Wearing boxers under skin shorts would have been a disaster. Wearing flatbriefs would have been obvious as well. By process of elimination, I had to go commando again.

At least, I thought, I had no dick or balls to rub against the tight new shorts. And they did feel strangely comfortable compressing my ass. And it was cool how the shiny fabric slid across the seat whenever I sat down.

But good grief they made me look flat! There was no trace of a bulge up front, not even a little mound like a girl would have. My dickless condition would be obvious to everyone!

And the crazy new shorts didn't have pockets! Once again I had nowhere to put my wallet and phone and keys and stuff. With no real alternative, I stuffed everything into my backpack again.

* * * * *

I felt like an absolute freak when I left the house, then I got to school and it felt worse. The skin shorts were much worse than the spray-on jeans had been. I felt like I was wearing girls' clothes. I was revealing, perhaps even flaunting my lack of bits to the whole world!

But I had to admit, Cliff showed up wearing almost the same thing and he looked OK. I'd gotten used to him not having a dick or balls. I'd gotten used to a lot of flat guys who dressed like us. At least, that's what I tried telling myself. An intact guy with hairy legs passed by. I envied him but I also wondered how long it would last.

* * * * *

"I hear you're named Troy," a slim, rather flat-chested girl interrupted between classes.

"Uh, that's right," I admitted, wondering where she'd come from. Her clothes were dowdy: a plain gray jumper over a short-sleeved white blouse and white knee socks. Plain black buckle-strap shoes, a black snap-shut purse, and thick round eyeglasses completed her outfit. Her hair was braided and she wore no makeup. I'd never noticed her around school before.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" she teased.

"No, not really," I mumbled. Was this chick a geeky mouse, or a mousey geek, or what?

"Maybe this will help," she said, and then she switched into a pair of sunglasses from her purse.

"Oh yeah, you were at the arcade yesterday, right? Flat Girl. What's this, your secret identity?"

"No, it's just my life," Flat Girl explained. "I only wear that other get-up for arcades, comic cons, sci-fi cons, and so forth. I made it for a Halloween party."

"So what's your name?"

"Sally Schoolgirl,"

"Really?"

"No."

* * * * *

At lunch Cliff, Lance, Aaron, Mark and I had found our usual table when, to my chagrin, Sally Schoolgirl, or Flat Girl, or whoever she was took the seat next to mine. Cliff and the other guys were surprised, but after giving her a quick once-over they mostly watched yo see what I'd do.

"Who are you now? Lunch Lass?" I asked.

"Hmm, good one, I may have to work on that," she replied. "Is it OK if I sit here?"

"Sure, I guess," I allowed. Girls didn't usually take such an interest in me. Maybe I was the mousey geek, but what was going on now?

"You're very smooth," she told me.

"How do you mean that?" I wondered, although I doubted she meant my social graces.

"Oh, just your face, your arms, your legs, those shorts, uh, everything." She explained. "Do you tan a lot?"

"No, my grandparents were all Mediterranean. Olive skin runs in the family."

"So what's your name?" asked Sally Schoolgirl.

"Frank Flat," I improvised.

"Fair enough. What do you like to do when you're not at school?"

"Video games, skateboarding, hanging out with the guys," I allowed.

"Me too, skateboarding. You wanna meet up at the skate park this afternoon?"

I hesitated, and then she reached for my flat spot.

"OK," I quickly decided. "Any certain time?"

"No, just, you know, after school. I'll be there for a while."

"Are you going to change?" I wondered.

"Duh."

"How will I know you?"

"You'll know," she replied, and then she was gone.

* * * * *

"What's with that chick, dude?" Lance pondered after she'd left.

"I dunno, man," I replied. "Yesterday she was Flat Girl at the arcade, remember? I guess she's really into role-playing, or dress-up, or whatever."

"She's weird," Cliff observed.

"Aren't we all?" I had to, uh, point out. "Anyway, she seems to like me, and maybe weird could be interesting."

"She's kinda plain," Aaron spoke out.

"Think of her as Flat Girl without the cape or the sunglasses," I shot back.

"Good luck with that," Cliff commented wryly.

* * * * *

The rest of the school day was fairly normal except for walking around dickless and ballless and wearing brightly-colored skin shorts to prove it. A few more guys here and there seemed to be walking funny or holding themselves oddly; I could only presume they'd lost it.

After school I went home, checked my package, changed into sneakers, grabbed my skateboard, and headed for the park. Mom gave me some grief about the sneakers but the new shoes she'd bought me simply didn't have the grip.

There was no mistaking Flat Girl, or Sally Schoolgirl, or whatever her name really was. There she was wearing an orange roller derby jersey, thigh-high polka dot socks, ankle guards, shin guards, knee pads, skin shorts with hip pads, shoulder pads, elbow pads, fishnet arm warmers, wrist guards, a mouth guard, a helmet, and wrap-around sun goggles. The jersey was lettered Rebel South Brawlers in violet. And oh yeah, roller skates.

"I take it you're Sally Schoolgirl," I stated without much confidence.

"No, I'm Slaughter Slaygrrrl," she replied.

"I should have guessed," I conceded. "I thought we said skateboarding."

"My Bobbi Boardchick headband was in the wash," she explained, and then I noticed that all her equipment looked a little worn.

"Do you actually complete, or did you get all that equipment second hand?" I tried to ask, but by then she was off the lip. I watched in amazement as she slid down the wall, up the other side, and did a one-eighty in the air. After that she ran through a series of lip tricks, flips, jumps, and five-forties.

"Well, are you going to skate?" she asked after about five minutes.

"Uh, sure, but you've definitely got me beat. You must've been practicing this for a long time."

"Yeah, my mom took me to roller dancing lessons when I was little, and I guess I catch on pretty fast. Lately I've been skating more with the Brawlers. Now let's see what you can do."

I dropped down the first wall OK, but then stalled coming back up and scraped my knee.

"That's a good start," encouraged so-called Slaughter Slaygrrrl. "How about if I give you a few pointers?"

One pointer would have been enough, but I knew she couldn't offer that one. Instead she did give me about an hour's close instruction, and I did make some progress. Working with here also gave me a chance to feel her up a bit, despite all the pads and guards. Her sides and her butt, for example, were mostly unprotected. Her tits and pussy were also fairly unprotected, but I held off on those. After a while we drew a crowd, but I'm sure it because of her get-up and coaching, and not my skating.

* * * * *

"You wanna come over for dinner?" Slaughter asked. By that time, I was clearly sore and tired enough to stop.

"You mean, like, at your house?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'd have to call ahead, but I'm sure we'll have plenty. Mom always saves some for leftovers."

"OK," I agreed, then she called her mom, and then I called mine.

"Who are you for dinner? Charlotte the Chef?" I wondered.

"Huh? Oh, no, it's not like that. We're nudists," she explained, and then I turned catatonic.

'That's not a problem, is it?" she continued. "I mean, you don't have that many clothes to take off and put on, and it's not like you'd be showing anything. Don't worry. Both of my brothers are separated, and we're all used to them. No one will stare."

I was definitely in a state of overload and confusion but what guy doesn't dream about seeing a girl naked? And sadly enough, I wouldn't have to worry about embarrassing erections.

"OK," I eventually agreed. "What's you name at home, then? Nancy Naked? Brenda Bare?"

"No, silly. In the skin I was born with, I use the name I was born with: Izzy Wilson."

"So Izzy, what's you number?"

"Sorry," she said, "I wasn't born with a number."

* * * * *

The Wilsons had a nice house on a secluded cul-de-sac. From the curb, at least, there were no signs of it being a raucous fleshpot. Even up close, the only indication was a decal on the front door stating, "Warning! Occupants may be unclothed."

Izzy led me into the kitchen where her naked mother was cooking naked chicken for naked dinner. "Hi, mom, this is Troy," Izzy introduced me.

"Troy, nice to meet you!" her mom replied, clearly not embarrassed or aroused at all. As for me, my head felt like half a ton. I had an awful time lifting it enough to see her face.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it in no time," Mrs. Wilson told the top of my head, and then Izzy pulled me to her room and began undressing.

For a nudist, she certainly had a lot of clothes. She had cowgirl outfits, prim schoolteacher outfits, dress military outfits, showgirl outfits, exercise outfits, denim farm outfits, some motorcycle leathers, and lots more I didn't bother to categorize.

"Troy, you need to take your clothes off. C'mon, you only have a few things," Izzy insisted. By then she was completely naked and my head was up to a full ton.

"Go ahead and look," she encouraged me. "Just undress while you're doing it."

True, I wasn't wearing that much. I kicked off my shoes, I pulled off my tank top, and then Izzt yanked down my shorts!

"I really like how you separated guys are so nice and smooth," she remarked as I pulled off the rest.

"It must be an acquired taste. Are you sure it's OK for us to be naked and alone like this?"

"Oh sure, we're always naked around here," Izzy assured me. "It's wearing clothes that isn't OK. And, like, nothing's going to happen�"

"So true," I admitted glumly.

"We could roll around, though," she encouraged me, and then she pulled our bodies together. I guess were at it quite a while but it I felt nothing more than shaking hands. It was interesting to feel a girl's naked body, though; I'd always wondered what they were like.

* * * * *

Izzy's mom called when it was time for dinner. Everyone sat around a glass table, and her brothers were definitely naked and separated. Her mom was still naked. Mr. Wilson was naked too, intact but shaved.

"Nice to meet you, Troy," Izzy's dad greeted me from the head of the table.

"Nice to meet you, too," I replied automatically. Being naked with all these naked people seemed awfully strange. Then I dropped gravy on my thigh.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that gravy boat does that sometimes," Mrs. Wilson apologized, and then she got up to fetch me a paper towel. Her breasts heaved and jiggled as she stood, then she turned around and essentially mooned us. After that she insisted on wiping my thigh herself, dangling one tit just a few inches from my face.

When her mom was done, Izzy slid her chair next to mine and reached inside my thigh. I couldn't believe what was happening! How could Izzy do that, and how could her parents allow it?

"You kids fool around all you want," Mr. Wilson told us. "It's not like anything'll come of it."

"So true," stated Izzy's brothers in unison.

* * * * *

After dinner we cleared the dishes naked and loaded up the dishwasher naked and went back to Izzy's room naked and fooled around naked. It was interesting for a while but then it was just close and awkward and sweaty. It actually got sort of boring.

"Uh, I have homework to do," I eventually told Izzy.

"You could use my books and stay overnight," she offered.

"I also need to check my, uh, stuff and see if it's OK," I told her. and she accepted that, except that she insisted on helping me dress.

* * * * *

I suppose it was inevitable. When I got home I discovered two short, plaid, pleated, polyester, uh, kilts in my room. One was red and the other green. There were also a few pairs of thin white knee socks.

"Mom, what makes you think I want this stuff?" I complained.

"Oh, you don't know what you want," she responded. "I'm just trying to help you adjust. All the talk shows say those are popular."

"Mom, I'm an individual, and not some phony guy trying to get publicity on a talk show."

"You're just new at this," she put me off. "I bet at least one of your friends wears kilts. Now let me see you in one."

"Why are they size thirteen? Usually I wear thirty-two."

"Don't worry about it," she told me, but both kilts had zippers on the side. I didn't think real Irish or Scottish kilts had zippers at all, and they were wool, not polyester.

Later, as I pulled off my clothes for bed, I couldn't stop thinking about Izzy. And for the same reason, I didn't sleep well either.

* * * * *

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