inana Productions, he's both a friend and Lenny's boss.  Angel decided he wanted us to be treated extremely well here, and we are."
     I was feeling eyes boring into me.  I looked, and the sweats couple were both staring at the three of us with a mixture of confusion, annoyance, and contempt.  I gave them a small nod and turned back for a moment.  Then a voice indicating the owner was a resident of upper Wisconsin said, "'Scuse me, uh, what didja say to that feller up front here, that he took off the way he did?"
     "Bruno is locating a table for us," I replied.  "I dine here regularly, and Bruno and I are familiar.  He'll be back shortly.  And what brings you by this evening?"
     "We were told at our hotel that this was quite the place to eat, dontcha know," said the woman.  "But we got told there wouldn't be an open table for almost ninety minutes.  Did you have reservations?"
     To save time, I simply smiled and said, "Yes ma'am.  Of course.  Enjoy their bar while you wait, it's very nice."
     "It's very expensive," grumbled the man.  "Four dollars for a beer, and they don't even have Heidelman's.  The wife asked fer a Tom Collins, and that was eight smackers!  I tell ya!  I'm almost afraid to look at the menu, we'd have to mortgage the house to pay for dinner."
     The woman had locked onto DeNiro.  She squawked, "Oh goodness, are you Robert DeNiro?"
     Glaring at Bekka, the man said, "And you're that filthy picture lady, uh, Becky something."
     DeNiro spoke first.  With a smile he replied, "Ah, I get that all the time.  Naw, my name is Broderick Crawford, I'm just a scenery painter for Columbia."
     Bekka had a bit more fun.  With a vacuous giggle, she said in a squeaky voice, "You mean Becky Page?  Yeah!  I kinda look like her, I guess I fool people.  I even got paid to pretend to be her once in a movie.  But my tits don't look like hers.  Also, the doberman they wanted me to, uh, service, came too quick.  They had to substitute a pit bull, and it kind of smelled.  Still, four hundred dollars just to jack off two dogs, how cool!"
     Both of the sweats people were staring at Bekka in horror.  "What were you doing?" she was asked.
     In the same airhead voice, Bekka replied, "They were making a special video about, you know, animal doctors....  Oh poop, what's the word.... Oh yeah, vegetarians.  I was supposed to be a vegetarial researcher studying dogs.  They never told me why I was only wearing fishnets while I worked, though.  Anyway, yeah, I had to get specimens from the dog.  The other girl got paid more than me, but she had to work with two mules, and she said their things are, like, totally huge.  She could barely get one in her mouth.  She said it was still better than her old job,though."
     "And what was that?" the man asked nervously.
     "I'm not exactly sure.  She'd done, like a massively huge amount of coke and she was talking so fast  she was hard to follow.  Something about, blah blah blah, migrant workers, blah blah blah, Friday is payday, blah blah blah, ten dollar blowjobs, blah blah blah, bloody vaginal discharge.  I was mad she got coke and I didn't, but the director gave me a line of something called DMT after I finished working.  That was awesome stuff, I woke up two days later in Compton wearing cowboy boots and wrapped in plastic sheeting.  And the nice man who picked me up hitchhiking drove me all the way home.  The poor guy, he said he had some sort of skin allergy on his thing, so he had to keep it sticking out of his fly and rub it all the time.  He had to have both hands free to drive though, so he had me rub it for him.  I was glad to help, he was a nice man.  He kept telling me how I was as pretty as his daughter."
     I realized the  sweats people were edging closer and closer to the front door.  Bekka was giving them a wide-eyed smile, a look usually associated with people who enjoyed snacking on paint chips as children.  They were watching Bekka as if she was about to produce a chainsaw from thin air and fire it up.  They were nearly to the door when Bekka suddenly strode towards them and said, "Hey!  Do you know anything about, y'know, health?"
     "Why?" came the whispered response.
     "Um, I've been getting these weird open sores on the inside of my mouth lately.  These guys don't know what they are.  Maybe you two could look and see if you recognize them?"
     The sweats people threw caution to the wind and bolted out the door, running for the valet stand.  Bekka walked back to me and DeNiro and said in the airhead voice, "They seemed like nice people."
     Bellowing shrieks of laughter erupted from the entrance to the patio.  We looked, to see Bruno kneeling on the floor, turning red, holding his stomach, laughing so hard I was worried he'd stopped breathing.  DeNiro went over and grabbed his arms, lifting him to his feet.  We got him to his podium, and he managed to catch his breath.
     "I was walking back when I saw and heard you three being accosted by the Joad family, there.  I was going to just run them off, but then Bekka darling started speaking, so I waited and listened.  Oh Bekka, Becky, you beautiful woman, that was priceless.  Thank you so much.  I wish you were looking for work.  I'd see to it Angel paid you $500 a day to do nothing except frighten tourists into leaving."
     "I was getting ready to throw my own two cents in, if they stuck around.  I was going to tell them Bekka had just been hired here as the pastry chef."
     "On a probationary basis," grinned DeNiro.  "She has to prove she can get by okay on just two grams of China White per day."
     With a grin, Bekka said, "Well, if I didn't make the cut, I'd go back to my old job, starring in hardcore porn for iguana fetishists."
     Bruno guided us out to our table, apologizing for the wait.  They'd had to move a table from the back into a position on the patio to accommodate us.  We were seated, and placed drink orders.  The sommelier came up, saw me, and immediately returned with a bottle of the house red, my favorite.  Drinks arrived, we looked at our menus, then ordered.  While waiting on our food and a second round of drinks, DeNiro said to Bekka, "You have no idea how hard it was to keep a straight face when you started your bit out front.  So where did you learn improv?"
    Shrugging, Bekka said, "Uh.... I didn't.  I just knocked that out off the top of my head.  Normally I will indulge fans, but when that hayseed called me 'the filthy movie lady,' I knew they weren't fans.  You'd already bluffed, so I figured I would too, but it struck me that those two sort of deserved to meet a really, really horrible person while on vacation in LA.  Hey, I could be that horrible person!  I knew Bruno wanted them gone --- come on, matching sweats?  At least Lenny is wearing pants with a belt --- so I figured I'd help.  My next tactic was to be scratching myself in very rude  places."
     I said, "My own plan was to wait and see if they said anything mean to you.  If they did, I'd have said, 'Hey motherfucker, don't talk to my sister like that.'  Then kiss you deeply."
     DeNiro was sitting there with his chin in his hand, staring at Bekka.  He finally said, "Homegirl, I am gonna make it a goal of mine to get you in a leading role in a mainstream movie.  No indie crap or Sundance Festival wank-o-thons, something that will be in every fucking cineplex in the country.  I don't know what the movie is about, I don't know who your character is, I don't know who your co-stars will be, I don't even know which studio will be the umbrella.  But you will be recognized for your talent on a big screen, and with your clothes on.  As brilliant as your husband's movies are, they are only on video, and they are covered with the scarlet letter of 'porn.'  You should not be known as Becky Page, Porn Queen, you should be known as Becky Page, Movie Star.  You are fucking brilliant.  Okay, so Becky Page never formally studied acting as a craft.  Who gives a shit, she can mold her roles, refine them, and portray them flawlessly in front of a camera.  Becky Page makes Catherine Hepburn look like Bo Derek, when it comes to raw talent."
     Bekka leaned her own chin in her hand and stared at the table.  She replied, "I can see that happening under certain parameters.  Whatever the movie is, Bobby, you would rule its production like a shah.  Okay, there's an umbrella studio?  Every suit on the lot gets issued a restraining order preventing them from being within five hundred yards of Bekka Schneider, nee Becky Page.  The script is set in stone before a single hammer is swung for set construction.  Craft services is replaced by the Humberto's Taqueria of La Mesa, California.  And no matter what my role, at some point I do a hard-R full frontal shot.  Not because I think people expect me to, but because I want to.  Bobby, one of the reasons I chose my career is that I'm an exhibitionist.  I get a fucking thrill being naked in front of a running camera.  And if I can engage in highly explicit sex acts, even better.  I've tried to express this before to people, but I'm not a porn slut because I don't think I have any better options.  I'm a porn slut because I absolutely revel in being a porn slut.  I really, truly love my job.  It's' just who I am.
     "Oh, one last thing.  During production of this movie, my husband will be there.  He will be allowed to wander around anywhere he damn well pleases, and he will be treated with the utmost respect and deference, by everyone from the gaffers to the studio head.  And this will be for no other reason than I fucking said so."
     At this last bit, I got an absolutely evil smile on my face.  I said, "Oh, dearie dear dear.  Bekka, my lovely bride, you've flipped your wig.  No, I will not be with you while you produce this hypothetical movie.  Uh, I have a full-time job, remember?  And even if and when I did come up to visit you while you're working, do not pass an edict that I will be treated with respect.  No, I want people to express their opinions of me directly to my face.  I'll certainly have a lot more fun that way, if nothing else."
     DeNiro was giving me a crooked grin.  "Lenny, make a fist and hold it up in front of my face for a moment."
     I did as he asked.  He looked at the fist and chuckled, "Yeah, there's the scar tissue.  A good thick layer, too.  I'm guessing you know about Stanley Jaffee's comments about you in Variety.  I do have to ask, if you met any of the bigwigs in the industry who have publicly tried to belittle Lenny Schneider, would you just punch them out?  Would you swing on Jaffee, or Barry Diller?"
     "Absolutely not," I answered.  "I would point and laugh at them.  Hollywood's poor opinion of me hurts me about as much as a baseball bat made of felt.  These are people I have never met, I have nothing in common with them, we are in vastly different arenas of the entertainment industry, and our life experiences, what made us the men we are, are galaxies apart.  Gosh darn, Frank Mancuso thinks  Lenny Schneider's movies legitimize porn as acceptable entertainment.  Well duh, that's actually a good idea.  But Mancuso is trying to get all butt-hurt about my fuck scenes, blabbing like some Midwest conservative populist protecting 'family values.'  Oh, lick me raw, Mancuso.  Hollywood is so corrupt and sleazy in its dealings I'm surprised the clap hasn't become an airborne virus in that town.  How many dicks get sucked in the industry each day, for no other reason than career advancement?  Shit, I'll handicap 'em and exclude Barry Diller's private office, that should knock the total down a couple hundred."
     Upon hearing this, DeNiro burst into laughter.  I waited for him to calm down and continued, "So, no.  I'm not about to brawl with some dipshit I've never met before because he holds a bad opinion of me and my business.  Their noise is about as threatening to me as the yapping of a wire-haired terrier.  The only reason I sort of keep tabs one what's being said about me is so when someone crosses the line into slander, I can have some fun by jerking them around in the courts, suing them for the sheer hell of it.
     "Tell you what, though.  Anyone who decides to attack Bekka, or Skye Tyler, or Ella Belle, or any performer at Inana, always better keep one eye on the front door of the bar they drink in.  Anyone who tries to vilify my girls, in any public manner, is insulting their honor.  I'll defend their honor in a real fuckin' direct way.  I've dealt with assholes who decided to call Bekka a whore, Evangelical Bible-beaters.  You call my wife a whore, you're calling me a pimp, and I'm calling you an ambulance when I'm through with you.  Go ahead and call Inana immoral, somehow.  You're just proving you don't know shit about us at all.  But direct attacks on my girls has moved things from the public to the personal."
     "Jaffee was also less than kind to me," said Bekka.  "His conclusions about Becky Page were created entirely in his own mind.  I've never met the man, I've never worked for his business, his statements about me are legless, pure conjecture and bitchiness.  And I'm with Lenny, anyone in Hollywood who tries to say I'm a sleazy or immoral person is the biggest hypocrite this side of Roy Cohn."
     "So you don't think the industry's views of you and Inana will impact you in any way," said, DeNiro.
     "How?" I asked.  "Inana has always had vocal critics. The religious right have called us everything but dog-fuckers in an effort to paint us in a bad light.  There are still radical feminists in the world who view all porn as how-to manuals for rapists.  My parents hate my career, they think what I do is on a moral and social level somewhere between used car sales and dealing Three Card Monte.  And our features just keep selling millions of copies with every release.  The moral crusaders would say that America will not tolerate the filth that Inana produces.  Yeah, I can check with my distributors and mail order department to see where every tape we press goes, and a whole lot of them end up in places like Branson, Missouri and Salt Lake City, plus all those tight-ass Midwest towns that still have public laws against dancing.  It's a little sad to realize what a large percentage of Inana's fans are moral hypocrites.  Saturday night, you sit in front of the TV with your dick in your hand and watch 'Temporary Pleasures' for the fiftieth time.  Sunday morning, you nod along in church as the shaman bellows about the socially and morally caustic effects of porn."
     "That's another problem with your movie idea," Bekka said to DeNiro.  "You'd better believe that the self-appointed moral guardians in this country have made sure the name Becky Page has been hammered into the minds of their audiences, and made it clear that Becky's cloven hooves are covered up with special effects in her dirty movies.  I get poison pen letters telling me that I am a nymph, that my main goal is to destroy the family, the church, and the virginity of the country.  Vern Snood of Pigscrotum, Kansas heard about my views on polyamory and is convinced I want to destroy marriage and promote decadent sexual activity among the youth, issuing condoms and Astroglide to all children above fifth grade.  Every high school will have an abortion clinic, just to save everyone time and travel.  Becky Page is evil, personified.
     "Well, Vern Snood is not going to see any movie in which my name appears on the cast list.  My fellow cast members could be Billy Graham, Mother Theresa, and Jesus Christ, it still won't matter.  My presence guarantees that somehow, the movie will infect your soul, impregnate your daughter, and force you to join the Unitarian church.  And there is a shitload of Vern Snoods in this country.  Being in Southern California, they're a rare breed locally.  But get into the Bible Belt and the Midwest, and you'll find that Vern is the one who selects which movies will be shown in the town's one theater.  Multiple Verns are on the city council.  And all the Verns tell all their friends and neighbors about the satanic sex fiend named Becky Page.
     "Even if the industry decided it wanted Becky Page in major movies, I have this terrible hunch I will be marginalized.  At Inana, I have played varied roles.  Because of my career history, Hollywood will cast me as some variety of whore, over and over.  I will always be considered a sex bomb, and will be handed roles Bo Derek would find boring to play.  Bobby, any attempt for me to go mainstream will start off with so many hindrances it's almost funny.  And even if I do successfully break in, Becky Page will never be asked to work with the Muppets.  This makes the eight year old girl in me very sad."
     I chuckled, "In a way, I'm lucky.  Absolutely no one at the major studios has any use for me.  Really, I burned all those bridges before even trying to cross them.  There will be snow angels in hell before a studio says to itself, 'Hey, we need a mid-twenties ex-brawler who hates everything about this business to take over as a producer.  He should have a drug habit, facial piercings, the inability to go more than two sentences without sarcasm, and a very successful history of making hardcore porn.'  Yeah, the supposed feud between me and Hollywood cancels my presence in that town.  The whole feud thing is pretty funny to me.  It started with an interview I had.  They asked if I had mainstream aspirations, and I answered honestly, that I thought Hollywood sucked shit.   Hollywood is bloated and wasteful, its business dealings are sleazy, the finished product is rarely better than mediocre, and everyone who I'd ever met with set careers in the industry was a waste of space who need to stop breathing my air.  I was spitting venom.  They asked me a question, and I answered honestly.
     "The industry players all got their panties in a bunch, you could hear the whining all the way down in San Diego.  Who does this porn-making punk, this damn little brat, think he is, criticizing us?  Hollywood got really bent out of shape over one guy shooting his mouth off to a reporter.  Nobody really knew anything about me, which drove them crazy.  I had no history to investigate.  They knew what I looked like, what I'd accomplished at Inana, and who my wife was.  They sort of latched onto my appearance and a few choice comments I'd made in intervies to conclude I was this unstable social criminal, some young dirtbag who would probably run the company into the ground in a year.  I wasn't from Hollywood, so I had no right to criticize the place.  Fuck that, I've never been to the slums and favelas of Sao Paulo, either, but there's enough documented information about both places to make me think they're shitholes.
     "Yeah, how dare I, I have no right, blah blah blah.  The industry bitched about this little brat from San Diego, nitpicked my movies, and sniffed at my business model.  When the reporters asked me for a response, I just laughed at them and said I could care less.  The people who were bitching about me and my studio had absolutely no impact on my life, they were meaningless.  Their opiniions meant nothing to me, only now I felt that Hollywood still sucked shit, but was also full of whiny little bitches.  Thanks for calling, Scoop, I gotta get back to work now.  Oh, and have Barry Diller tell his catamites to stay the fuck out of my way when I'm up on Melrose, people who insist on living like their own stereotypes make me puke.
     "For the last eight months, we've been playing this game in the press about every six weeks.  It started with me expressing my low opinion of the industry.  The industry whined and bitched and called me a scumbag.  I was asked my opinion of this response, and my opinion was amused contempt.  And by the way, Hollywood still sucks shit.  The industry has another round of sniveling and pants-wetting, puling about that thug down in San Diego who doesn't know his place.  And around and around we go.  Hollywood always tries to find something new to nitpick about me or Inana.  Shit, at least my views are consistent."
     DeNiro was looking at me wide-eyed.  He finally said, "So it's not just a pose or shit-stirring for you and Inana.  You truly, honestly feel that the Hollywood machine is utterly useless, that it should be wiped out and replaced by something, anything, different.  Being hated by the industry players, the big boys, is irrelevant to you, they are utterly meaningless.  Wow.  Everyone in Hollywood thinks you're some criminal prick shooting his mouth off.  You aren't kidding, and you don't care."
     "In a nutshell, sir.....  Although, on further reflection, I do appreciate there is such a thing as the special effects industry.  I've used its services before, I almost certainly will again.  It's nice to be able to comparison shop between the different effects studios, checking out everyone's quality, style, and price.  Haw, the first time we used effects was in 'Bewitched..'  Effects studios were balky about working with us, they didn't want to appear complicit in making a dirty movie.  The studio we finally went with agreed to work with us only if they were anonymous, no credit, no thanks.  I believe they may regret that decision at this point."
     DeNiro smiled and said, "You know what, Lenny?  You will never hear Bobby DeNiro say a single negative word about Lenny Schneider, Inana Productions, its features, or its performers. What you accomplish, and the way you do, is amazing and baffling to me.  You make full movies which are executed with artistic and technical genius, and these movies are porn.   You somehow manage to locate women who are both talented actresses and also willing to, uh, perform adult scenes.  And you make these brilliant features with budgets the mainstream industry would not say were total budget costs, but single line items.  And to me, you really still are a damn kid!  It's obvious you are not bothered by your critics, no matter who they are.  Good, they'd be a distraction.  Keep on rolling, you're one hell of a film-maker."   A pause.  "Uh....  What the hell is a catamite?"
     I grinned and replied, "In ancient Greece, a catamite was a homosexual adolescent, a boy, who was spoken for by an older man.  Sometimes there was romance in these relationships, other times you had a queer teen boy with a sugar daddy.  I've seen pictures of Barry Diller's parties, so the word fits perfectly for all those fit young men who just happen to always be around Barry.  Shit, if I was gonna engage in any offensive action against my critics in the industry, the first thing I'd do was have a fifty-five gallon drum full of spermicidal sex lube delivered to Diller's office, along with a penis pump.  His minions could use the first, and Barry needs the other."
     "Oh, ouch," laughed DeNiro.
     "Hey, I was kinda surprised when I learned Diller was gay.  Given the decriptions of the man I'd read, I couldn't imagine him having sex with anything human.  Or possibly even organic."
     After our meals, aperitifs, and more talk, we all headed out to the valet kiosk.  Bekka told DeNiro, "Don't be a stranger.  Come and visit us down in Encinitas, it's a great way to completely step away from all the bullshit.  You'd stay in one of our guest rooms, no one would have our phone number, our girl Jane is a great cook, and you could walk on the beach in relative solitude and anonymity.  Just, you know, wear sunglasses and a hat."
     "And I will make a very special exception for you, if you want," I said.  "I will let you on a live set at Inana to observe how we do things.  Even if you're just watching us cut a jack loop, you will understand the mechanics of how pornography is made, and also Inana's  special little tricks and fillips.  You can have Chinese food for lunch in a room full of naked men and women, some of whom you have already watched engage in rather acrobatic coital relations."
     "Deal," DeNiro said,shaking my hand.  He hugged Bekka and said, "Bekka, you are a treasure, and I'm gonna figure out a way to get you on the big screen in a major starring role."  He turned and grinned at me.  "Lenny?  I'd tell you to not let the bastards grind you down, but it's clear you already don't.  I'll call you two Monday evening, okay?  I'll ring your home number."  He got in his car.
     "Perfect," I called.  The Falcon rolled into the driveway.
     And so professional actor Robert DeNiro, Bobby to his friends, became a guy me and Bekka were friends with in LA, a dude we'd hang out with together.  Longer observation of the man made me love his New York instincts and attitudes.  Despite where he worked, he was not from Hollywood.  DeNiro had held onto the life lessons picked up as a youth in New York, and even after all the years in California still had his guido accent, to an extent.
     The next day we got a call from Jane.  Her and Vito were in Dublin, Ireland.  The European touring was winding down, almost.  Jane had two things on her mind.  "Okay, first off, and I totally apologize for being a flake about this, but the volleyball team needs a form filled out before the first day of class.  It's a liability waiver, basically it says that if I die in a bus  crash while traveling with the team, my estate won't sue the shit out of the school district."
     I snickered into the phone.  "Yeah, they had the same forms when I was a kid.  As legal protection for the district, they aren't worth the mimeo paper they're printed on."
     "Could you just run to the school, go to the sports office, and grab one of the forms?  It needs, like, two sets of initials and a signature.  Pretend you're me and mail it back.  Since I'm emancipated, I'm the legal guardian."
     "No sweat.  What's the other issue?"
     "Vito and  I want to extend our traveling another week," Jane replied.  "This is Vito being an absolute doll again, check this out.  Remember me talking about Lake Como in my letters?  Vito found another nudist resort, located in France.  It's also a family nudist resort, but Vito sort of sniffed around and got a feel for the place.  He says the weird asexual vibe that was around Lake Como is absent here.  It's not a swinger's resort, but the reputation it has is that it's more relaxed.  Vito said that while Lake Como had almost vilified sex, this place is....  Well, it's like their attitude is that people are gonna be attracted to each other, and that's totally natural, just no fooling around in public, you  know?  Nobody will give me shit for my shaved pussy at this place.
     "Anyway, Vito asked if I wanted to visit another nudist resort, and I said hell yeah.  We're gonna leave Dublin two days early, and stay eight days at the resort.  Vito says he's gonna find a car service in the area and just sort of do the tourist thing while I hang out at the resort.  Vito says he's keeping his clothes on, which I told him was silly, he's in damn good shape.  Ever seen him without a shirt?  There's dudes in their thirties who don't look as good as him."
     "What's the name of this place?" I asked.
     A brief pause from Jane, then, "Uh.... Oh yeah, Saxony Resort at Brignoles.  It's about ten miles inland from Marseille.  Vito says he's gonna get another car, we can cruise the coast, visit Nice and Cannes.  We'll have a cabin at the resort, though.  Yay, an extra week reprieve from clothing in public!"
     "So you're planning on continuing to embrace nudism after you return home?"
     "Oh hell yeah."
     "Uh....  Where?" I queried.
     "At home, obviously.  I'll probably start hitting the nude beaches in our area too, I'll go to the nude stretch up by San Onofre, or down to Black's.  And every day when I get home, the first thing I'm doing is stripping down."
      "So, you're just gonna walk around the house completely naked, all the time from now on?"
     "Yeah," Jane chirped.  "Hey, I'm not visible to the public, so no biggie."
     I rolled my eyes and said, "And I suppose visitors will just have to adjust to the naked teenage girl with the Vargas model body watching TV in our living room."
     "Well....  Yeah.  It's a human body, big deal.  It's just that mine isn't being suffocated or restricted."
     "Look, we're gonna have to feel this out as it happens.  But there will be one circumstance where you suck it op and have clothes on, and that's when Boss is over.  He is not prudish, but he is a modest man, and you would only be making him feel very uncomfortable."
     After a pause, Jane said, "Okay.  Boss will be an exception.  But if people are over, I'm not gonna hide in my room.  People can just deal.  I'm just glad Vito is doing this for me, this extra week.  Lenny, you have no idea how freeing it feels, being totally unfettered, not having your body smothered under cloth.  You feel as though you are finally being completely honest with the rest of the world, you are completely unhidden as a person."
     "You know me, Jane," I leered.  "I'd insist on taking the piss.  I'd always be wearing a tie and a single sock.  Let people wonder."

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