“I ought to go and shower and put this thing in the disposal!”
Teague chuckled. “We’re all the same. Look,” he said, laughing at the long rip in the thin nonwoven fiber of his pants, “I’m practically exposed! Not that it makes any difference here, for heaven’s sake, we’d all better get accustomed to the sight of each other’s bodies. Unless we need clothes for protection, I see no reason we should’t go nude at least part of the time. You’re not prudish, are you, Ching?”
She shook her head. She had grown accustomed, certainly, to the sight of nude bodies — about half the athletics at the Academy were done co-educationally and in the nude, clothing being worn only where needed for support. Full-breasted women like Fontana had needed some support when running or engaged in active sports. Ching was thin and small-breasted and never needed them; but she had never been one of those who felt more comfortable in the nude, and had in general worn at least a minimum of clothing. Teague, she remembered, had usually preferred to go naked in the gym or swimming pools. She said, trying not to feel embarrassed at her own unwillingness to do the same, “You don’t have to wear clothes for my sake, Teague. Whatever feels comfortable.”
“Thanks.” Teague stripped off the thin fiber suit and thrust it into a disposal chute. He noticed a stray sheet of the music paper he had covered with a scribbled note, lying on the floor; caught it up and started to send it down the chute after the paper suit, but Ching caught his arm.
“Teague, don’t. Finish it first. I really want to see how it comes out, and I’m sure Peake would, too. He’s enough of a musician—”
“Enough of a musician not to appreciate anything less than Bach or Mozart,” Teague said, wryly, but he did slide the page into the bin which held his flute, Ravi came in, saw Teague’s nude body, and said, “That makes sense.” He took off his pressure suit, pulling off part of the wrinkled fiber suit under it. As Fontana and Peake and Moira came in through the sphincter, Ravi asked, “Does anyone here seriously object to nudity? We could conserve material for clothing by wearing it only when we’re doing dirty work, or want protection.” “I don’t mind anyone else going naked,” Peake said, “but I like something between my bottom and the seat of the chairs.” He hung his pressure suit and helmet in the rack, went and dialed himself some food from the console.
“I handle that by putting a towel or something on the seat,” Teague said, taking a small handful of fiber towels from the dispenser at the bottom of the food machine and putting them over the seat. “We recycle the towel material anyhow.”
“I don’t care who wears what, either,” Moira said, “and personally I prefer to go naked about half the time. As long as one thing is made perfectly clear — that it’s not a sexual invitation. When it is, I’ll make it obvious. If people can distinguish between simple nudity and putting my body up for grabs, I’ll go naked. Just don’t get the wrong idea, anybody.” She stripped off her own crumpled tunic and pants, got herself a plate of food, and sat down to eat.
Ching felt abashed and embarrassed at her own unwillingness to follow suit, as if she were a spoilsport. I envy Moira’s confidence, she thought. I wish I could do that.
Fontana said, “Well, I prefer wearing clothes. My skin is sensitive, and I prefer not to shiver with every stray draft. Anyhow, I prefer to keep nudity for private occasions, if nobody minds.”
Ching thought, well, if Fontana feels that way too, at least I’m. not the only one!
Ravi’s eyes followed Moira; her pale skin was freckled all along the back, too, and her small breasts hardly more than brown nipples, the body of a girl of twelve. Fontana and even Ching had more sensuous bodies, but he remembered, with a quick stir of sexual memory, how intensely he desired Moira. Damn; and she had made it very clear how she felt about having that associated with simple nudity. Maybe that was the trouble with nudity, that it was hard to refrain from making those associations here, when you were with a woman you had known. In the gym, or even on the Bridge, where they were deliberately doing something else, he might not have betrayed himself but here he knew he would do so.
Peake watched Teague bringing a tray toward Ching, looking again with appreciation at the heavy layered muscles, the thatch of curling red hair on Teague’s chest and the matching red patch below. He was acutely conscious of his own body, thin, dark, gangling, awkward, bones protruding with almost skeletal impact, Ugly, he thought. It’s not that I’m black. Ravi’s darker than I am and he’s beautiful, he’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, but I’m a damned scarecrow.
Teague saw the direction of Peake’s gaze, and the interest and admiration in it, and felt suddenly abashed, turning his eyes away. Maybe all this nudity wasn’t such a good idea, maybe I shouldn’t have started it.
He carried his own tray over toward Peake and sat down at the edge of the long seat. He lowered his voice to where only Peake could hear.
“Listen,” he said, with some embarrassment, not knowing quite how to phrase it, “I can’t put it quite the way Moira did, but does my running around this way bother you, Peake?”
“Hell, no,” Peake retorted good-naturedly, “I was just admiring the crop of muscles you’ve got. No matter how hard I train, and I’m pretty husky and perfectly fit, I keep on looking like a famine victim!”
“Well, you’re an ectomorph,” Teague said, feeling awkward. He moved the tray over his lap, lowering his eyes, and began to eat, wishing he had not brought up the subject. Peake said deliberately, “Let’s get one thing straight, Teague. Sure, I like men. I prefer sex with men. But I don’t go around leching about them, not even when they’re running around in the nude; I got used to that in the gym at the Academy before I was twelve years old. If I reacted all that much to nude males, I’d have gone crazy a long time ago. And there’s one thing you’d better realize. I prefer enthusiastic co-operation in my — shall we say, encounters. Disinterest, or even tolerance, turns me off — way off. And the notion of rape makes me just as sick as it makes any other decent man. Clear?”
Teague stared at his lap and mumbled, “Yeah, clear.” And suddenly, perversely, he found himself aware of Peake’s slender, dark body, the graceful fingers moving on the spoon. “No offense, Peake?”
“Not a bit,” Peake said with deliberate cheerfulness, scooping up the last of this rice, and went to put his plate through the disposal.
Ugly. Ugly as sin. OnJy Jimson ever thought any different, and he’s gone.
Teague went back to Ching, who was picking at the food he had brought her. “You look tense,” he said gently. “Here, let me rub your neck.” He leaned over her, his firm fingers kneading the tight muscles, feeling her relax, gradually, under his hands. He kept on massaging, transferring the smooth motion down between her thin shoulder blades, and after a bit persuaded her to lie down on the seat, bending over her to knead her back muscles.
She said drowsily, “I’ll fall asleep if you keep doing that.” She was amazed at herself; once again, her body was betraying her, not this time with sickness, but with a flood of warmth, of lazy, sensuous awareness; she felt that she could lie here forever, with Teague’s hands moving on her body.
He leaned over and whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear, “I’ve got a better idea.”
Momentarily Ching went tense under his hands; then, still mesmerized by the caressing movement, she thought, Why not? Her body was very alien somehow, she felt she did not recognize it. She let him scoop her up, half-carry her to the door; he held her as they floated through the free-fall corridor.