The maverick words in the card read: The honor of your presence is requested at the unholy (sic) union of Mr. Perry Lowell and Mr. Timothy Wilde, at their home (you know the place or you wouldn't be getting this invite) on 6.20.98 at 5 o'clock in the evening and thereafter to a garden party reception on the front lawn.

Dress: Birthday suit

RSVP: Mr. Paul Martinez. Email: P_nez@kca. net, not later than 6.8.98.

Joshua Kerrigan rued the invitation. His attention fixated on the dress code specification. His brows knitted together in a frown.

"So typically convention-smashing," he muttered, tapping the card against his forehead.

Still, Josh could not imagine his good pals, Perry and Tim, going through their union in complementary tux; they were after all, committed nudists and co-owned the only nudists' colony on the coast. On the other hand, neither could he imagine himself being presented in his birthday suit to a party of a hundred or so guests.

But to reject the invitation would be an affront to two of his best friends in the whole world. Why, Josh owed it to them to attend. If they hadn't been at his side when he lost his job three years ago, and if they hadn't loaned him the wherewithal to start his own advertising agency, who knew if he would not have flung himself off the bridge? He had been that close.

And so, without deliberating any further, Joshua emailed his response, affirming his presence with gratitude for the invitation. But Josh was going to dress down for the occasion. He felt certain that his hosts would entertain the minimal confinements of a cotton shirt and pants, close to skin color, since they gave the illusion the wearer was nude.

The awaited day arrived with excellent weather. It was the perfect day for a garden wedding. In fact, it was the perfect day for a nude garden wedding, although that was not going to be in Josh's favor. If it had rained and been a cold day he would have been able to justify his adaptation of the nudist's dress standard. So now he might have to use his rehearsed excuses after all.

Josh's scandalous protest dress was received by pernickety scowls from the emcee, not someone he knew well, but they had met briefly that time when Josh almost recruited himself as a member of the cult colony. He had backed out just moments before the membership registration forms were handed him to sign. Call it cold feet or whatever, but Josh had never thought he had a body to brag about much less exhibit.

But like the rest of humanity, Josh was his own worst critic.

For contrary to personal perception and what the mirror might suggest, Josh possessed the perfect male stature standing at 6 feet and 2 inches tall and carrying a lean and healthy 180-pound weight. On top of that gem, Josh had model good looks, too, and was frequently caught up in mistaken references.

"Please may I have your autograph, Mr. Vanderloo?" was a request he was often asked on the streets and in the restaurants.

"Oh, but you've got the wrong person," Josh was compelled to reply.

"You're not Mark Vanderloo, the male supermodel in the DKNY ads? But you look like him."

Funny how they always wanted his autograph just the same.

Being tall and good looking could be tiresome. Certainly, it gave one employment and social advantage, but it made it difficult to be inconspicuous when one wanted to be left alone, a dilemma Josh found himself facing right now. As hard as he tried with his chinos, he was not easily missed by the other guests, not least the emcee at the rostrum.

"Looks like there's an iconoclast among us," the emcee's low and loud voice blared through the microphone to filter through the living room and the guests' ears, "who's loudly broadcasting he's in conflict with our icon of good taste."

All eyes were riveted on Josh in unison. He felt himself blushing, which was ridiculous. For after all he was the only one whose modesty was covered, so why should he be embarrassed?

But how the heck do these guys keep a straight face and act naturally while every bit of their anatomical defect is exposed for the chance assessment of others, and every appendage, pretty and otherwise, is hanging out? Josh wondered to himself. For this matter, how does a nudist have a conversation with a fellow-nudist without allowing his line of sight stray below the shoulder?

Josh's eyes certainly did a lot of straying this evening. He couldn't help but chuckle, either, at all those testicles waving below the thick and untidy harvests and all those buttocks bubbling above shapely and otherwise gooey thighs. He had never seen more naked bodies assembled at one place than this evening at the home of Perry and Timothy.

But Josh's bemusement was prematurely silenced. Forsaking his place at the microphone, the emcee approached Josh. His erection swung left to right like a pendulum between his heavy thighs. There was also irrepressible elan in the manner of his trademark swagger.

"Josh, darling," the RuPaul impostor squealed, reaching Josh who was seated alone in the third row but last chair. "So good to see you again. Kiss, kiss. Isn't it hot in here?"

"Emil, baby," Josh smiled with mildly affected camp. "Yes, it is hot, isn't it? My armpits are wet. God."

Emil plonked his naked plump derriere beside Josh, his thighs stuttering as he did. He put a hand on Josh's lap, the non-verbal equivalent of an overture.

"Your slip's showing, darling," Emil sneered.

"As are your goose bumps, darling," Josh retorted.

"You realize the invitation specified, 'Birthday Suit', don't you?"

"Oh it did, did it? Hmmm."

"You card," Emil smiled, getting up. "But later, darling. The proceedings are starting."

Emil threw Josh a wink on his way back to the front of the hall. Josh instinctively felt uneasy. Something was cooking, he felt.

As with conventional weddings, the principals had looked lovely against a maudlin organ minuet. Josh would live to regale the tale that the groom and groom were resplendent in nothing but the tan on their skin. For both Perry and Tim had taken the meaning of nudity a step further by denuding themselves of all their hair, except that on their heads and foreheads.

Of course Josh had felt turned on. Of course he had felt something going on between his thighs. He wouldn't be human otherwise. This was too much and Josh wanted to unload quickly.

And as with any wedding, there had been equal distribution of courtesies, yawns and tears. But Perry's ex-lover had been blowing his nose a little too loudly. Only, Simon Lowenthal was crying for very different reasons.

Poor gorgeous Simon, Josh thought sympathetically. But what did Simon expect? It would not have worked out trying to pair up a Jew and a polygamist who was agnostic as well.

Finally came the exchange of vows and _c_o_c_k_ rings. The latter didn't take such a long time for both grooms' penises were shaved and cut, which smoothed the way for the rings to glide easily.

It was time for the lawn reception. Josh sheepishly followed out. He knew Perry and Tim had seen him. He knew they disapproved.

He knew, too, his offensive attire was going to be avenged.

The avengers unmasked their intentions not long after. Josh was downing his fifth tequila when they accosted him by his arms. Caught by surprise and lifted up above the heads of his assailants, his face staring at the disarray of mismatched feet, Josh, quite tipsy, felt he was about to faint. The world had turned upside down. But he couldn't find a voice to stop them. He couldn't even find a voice to yell against the outrage.

He didn't have to. He was no sooner carried up than rested on the lawn again. But now he was the main dish of the jamboree.

Someone said something about his being a bit of a rebel and too bold for his own good. Someone else said it was rude of him to come properly dressed. And another said his propriety was a breach of conduct and offending the rules of good etiquette, so as with any offender, Josh must be punished.

Others soon joined in to abet in demanding that Josh be stripped naked and spanked.

Josh heard it, all right. Spanked.

"No, not over my dead body you don't," Josh hollered but hands had prevailed on his torso to remove his shirt. "No, I said," Josh yelled once more, but now his pants were being yanked down and off.

Standing suddenly in just his underwear, Josh threw his fists over his bulge and searched desperately for his clothes. These seemed to have vanished.

Laughter pealed the air and someone behind Josh caught his arms, raising them above his head. His underwear was forced to yield to Perry's precise scissors cut.

Claps replaced the laughter and thence Josh felt the ground disappear beneath him. Naked and weeping at his shredded briefs on the ground, the struggling Josh was rendered facedown over the back of a garden chair.

Then as Josh's struggles waned came the frightening realization that he was held tight and he was naked and about to be spanked and watched spanked by a hundred or so guests, including his best pals. This was worse than if he had just arrived naked for the reception and presented naked to the guests. This was absolutely mortifying. This was utterly humiliating.

But Josh's rumination was interrupted by a stinging blow of what he felt was a paddle applied to his bared bottom. His bottom was instantly set afire while the paddle left a white mark that slowly started to turn pink.

Linnets of invectives spewed from Josh's lips; it was all he could do to try to rescue himself. For stripped naked, held down and now treated as sport, Josh was totally helpless for the next half an hour. His bottom burned at each beat of the paddle and as his bottom burned, so did his indignation reach a crest. However, his protest rails were relegated to a sneeze by the claps that echoed from his rear end's being tyrannized by those who were wielding the paddle.

As for who these men were, Josh could not see to be certain. He was only certain that the spanking was going on for too long and the paddle had changed hands a number of times. Josh quickly forgot his audience when all he could feel was the pain that stung his bottom and the tears that stung his eyes.

When it was over at last, and Josh was released, he looked up to find the paddle in Tim's hand.

"Son of a ..." Josh started.

But now came the pseudoname-dropping. "Monroe, Angelou, RuPaul, Macarthy, you too my sweet Queen Latifah, c'mon over. Looks like Josh needs a bit of help here," Tim laughed, his finger pointed at Josh's groin.

Attention shifted there quickly. Josh was looking down on himself.

Hardened and elongated, Josh's fat worm was curling toward his navel, its slit dispensing pre-cum juice that was slimy and suspending from the side of his left thigh.

Josh found himself accosted again. While his head rang, the five naked celebrity impersonators rushed him to the food table, laying him on his back. His penis was held up and quickly stroked close to climax. But before he was allowed to climax, the men lifted up his legs and he felt his _s_h_i_t_hole finger slammed. His mouth was pried open and someone stuffed his tool inside it. All around Josh was the scent of penis and anus. It was entirely enticing. Before long, many more joined in and what Tim had intended to be a blowjob treat for Josh quickly turned into an orgy of love-making.

The course of the convoluted orgy sent Josh to heaven too many times for him to stay smarting from the wounds of battered buttocks and pride. Instead, he suddenly found himself wishing the orgy would not end.

But end it did. By this time, Josh had climaxed five times, a remarkable personal record, for Josh, whose refractory time between orgasms was six hours, was not a multi-orgasmic man.

Finally at the close of the bacchanalia, when the newly-united sped their pal on his way home, Josh felt spent, wet and happy.

He had even remained naked on the drive to his apartment.

And for the good sport he had been, he was recruited as the newest member of the nudists' colony the very next day, all fees for the first year waived.