SHE FINDS WAY TO MAKE THE RIDE HOME MORE INTERESTING

The road from my college town to home wound down through a narrow mountain valley, following a rocky, crooked mountain river. Every quarter mile or so was an unmarked logging road, a turnout, or a gravel bank where a lone fisherman would fly cast. In spring the air was thick and humming with insects. As we drove, you'd get sticky, sweat on your thighs and legs. If we'd made love that morning, we could still smell it on our skin. We drove, hair whipping in the window. Kick off the flip flops.



As we drove, her hand rested on my thigh. The sun slipped down in splinters through the tree, and she began to rub through my jeans. Responding, I grew hard. She knew, and I knew what was next. She unzipped my jeans and wiggled around to drop her head in my lap.

I concentrated as we rounded each corner of the narrow road. Her lips touched my skin, still musky with our morning sex. I grew harder and she slipped her tongue slowly up and down my rigid shaft. I tried to focus on the road. She slurped and sucked then paused. More? she'd ask. I knew it was dangerous, but I eagerly said more.

Maybe we should find a turn off, she suggested.

Within a mile, we pulled off onto a logging road. I drove up, just out of sight of the road, parked. We didn't speak as she pulled a blanket from the back and continued to hike up the logging road, around a bend, out of sight of the car. We both knew what would come. She spread out the blanket and then we stripped off our clothes. Naked, the sun beat down on our backs, shoulders, and warmed our pubic hair. It was sexy, like Adam and Eve, maked in the forest, in a spot of sun.

She reached to my body and instantly it sprung back, hard and ready. Then we were together. She riding me, her breasts flopping in the sun, me on her, her fingernails criss-crossing my back, her on her knees, and me ramming into her like wild animals.

When we made love in our bed, it was sexy, but often soft as the flannel sheets. Sleepy like morning before coffee. But outside, she became a wild child. I became a savage. Somehow outdoors, we were stripped of civilization's moors. It was the call of the wild and it surged in our blood. We were sweaty, sticky, and savage. Instead of her usual cooing, "uuuuuummmmm, uuuummmm, baby, like that.....ooooohhhh." She barked out: "fuck me, fuck me hard."

I pounded her from behind. I grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her back harder, deeper. "Harder!" she screamed. "Harder, fuck me hard!" Her voice became jagged and raspy as she yelled. "Cum on my ass," she cried as she became to convulse in orgasm.

I pulled out and shot globs of sticky cum across her ass.

Exhausted, I collapsed back. She remained in position, her face buried in her arms, that were crossed on the ground, making a pillow. Her ass jutted in the air. Noontime sun is so bright. As I lay there, I stared at her body. Her two smooth round buttocks, creamy white, red scratches from our love making, bits of grass and dirt, pine needles stuck on with sweat. She left her ass in the air, feeling the sun and breeze dry the sweat. The globs of milky cum had splattered across her butt and lower back. some began to slip up her spine and begin to dry in the sun. Some dribbled down the cleft of her butt. It tickled the pucker of her anus, the few hairs that grew there that her razor never caught. She had a mole and a few freckles. And her vulva was swollen, red, glossy with her own juices. It cum slid over her lips, beading and dripping off her clit. It was a shinny pink, small bead of skin wrapped in her folds, brushed by her trimmed curls. There is nothing as beautiful, I thought, as a pure blue sky, framed by towering trees, and a woman's hindquarters jutting up the sky, her cunt rosy and slick from hard sex, cum caught on her curls, her ass open, exposed, her anus a tight wrinkled passage of invitation.

The image is burned in my memory. It remains my definition of wildness in wilderness.

UNDERGRAD GIVES HER INSTRUCTOR A SIGHT TO REMEMBER


When I was in grad school, I instructed "Writing for the Media, Journalism 203." the class was mostly perky young women with ambitions of being local news anchors or bubbly field reporters. Most were pretty stereotypical--big hair, lots of makeup, a saccrine-sweet bird chirpy voice. As a 24-year-old grad student, these freshmen were nice eye candy, but little else. Except one student. I always remember Ashley. I had such a crush on her. She was a few years older, close to my age. She wasn't bubbly or Barbie, but simple in appearance and sexy as hell. She had the air of someone who'd traveled, seen the world, and was now ready to get serious about a career. She was a girl that radiated confidence without being overbearing or obnoxious. She had reddish hair, freckles, and a sultry voice with just a hint of her childhood Georgia. Those qualities alone were enough to drive me crazy, but I could also sense her sexuality. She had an easy in way she moved, the way she talked, the way she'd glance at you and smile, just enough.

When spring arrived on campus, the students, like the flowers, seemed to blossom. The girls wore skirts and tank tops, the boys flirted and jostled. Everyone felt the surge of spring. I'd take the class out to the commons. They loved class outside on the grass. That was when I glance over to Ashley and caught a glimpse. I could barely keep my eyes off. Each week that spring, it seemed she'd sit just close enough, just angled right, and her legs just visible enough, for just long enough. I'd steal glances, but never linger long enough to chance detection. I'd return home, frustrated, and replay the stolen glimpses in my mind. I knew I had to save the moment somehow before the semester ended.

One day, outside on the commons, I raised my cel phone and pretended to glance at it to see the time. "Looks like we still have 5 minutes of class," I said, "Any questions on the homework?" As I spoke, I snapped this image. It is the only one of that whole spring.



Somehow I'm sure Ashley knew. She made no attempt to move. At the end of class, she thanked me for the good lecture, and winked, and flashed her smile, just enough.

A BLANKET IN THE WOODS, FOR OLD TIMES SAKE

We had been broken up at least since spring. School had ended and summer started and we told ourselves that the relationship was over. Still, we'd call, we'd go to movies. We drove up to Mt. Hood for no reason other than it was a sunny summer day. Mostly we were silent. It's hard to chit chat when you are "officially" broken up. We hiked up a trail to a waterfall. I dunked my head under the spray, but Sally didn't want to. She fretted and grumbled. All I could think of was our early days, when we both would have stripped, dashed in and out of the icy mountain water, and sun dried naked on hot boulders.

We turned and went down the trail. I wish I could remember exactly how it happened next. I go over it in my mind, but it is always more a feeling than the exact steps. Back at the car, we knew we'd get in and turn back to the city. The air was hot and humming with insects. We were sweaty and sore from the hike. I was horny. So was she, apparently. I guess we both had been thinking of the road trips we used to take back from Montana. We'd stop, at any forest turn out. Grab a blanket from the back, and hike just far enough off the road. And fuck. Lord did we fuck. Fast, sweaty, hard, loud. We'd shake the trees. We'd slap together, grunt, moan, gasp, grind. That summer she rarely wore underwear, bras, or deodorant. We would get sweaty and wash in a creek. Then drive until we were hot and horny enough to pull over and drain ourselves again. But the thing is: we'd never feel drained, the more we fucked, the more we wanted it. The more we dripped sweat and cum, the quicker our bodies replenished.

Now, standing at her car, ready to turn back, we understood. One of us grabbed the blanket. We said nothing, not even a nod of recognition for old times sake. It was just a straight movement. We had a blanket, we walked just far enough off the road. I lay down, she climbed on top. We pulled aside just enough clothes and then we were there again, back to that moment, the riding and churning and crying out. The slapping and screaming and scratching at the sky. The shudder, the release, the collapse and skin and salt.



It would be our last time together, though we didn't say it then. It didn't matter. Words didn't matter, or time. Just the forest above, and splinters of light falling down. The moment repeats in my mind, forever.

BACKSEAT

Sometimes when the mood grabs you, it's nice to hop in the back seat, take off just as many clothes as needed, and go to it. Yes?

KICKIN IT, RIVERSIDE

Saturday they went to their favorite river. They stripped down to swim suits and rubbed on sun screen, cracked a cold beer and were ready to relax. Sun and water, the sound of the river over the rocks. He could not help but look over, the line of the bikini fabric promising everything and nothing all at once. So he reached.