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exception to the nudity rule

The big blizzard rolled in last week, all day and all night and then more the next morning.  At Alturas the campus is never closed because of snow, everyone being so close.  The worst that happens is that maybe a class here and there is canceled if the professor has to drive in from far away, but there are only a few of those.  This blizzard hit on a Saturday so it wasn’t an issue.

        We all watched from inside the dorms. By the time it ended, on Sunday afternoon, it was a foot and a half, though there were drifts of four and five feet next to buildings.  The powdery whiteness was almost blinding in the sun.  We were all thinking the same thing.  The grounds crew would plow the academic and administration areas, but it was up to us to get the residential area done, and this would be a big job.

 

        Olga, the girl from Siberia who likes to show off how rugged she is, was the first out, with her usual flourish.  She jumped from the second story of the women’s dorm into a drift that was so high that when she landed she was in up to her neck.  “Jesus,” Hank said, cringing, we all thinking how the snow must have felt pushing up into her lower crevices, but of course BSC girls know what to expect.  It’s all in the mind.  With an absolutely deadpan face Olga pushed and hopped her way over to the front door to where it was only a foot high, snow sticking to her all over, and opened it.  Mac was already there, with the snow shovel each dorm had in the closet near the door, and in a second we saw Mac’s strong, tanned body was bent down, her muscles taut and lovely, her tummy almost freakishly concave, as she began shoveling out a path.

 

        The girls were quick to get out, but we guys first had to get through the ritual of putting on pants, boots, jackets, gloves .  .  .  Olga trudged over to the supply shed where there were extra shovels, then showed up at our door.  “Let’s go, weenies!” she said in her tough-girl Russian accent, one of her pukey-smelling cigarettes lit up and hanging from her lips.  And so off we began.  The sun got warm and we were exerting ourselves, five guys and six girls, except for Shelly, who had hurt her ankle while running track last week and was limping around carrying out water to everyone.  We needed water because we were sweating, all of us, even the naked girls, droplets appearing on their foreheads and on their shoulders.  I took off my coat and then my sweatshirt.  (By the way, I have to revise what I said about a typical winter’s day in Alturas being below freezing.  According to weatherunderground.com, the daily high in January averages out at 42 degrees.)

 

        Tommy Chen got adventurous and, checking that there seemed to be no sign of movement from the rest of campus, not that they could see anything with the piles of shoveled snow getting higher and higher, he decided to strip to his boots and wool socks.  Lots of hooting and joking as his pale, slightly chubby bod took its place besides the buff tans of the girls, his dick tiny and shriveled in the chilly air.  Tommy’s a good sport.

        “Sure there’s no one around?”  someone said.  We all checked quickly.  Indecent exposure, at least for the guys, is still against the rules.  But Tommy shrugged off the concern, finally putting his clothes back on only after he declared, “My itty bitty nuts are about to freeze off!”

 

        Tommy was still not done, though.  He hefted a big shovel of powdery stuff and flung it to the side, as it happened right at Mac.  His phony “Ooops I’m sorry!” did not delay her counterattack for one second.  Blasted from hair to toes like with flour, she ran after him and tackled him into one of the newly-made snow banks, then pulled his pants down and rubbed a softball-sized wad of snow right into his crotch.  He screamed in fake agony and ran into the dorm, pants still around his ankles, coming back a few minutes later on his hands and knees, kissing Mac on her toes before humbly (though with a smile) getting back to clearing the path to the quad.

        It was a big, big job, something you only want to do once.  We wouldn’t have attempted had we not heard the forecast that there wouldn’t be any more snow for the rest of the week.  We got the path between the dorms cleared, then a narrow path to the quad to where the plows would go by on Monday morning.  Then we decided to widen the paths.  We took a break, during which Shelly got us some water, and a couple of bottles of beer that we passed around.  Then started shoveling again.  Olga would finish one cigarette, rub it into the snow with her heel, then come back with another.  Lisa and I worked side by side.  I liked pretending we were a married couple clearing the path in front of our house.  Looking down, past my hiking boots, though I’m still not used to such a sight, there’s nothing so sexy as seeing Lisa’s bare feet on the snow.

        The sun set and the temperature dropped.  Yet we were not nearly done.  The moon rose, casting a pale blue light on the snow that made it look like we were in Antarctica or the planet Pluto.  I suppose the temperature drop wasn’t that great but we no longer had the warmth of the direct sun.  Soon the girls were getting seriously cold.  It was Lisa who called out, “Time for rubbertips,” and they all agreed.

        The girls keep them in a little cabinet in their bathroom.  They fit over the toes and fingertips and look like five little thimbles connected by wires, with a sling back strap that on the hand goes around the wrist, and on the foot ones (shorter wires, thicker slings) goes around the heel up where the tendon is.  Stretching the sling turns on the little heating elements in the thimbles.  Powered by a little battery in a pocket that fits over the thumb and over the big toe, the thimbles stay very warm for hours.

        They’re like protective equipment, not really “clothes”, and the girls hardly think of them that way, firstly because they’re so damn ugly, secondly because they’re rather uncomfortable.  The girls hate wearing them, but these “rubbertips” (there’s a more complicated term for them that everyone forgets) really are a necessity if they have to be out in frigid cold for any length of time.  Once your toes and the ends of your fingers are warm, everything in between is taken care of and you don’t get frostbite.  I don’t think these things would help Olga in Siberia when it’s fifty below (not that she’d ever go naked there), but they greatly increase the girl’s ability to stay out in the cold.

        Lisa threw the sets of rubbertips to the other girls and they sat their bare butts on the snow, fitting them onto their fingers and toes.  (They say that originally the foot ones were one big pocket that squished the toes together.  As you might imagine, that would be excruciating for a BSC girl, so they changed it to separate thimbles for each toe.) Fitted and warmed, the naked girls got up and helped us continue.  We widened the paths and then made another path around to the back door of each dorm.  By the time we were done it was almost nine o’clock, three hours past sunset and it was like the dead of night, hundreds of stars above.

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