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 ï>¿The Parade byLuckyLizLondonÂ(C)

   "Broken campaign promises are a long-standing American tradition," I
said to the moderately-sized crowd in the Santa Reyes, California, Civic
Auditorium.  "Sometimes those promises are just forgotten by the voters. 
Sometimes no one believed them in the first place.  I loathe broken
promises.

   "But there are two other things that I hate just as much.  As soon as
politicians win their very first elections, all traces of personal humility
vanish, only to be replaced by a hallucinatory sense of entitlement.  They
truly believe that anyone who challenges them in the future is either evil,
a traitor or both.  They suddenly think that they know everything on every
subject, and that that knowledge grants them authority over every aspect of
our lives.  We had a city council president a few years ago who spent her
weekends driving around residential neighborhoods and telling people that
their grass needed mowing.  Whether it did it or not.  I sprayed her with a
garden hose.

   "The other thing I hate is politicians who use us only as stepping
stones.  They could be one month into their terms, and if a shot at higher
office arose, they'd be off and running and not giving a damn if they
kicked us in the face on their way out of the starting gate.

   "I'm Shelly Simon.  I teach at the junior college, and I'm running for
mayor.  And that's why I am making a promise today that will guarantee that
I retain a full measure of humility and forestall even the slightest chance
of my ever running for higher office.  It's also a promise that no one is
likely to forget, and people will probably remind me of it every single
day. If you elect me as your mayor, I promise you that every year that I am
in office I will lead the 4th of July parade through the streets of our
city completely naked.  Thank you."

   I managed to make it to my car in the parking lot while avoiding the
only two reporters who had witnessed my speech, Rodney Creech, a total
airhead from the local TV station and Monica Williams, a sharp and
well-respected journalist with the Santa Reyes daily paper.  But I knew I
would have to deal with them later.

   Sally Falcone, my campaign manager (and cousin) was already in the
driver's seat with the engine running.  As I slid into the passenger seat
and she pulled away, she glared at me with a mixture of astonishment and
not a little anger.

   "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

   "I didn't know."

   "What?"

   "Sally, I was just sitting there before my speech, thinking about how
I'm a total dark horse, running against a four-term incumbent, and I
realized that I really needed something to make my candidacy stand out."

   "The only thing standing out will be your tits.  And your nipples, too,
if it's a cool morning or if this is actually the sort of thing that turns
you on."

   "It's bound to be warm on the 4th of July.  And the parade always starts
at noon."

   "Oh, great.  That means that if your nipples do get hard, then everyone
there will know that it's not due to cool weather.  Good thinking, Shelly."

   "Okay, I didn't really think this through, but I did tell them the
truth. You more than anyone know that I'm running for mayor only because I
want to serve this town, help them get rid of that crook Patterson and
experience some honest government for a change.  I don't have any higher
political ambitions.  I'm not even a public person.  I hate being the
center of attention."

   She just stared at me, and I felt skewered on her obvious and skeptical
thoughts.  Not a public person?  Hate being the center of attention?

   "I know, I know," I admitted.  I understand that this is a strange and
desperate stunt, and I really will be the center of some very public
attention, but I love this town.  I've lived here all my life and would
make any sacrifice for it."

   "Including sacrificing your dignity?" Her face broke into wide smile. 
"Okay, then.  I'm all in.  On two conditions.  One, you never pull any more
surprises like this on me.  And two, that I don't have to walk with you."

   I was flooded with relief.  "Agreed and agreed.  Thank you, Sally."

   "You're welcome.  I never had any intention of becoming a professional
campaign manager, anyway.  We may as well have some fun with this even if
we do go down in flames.  You really are serious about doing this?"

   "I can't not do it.  That was about the most . . .  uh . . .  explicit
campaign promise ever made."

   "It's for sure the most memorable.  For once you're lucky your parents
are both dead.  They'd have to move to Bolivia AND get plastic surgery. 
Okay, let's get down to brass tacks.  Please tell me that you don't shave
your pubic hair."

   "Wax.  But just the bottom.  From the top of my clitoral hood on down,
around my clitoris and labia and vagina and such."

   "Shelly, pull up your skirt and pull down your panties."

   "I don't wear panties."

   "That figures.  Then pull up your skirt." I dutifully did so.  She
looked at my vulva, shaking her head.

   "Damn, Shelly.  Your clitoris is gonna stick out like a sore thumb.  I
mean that literally.  It's poking out of its hood like a red thumb.  Okay,
maybe a pinkie finger.  One that somebody just smacked with a ball-peen
hammer.  In fact, it looks just like the hammer's peen, itself.  Only red."

   "Thanks."

   "Look.  I just want you to understand that if you parade naked down the
street, everyone, and I mean everyone, will be able to examine your
clitoris like it was a single grape displayed in the center of a dinner
plate."

   "Jeez, Sally.  I don't think your description has to be so graphic."

   "Yes, Shelly.  It does."

   I swallowed and said, "Okay, then."

   When we returned to my modest campaign headquarters (Sally's dining
room), our volunteer secretary, Jenny, was inundated with calls.  She
looked up helplessly from the blinking buttons and said, "The TV guy is
holding on line 4, and the paper is on 5."

   "I'll take them in the living room," I said.  I went in, followed by
Sally, promptly disconnected the TV guy and took the call from the paper.

   "Shelly Simon." I was met with uproarious laughter from Monica Williams.
"You go, Girl," she sputtered.  "You have made my year.  I can probably
even get the New York Times to reprint my story.  Okay, not really.  It's
not national news.  Yet.  Next 4th of July, though, it will be.  Are you
really going to do it?"

   "I don't think I have any choice.  If I win."

   "On that front, I have a bulletin for you.  This is by no means an
official poll, but my researcher has been making some calls, telling people
about your crazy campaign promise and asking what they thought about it. 
Unsurprisingly, the response from males has been overwhelmingly positive,
and most of the females have said something like, 'Hell, I'd pay to see
that.' Best of all, they really do seem to understand why you made that
promise.  One woman told her that if you actually kept it, you would have
her vote forever.  She phoned Patterson, too.  He called you a deranged
exhibitionist and known slut.  Right now I'd say you've gone from sure
loser to slight favorite.  Can I schedule an interview with you?"

   Known slut?  As a non-practicing lesbian, I very much doubted that he
could substantiate that claim.  I wasn't an exhibitionist, either, but
after the next 4th of July, that would be a hard charge to refute.  But I'd
be the mayor by then.

   "Sure, I'll be happy to do the interview.  How about 2 o'clock tomorrow
at my campaign manager's house?"

   "I know where it is.  I'll see you then." She rang off.

   Sally sat in on the interview with Monica Williams which went well.  It
became immediately apparent that Monica had spent several years covering
Patterson, knew how corrupt he was and would write nothing that hurt my
chances.  At one point, she turned off her recording device and said, "We
just know that Patterson took a big kickback on the Fox Hills development,
but we can't write the story because he did such a good job of hiding the
money.  I hope you kick his ass, and we look forward to seeing yours, too"
She laughed at her own segue, turned the recorder back on and began asking
the requisite questions.

   "So you're really going through with that naked parade promise?"

   "Every year.  To tell you the truth, it was kind of a spontaneous
impulse, as Sally can attest, but the voters will see that I keep my
promises, no matter how outlandish."

   "You won't find it embarrassing?"

   "I am absolutely sure that I will, but that really is a small price to
pay for this town.  If this stunt gets me elected, and I freely admit that
it's a stunt, then I can fulfill my other promises, too.  To end Mayor
Patterson's corrupt administration and give our citizens a shot at honest
government.  Here's another promise: if I'm elected, there will be a purge.
Did you know that the city's maintenance crew built a deck for Patterson's
house?"

   Monica said, "Thank you, Shelly Simon, switched off the recorder and
added, "Good luck."

   Sally said, "I just hope she doesn't get arrested."

   "I spoke with Chief Kelly," Monica said, "and if she doesn't perform any
lewd acts, he won't bother with her."

   Sally said, "I hope he doesn't consider her pubic tonsorial choice a
lewd act." Monica perked up.

   "Is this something I should know about?"

   I cut Sally a withering glance.  "No, it's nothing.  Forget about it."

   As it turned out, I got really lucky.  Searching for a campaign stunt of
his own, Patterson's rich wife announced that she was providing the funds
for some evangelical missionaries that she supported, who were busily
exterminating Amazonian Indian tribes (either through disease, slavery or
outright murder), to provide every family in one tribe with a refrigerator.
She said, "Refrigeration is really important in the tropics."

   Now, this might have been a generous act had there been any electrical
suppliers within 700 miles of the tribe (and the Indians had some really
long extension cords), but there weren't and they didn't, and when video
emerged of terrified Indians being crushed to death by refrigerators
falling from the sky, Patterson's campaign was pretty much over.

   Furthermore, Patterson and his wife chose this point in the campaign to
engage in a bitter divorce proceeding, and their estranged and
much-aggrieved 20-year-old daughter offered to walk naked in the parade
with me if I won.

   This was a little bit underhanded because the daughter had already
approached me about it, and I had assured her that if she made such an
offer, it would be graciously rejected.  Thus assured, she called a press
conference and made the offer in public.  At our only mayoral debate, as
expected, Patterson jumped all over my 'perverted' parade promise, but I
just told him that as our illustrious ex-mayor, he would be invited to walk
naked with me.  He got all flustered and red-faced and stormed off the
stage.  I won in a landslide.

   The first half-year of my tenure went swimmingly.  As promised, I
cleaned house in the administration and attracted a couple of decently
green companies that paid good wages to our town.  Unfortunately, one of
the CEOs was a real jerk who made a big point of telling me how much he was
looking forward to the parade.  He made it sound like that was the only
reason he had moved his company here and said he planned to give all his
employees the day off so that they could attend.  I told him that since the
4th was both a national holiday and fell on a Sunday I didn't think his
employees would find his offer all that magnanimous, and if he wanted that
badly to see me naked, all he had needed to do was come to Santa Reyes on
the 4th and watch the parade.  I was also able to fight off a big-box
monster store that would have devastated our downtown shopping district. 
My approval ratings were high when July crept up on me.

   Since we had actually won, Sally had become a lot more cautious,
pleading with me not to go through with my promise.  "Please listen to me,"
she begged.  "You don't know how you'll feel about a political career a few
years from now.  Why totally destroy that possible future?" Her pleas fell
on deaf ears.

   I was adamant.  "Sally, if I shut down those options right now, then I
will never even be tempted to run for any other office than mayor of Santa
Reyes.  And once my constituents see me walking down that street naked,
they'll know that I would never abandon them because I never COULD abandon
them."

   Shortly before noon on July 4th, I parked my car near the parade's
starting point, stripped off all my clothes, locked them in my trunk and
walked up to the lead float.  Just walking that short distance naked gave
me a sobering jolt.  I was naked in just about the most inappropriate place
possible.  Being around the corner from the start of the parade, there
weren't many people looking at me, but I knew that was about to change
drastically.  I felt really conspicuous, and I knew that for at least the
next three and a half years, in every meeting, large or small, everyone
there would have seen me walking through town naked.

   There was a small slit in the front of the float so that the driver of
the tractor beneath it could see where he was going.  I walked up to this
window, peeked in and saw Tommy, one of the men who works on the crew that
maintains the city's streets and roads.

   "Hello, Tommy," I said somewhat self-consciously.  Where do you want
me?" He grinned at me, dismounted and walked up to that window slit, which
clearly afforded him a fuller view of my naked body.  He said, "Good to see
you, Ms.  Mayor.  I didn't think you were gonna show.  In about two
minutes, walk to the corner, turn left, proceed down the middle of the
street, and I'll follow about 30 feet behind you.  I gotta tell you,
though, both sides of the street are packed for as far as the eye can see.
They've already extended the finish line by many, many blocks.  There's
gotta be more people on that street than actually live here.  I think the
word's gotten out.  I talked to one guy who drove here from Cleveland just
to see this, and there are TV trucks parked all along the street.  It's
gonna be a long naked walk, Ma'am, and if you don't mind my saying so, I
think I'm really going to enjoy the view from back here.  That is, judging
from what I've seen of your front so far.  I had to pay a buddy of mine
$500 to trade with me so I could drive the lead float."

   I noticed his eyes drifting downward.  "Well," I said, laughing
nervously, "I hope you get your money's worth."

   "I'm sure I will.  Hold on.  I'm getting a call." He touched the headset
he was wearing with its bud in his left ear, listened for a few seconds and
said, "Time to get moving.  You're a good sport, Ma'am."

   "Here, hold these for me," I said, reaching through the slit and handing
him my car keys.  As he got back on his tractor, I turned around and walked
about 50 feet, hearing Tommy call through his little window, "Yes!  My
money's worth!" I had to smile at his boyish enthusiasm.  I made a left and
began my walk down the center of the town's main street and through its
primary shopping district.  Tommy wasn't kidding.  The sidewalks were
jammed with people, and I couldn't even see to where the crowds ended. 
There was a huge roar, beginning near me and rippling along the street for,
I guessed, as far as people could see me.  I'm not going to even try to
downplay my horrified reaction.  Walking so naked, so out in the open and
in front of so many people, I was as embarrassed and humiliated as anyone
could conceivably be.  I had never been naked in a public place before. 
Never gone skinny-dipping.  Never even been outdoors naked.  Now here I
was, looking down that long, straight street bordered by throngs of avid
spectators.  Unshielded from view by any preceding floats, people blocks
away could look my way and see a lone, naked woman, walking toward them,
her curly black patch of pubic hair set against her pale flesh and seeming
to announce, "This is it, folks.  This is what I look like totally naked.
Watch this space.  (And wait until you see what's below that patch of
hair.)" I could not have felt more utterly exposed.

   What had I been thinking?  What had I done?  I hadn't envisioned this at
all.  I had naively pictured it as some kind of quirky, small-town
peccadillo, observed only by my constituents.  This was something else
again.  It felt and looked like Pasadena's Rose Parade or Macy's
Thanksgiving Day Parade, only instead of featuring giant balloons, it
featured a naked woman making a spectacle of herself in front of a national
media presence.  Cameras were, of course, everywhere, and it was all I
could do to resist my bladder's persistent urging and keep from further
disgracing myself.  What I had hoped would be an amusing political
statement meant to reassure my constituents had become a nightmare.  I was
acutely aware of my nakedness and vulnerability, aware that every eye was
on me, evaluating my body, watching my bared breasts bouncing with every
step and probably laughing at my public humiliation.  Looking at the crowd,
I could pick out, among all the strange faces, so many familiar ones, too.
Childhood friends, old teachers, my one-time babysitter, my favorite aunt,
my mailman and the kid who bagged groceries for me at the Safeway.  I
spotted some, maybe all, of my junior college students.  I figured that job
was now over and wondered how I'd get by on the mayor's meager salary.  I
wasn't going to steal like Patterson.  I was blinking back tears.

   As I later learned, there were pictures and videos of me all over.  On
every porn site on the internet, even though I didn't think that what I had
done was in any way pornographic.  Newspapers and TV stations throughout
the country ran censored photos and videos of me, but one, an alternative
weekly in Portland, Oregon, ran the photos uncensored.  It was a
small-circulation paper, but it's still a real shock to pick up any
newspaper and see a large, full-color picture of yourself on the front
page, naked in the street in front of an exuberant crowd and showing . . .
everything.

   I didn't really hear much laughter from the crowd, though.  They were
cheering me on and exulting at such a brazen display of public nudity. 
Still, Sally's words came back to me, and I knew that in any direction I
turned everyone would have an unimpeded view of my clitoris.  My mind was
racing, verging on panic, and I was taking long, deep breaths, trying to
stave off that panic, all the while waving to the crowd, keeping what must
have looked a ghastly smile plastered on my face and pretending to be
having the time of my life.

   Then, when I was beginning to relax just a little, tiny bit and drawing
some semblance of strength and confidence from the support of the crowd,
something terrible happened.  The tractor driving my float broke down. 
"Sorry," Tommy called to me.  "I think I know what it is, but it's gonna
take about half an hour to get a replacement part."

   I froze like a jacklighted deer.  Up until now, this show had at least
been a procession, moving to some kind of conclusion, some kind of finish
line.  A moving parade.  Now it was just a naked woman, standing in the
street with everyone staring at her and wondering what she was going to do
next.  I even considered continuing on my own, leaving the floats behind
and walking the rest of the way as a one-naked-woman parade.  I glanced
down at my breasts and the top of my pubic hair and cringed.  I just
couldn't see going on without the imaginary security of the accompanying
floats that absolutely no one here was looking at, anyway.  If there were
any possible way to feel more publicly and helplessly naked than I already
did, that would have been it.  I turned to my right, spreading my arms wide
and keeping my feet apart, my posture meant to convey the attitude, "Okay,
this is what you came to see.  Take your time, and have good, long look." I
slowly turned around to face the other side of the street, continuing this
display, which, although making me look like a blatant exhibitionist, was
far preferable to just standing there and beginning to look increasingly
mortified by this unexpected development.  I saw many people lean over to
their neighbors and appear to be whispering something, which in my fevered
imagination could only be, "She sure does like showing off her clit,
doesn't she?"

   People began to leave the sidewalk, easing into the street to take
pictures from closer range.  Others were posing next to me and putting
their arms around my shoulders or my waist.  Some of them, even including
some of the women, approached me only to stop and rudely aim their cameras
lenses right at my pelvis.  I began to bristle at their presumption but
then thought, "You brought this on yourself.  What did you expect?" Even
so, it made my flesh crawl, and I know my whole body must have turned as
red as my clitoris.  Yet, through it all, I had to maintain an attitude of
cheerful acquiescence.  I had painted myself into a corner, and now I could
only stand naked in that corner, waiting for the paint to dry.

   Sure enough, when I later saw my pictures on those porn sites there were
some extreme close-ups of my vulva.  Some of those spectators had not only
approached so closely but had zoomed their lenses and blown up the
resultant photos.  At least you couldn't see my face (or any other part of
my body), but titles like, "Santa Reyes Mayor Shelly Simon's Pussy" didn't
help matters any.  They had managed to turn my naked walk into something
seemingly pornographic, after all.  I failed to grasp the erotic appeal of
something that looked like a specialty cut of meat (and a pixelated one at
that) arranged in a butcher's display case.  But then Monica had once told
me, "There are a lot of innate human needs that can go badly wrong.  Like
eating disorders, for one.  But nothing can go off the rails quite like
human sexuality.  The stories I could write.  Not for a family newspaper,
though."

   Then things got even worse.  My vagina, for some inexplicable reason,
started to get wet, and I felt that tingling sensation that could only
conclude with an orgasm.  I was even struck by a powerful impulse,
mercifully stifled, to begin touching and rubbing my clitoris right then
and there in front of everyone.  That simply would not do.  Standing naked
in the middle of the street, masturbating in front of hundreds of people
and then collapsing to the pavement with a shuddering orgasm would have
been the end of me.  When I got home, I would have had to fill my tub with
warm water, climb in and slit my wrists.  But even this morbid thought
couldn't hold off that orgasm.  I began trembling and quickly closed my
eyelids to cover the fact that my eyeballs were rolling back in their
sockets.  But, like Sally had warned, I couldn't cover up what was going on
with my nipples.  At least not without clapping my hands over my breasts
and alerting everyone to my predicament.  My toes began to curl and gripped
the pavement like talons.  This atheist began praying desperately that no
one had noticed.

   When the spasm subsided and my legs steadied, I had my first good idea.
I moved away from the people who were so violating what was left of my
personal space and went into full-on politician mode.  I walked over to one
side of the street and began shaking hands, taking questions and, yes,
accepting congratulations.  One exchange was disconcerting, though.  An
attractive, middle-aged woman warmly shook my hand, gave me a leering smile
and raised her eyebrows as she said, "That looked like fun, Dear." She
knew.

   I then worked the other side of the street until I heard Tommy's tractor
start up, resumed my position in front of it and began walking again.  As I
did, I kept wondering about that orgasm.  Could I have possibly found this
ordeal sexually stimulating?  Then I remembered a friend of mine who once
had a fear orgasm.  She had been walking along a path in the woods when a
snake slithered across it in front of her and scared her half to death. 
But she also had an orgasm.  Unless you're into some thoroughly-discredited
Freudian nonsense, you have to accept that that orgasm was just the result
of a major burst of adrenaline.  I hope so, anyway.

   When I finally reached the end of the parade route, Sally was there to
drive me back to my car.  I accepted my keys from Tommy, thanked him and
started toward Sally's car but was intercepted by Monica, notepad in hand.
She was beaming.  "You really fucking did it.  That was the single coolest
thing I've ever seen.  And the hottest, too.  You looked so beautiful out
there naked." As soon as Monica began talking to me, a crowd gathered
around us, jostling for position and getting uncomfortably close to me. 
She noticed this and took my arm, leading me to her car and opening the
front passenger door.  "Let's finish our talk in here," she said, ushering
me inside.  She walked around the car and got in, and we sat in silence for
a moment.

   Then I said, "Monica, I think I made a fool of myself."

   "No way.  What you did was extraordinarily courageous."

   No, it wasn't.  I was terrified."

   "Shelly, that's what real courage is.  Being truly afraid of doing
something and doing it anyway.  If you were the wildest stripper at Mike's
Gentlemen's Club, it would have just been great, exhibitionistic fun.  You
would have been having a field day out there.  In my job, you learn to read
people pretty well, and despite your convincing attempt to look like you
were enjoying yourself, you really weren't.  Look, obviously I have to
report on this.  I mean, everyone saw it, anyway.  But everything else here
is off the record.  I'm intrigued by you and want to know more about you."

   "You won't embarrass me?  Any more than I've already embarrassed
myself?"

   "Shelly, I'm telling you, this is not for publication.  How old are
you?"

   "I'm 25."

   "And, I suspect, a very private person.  And a modest one.  And you
really did do this for your constituents.  And, sorry to say, you're more
than a little naive.  You probably should have had a security detail along
to keep people on the sidewalk."

   I looked down at my hands.  "Yes to all that."

   "Shelly, you're my hero.  A couple more questions.  They're kind of
personal."

   "I trust you."

   "Thank you.  I'm flattered.  But don't make that mistake with any other
reporter.  And, believe me, there will be some more reporters now.  You
can't say I didn't warn you."

   "I know."

   "When I saw you approaching the end of the parade, I couldn't help but
notice something about your vulva."

   Oh, God," I blanched.  "My clitoris?"

   "Well, that too, but this was more about the way your vulva is
positioned.  Most women, their vulva is kind of tucked down between their
legs out of sight, but yours is, like, higher, more toward the front of
your body.  So when you're naked, especially given the way you groom your
pubic hair, your vulva is really on full display.  Just curious, why do you
groom your pubic hair like that?"

   "I like looking at it in the mirror."

   "Well, that's exactly how it looks to other people, too.  I just thought
you'd want to know that.  I am embarrassing you, aren't I?"

   "Yes.  I didn't know I was abnormal down there."

   "No, no, no.  Not abnormal.  Just a little . . .  north of average. 
I've seen it before.  Have you ever been to a nude beach?"

   "No.  I've never really done much of anything."

   "Do you have a boyfriend?"

   "No, I'm not attracted to guys."

   "A girlfriend?"

   "No.  Once in college, my roommate and I were lying in her bed talking,
and we fell asleep and woke up in each other's arms.  But that's all.  I
still think I'm a lesbian, though." I barked out a harsh laugh.  "Some
lesbian.  I don't think I've ever even seen another woman's vulva."

   "Please don't think this is weird," Monica said as she lifted her bottom
up off the seat, raised her skirt and peeled off her panties.  She pivoted
to face me, opening her legs as she did.  She was fully bare down there,
and I just stared at it in fascination.  It really was pretty.

   "Sorry, but you needed to see that.  To know what you've been showing
everyone.  You were a lot more naked out there than you thought.  Plus, as
a budding lesbian, you should at least see someone else's vulva, to see if
it's something you think you could develop a taste for.  So to speak."

   I blushed at her phrasing.  "Monica, you're terrible.  It did look very
nice, though."

   She laughed briefly then turned serious.  "Tell me.  What are you
feeling about all this right now?"

   "Well, all I wanted was to humble myself before my constituents," I said
glumly.  "And preclude any chance of seeking higher office.  I guess my
walk was a resounding success on both counts.  But I think I bit off way
more than I could chew."

   "Maybe so.  But you really pulled it off.  And like a champ, too. 
Shelly, you're still a virgin aren't you?"

   "Yes.  But I do masturbate a lot.  And something else.  When that float
broke down, and I was standing there naked in the middle of the street with
everyone staring at me, I had an orgasm."

   "I know.  I was following you along.  Believe me, it wasn't easy pushing
my way through all those rabid onlookers.  That was a fear orgasm, wasn't
it?"

   "How did you know about that?"

   "I've been around a lot longer than you, and, as a reporter, I've seen,
or heard, just about everything."

   She sat there looking at me for a while, then said, "Shelly, I've
figured you out."

   "Uh, oh."

   "No, I think you'll like it.  You are the most honest and sincere person
I've ever met.  You're guileless and don't have a malicious bone in your
body.  You live to help other people.  You're innocent and naive, and
people will take advantage of you because of that, maybe even hurt you, but
please don't ever change.  What you did today was the most splendidly
unselfish act I've ever witnessed, and that you didn't enjoy it but only
endured it is what made it so bold.  And special.  I know you could never
run for higher office now, but if you just keep doing what you're doing,
including on every 4th of July, this town will still be reelecting you when
you're 100.  And by the way, if you ever need any advice, particularly
about the press, or if you just want some one to talk to, call me.  Oh, and
if I ever become a lesbian, or even bisexual, I'm going to burn you to the
ground."

   "Thank you.  I'll take you up on that, the talking part, anyway.  Maybe
even the other thing, too.  But I don't think anyone will want to see their
100-year-old mayor marching down the street naked."

   She smiled and said, "You might be surprised.  The older a town gets,
the more it embraces its traditions.  And I think you just started one
today."

   She rearranged herself, pulled her car away from the curb and drove me
the short distance to Sally's car.  As Sally began to drive me back to my
own car, she looked over at me and asked, "Well?"

   "It wasn't what I expected."

   "Better?  Worse?"

   "Much, much worse."

   "I thought it would be.  So, are you going to do it again next year?"
   "Yes."