SPELLING IN THE SHOWER

BENEATH A BASIC T-SHIRT

In the bedroom, we strip off the clothes meant for the outside world. Strangers. An old t-shirt and pair of pants. Good outfit for the weekend. Beneath the plain exterior, though, sexy underwear tells another story. Behind closed doors, this woman is sheds her t-shirt to reveal a matchign set of see-through underwear, and under that a fresh shave. I love how this image conjures that sense of the everyday people you pass on teh street having hidden sides of a naughty nature.

No doubt she has more to reveal.

ARTISTIC ANGLE

THE VIRGINS

I don't know how we first discovered it. Rare as it seems today, we were both virgins when we met Freshman year of college. Things progressed just like the classic first base, second base... we'd make out, and in the thick of passion, I'd slip a hand up her shirt, caresses her breasts through her bra. She loved this, and would squirm and squeal a little if I gently pinched her hardening nipple. It was when I went for third base that she she'd stop me. She'd pull my hand up from her belt as I fumbled to unlock it, and place it back on her breast, or take things further by unclasping her bra and letting her large breasts spill out. She'd let me peel off her shirt and then caress each breasts and take them in my mouth.

She wasn't shy about being topless. Whenever we had alone time, we'd start with kissing, and soon she'd have her shirt off. She'd tug off my shirt and tell me to lay down on my stomach. She'd give me a backrub, often dipping down to let her nipples skim my back.

Then we'd switch. She'd lay down on her stomach, and I'd straddle her. As I gave her a backrub, aroused by our half-naked state, I'd suggestively dry hump her, through our jeans. She'd allow this, even encourage it, by pushing her hips up to meet my suggestive thrusts.

Many of our first backrub sessions ended with us putting our clothes back on, and me returning to my dorm with a rock hard erection and the front of my pants wet with pre-cum.

Surely she must have known, I'd return still thinking of her, half naked on her bed, and release my tension. She must have understood the straining pain in my groin needed more than dry humping.

Her roommate was from a town only 70 miles to the north of the school, so many weekends, her roommate went home, and were were left with her dorm room to ourselves. Those weekends I'd sleep over. We'd strip to just our briefs.

In bed, we'd start up. I'd fondle her breasts, suck on them each, pinch them, and she'd get hot and moan, and then, when things got really hot, she'd suggest backrubs. She wasn't prude--just very adamant about her views on virginity and marriage. But, she was certainly willing to go right up to the edge.

As a gift, I gave her a bottle on massage oil. This made our hands and bodies even slicker. She seemed to wiggle her butt more as she felt the sensation of our hips grinding together. When she began to trade her usual panties for thongs. I'd spend extra time massaging her butt cheeks, rolling them together and apart, I could see the edge of her anus, and the few hairs missed by the razor. Half hidden, partly exposed, it temped me to touch, to caress, to penetrate.

As I'd dry hump her buttocks,often my erection would poke out the fly of my boxers. My bare skin felt good against the silk of her panties, and I came. My warm semen splashed up the her spine. It startled her, but she relaxed.

"Rub it in," she said.

Damn, I thought, she is certainly no prude. As I caressed my own fresh cum into her skin, I knew we still had more territory to explore.

The next time we were together in bed, I used a liberal coating of massage oil on her backside. I kneeded her buttocks and each time I rolled my hands, spread her cheeks as wide as they would go. I'd let my fingers graze the edge of her anus, tickling the ring of wrinkled skin. As she did not tense or pull away, I became bolder in my touching. I'd let my fingers dip into the elastic bands, pulling it aside, as if to really do a good job of massaging. I was careful not to dip down between her thighs, toward her front. That was her guarded territory. That, I had learned, would bring a massage session to a close, and leave me with no relief than my hand later that evening. So I stayed clear of any hint that I'd touch her in the front. Her ass, it seemed, was open for exploring. As I let my finger tips brush over her anus, she shivered, and moans a little. As I kneaded her cheeks, slippery with oil, I'd let a finger tip poke just at her back door, never penetrating, but prodding, knocking. "Ummm" she'd moan in response. Clearly, I had the go ahead. So I'd push a little deeper, still moving my palms on her buttocks, but poking a thumb flat on her anus, and pressing it, and caressing it. She moaned deeper, and I could see her hands clenching the pillow and her barefeet curl.

I knew the next move was mine. Continuing the massage, I scooted my hips forward. I let my cock poke out of my shorts, and placed it in the cleft of her oiled buttocks. She wiggled back to meet my poking hardness. Our skin was slick now, and glided against each other. Then I went further than we had before; with one hand, I tugged her thong aside, so my cock slipped unobprudded up the valley of her butt. My soft skin rubbed against her anus. She trembled with excitment, and moaned again to let me know she enjoyed the sensation.

This is so hot, I thought, as my slippery cock head popped up from between her buttocks, and then disappeared into their cleft with each thrust. I could feel my oiled skin slick against her anus. With her thong pushed aside, it was as if we were really doing it. I knew in a few strokes I could cum.

I'm not sure what happened next--if I moved, or if she did. Somehow the angle of her hips, or the angle of my thrusts changed. My cockhead that had been grazing over her anus, had pushed in. Not all the way, but just inside the spinchter. I could feel the elastic of her muscles. My cock felt warm, snuggly held by her ass. I was no longer outside her, exterior skin to exterior skin, but actually feeling, for the first time, the softest interior skin. She gasped, but did not cry out in pain. It'd happened so smoothly, that it surprised us both. I almost pulled out, almost said, akwardly, "Oh sorry."

But the time had come. She was on her bed, on her stomach, with me straddling her hips. We were joined at last. My cock inside her. It slid easily in and out. So I continued pumping. She pushed her hips back with more force to meet mine, and my cock eased itself deeper and deeper with each push until we were fully joined, and actually having intercourse.

Sometimes in the most intese moments, time seems to slow down. I looked around the dorm room, at her desk, at the window. We'd been "fooling around" for months and finally we were doing something I thought only happened on the internet. Five minutes ago I was a virgin. Now I was ass fucking my girlfriend.

It felt so tender, so romantic even. She'd let me take her in her most sensitive, forbidden area. Her skin felt tight and smooth. I pumped with slow, but strong strokes. I couldn't believe my luck, my happiness, my bliss. My eyes roamed around the room, almost wanting to see a cheering crowd of students shouting, Hurrrah! You're doing it!

I wondered if I should pull out before I came, and I realized--no, this was it, this was going all the way. To be a man, to really lose my virginity, I would cum inside a woman for the first time.

I pumped a few hard thrusts into her ass, and shot my load of waiting cum. It seemed an extra large load, all the reserve I'd never been able to pump out with my hand, but had been stored up with each session of foreplay.

When it was over, we hugged and kissed, and slept in each others arms. I cried that night, just to myself, not a sad cry, but joy, because I'd finally become a man.

The next morning I was hard, and she made little pretense of backrubs. Soon I was back inside her, pumping away.


We'd have anal sex for the rest of our relationship. Somehow I thought that we'd get married. She was the girl I had lost my virginity to, and we had destiny on our side.

Turns out that she still considered herself a virgin. She had other ideas of who she'd marry. I was just one boyfriend on the list. She told me, in fact, she'd had anal sex in high school. I wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last, but that she was still saving herself for her future husband. Angry, ashamed, confused, I broke up with her.

Looking back, now with more experience, and more perspective, I realize we would have broken up later that year or the next. If I'd been more flexible in my rigid sense of morality, though, we would have continued to have really great butt sex.

Although I am married now, and had series of college girlfriends, none of them enjoyed anal as much as my first. She truly seemed to love it, and whoever she eventually married, is a lucky man indeed.

A CENTURY OF GOOD VIBRATIONS

In 1902, the American company Hamilton Beach patented the first electric vibrator available for retail sale. The vibrator became the fifth domestic appliance to be electrified, after the sewing machine, fan, tea kettle, and toaster, and about a decade before the vacuum cleaner and electric iron.

The home versions soon became extremely popular, with advertisements in periodicals such as Needlecraft, Woman's Home Companion, and the Sears & Roebuck catalog. A 1910 advertisement claimed that: "Vibration promotes life and vigour, strength and beauty."

Today, drug stores like Walgreens stock “personal massagers” for the relief of sore muscles, aches, and general relaxation. Yeah…relaxation. Exactly.

Here’s to a century of health benefits provided by the vibrator.

VAMOS A LA PLAYA!

America calls itself the "land of the free and the home of the brave" but if we were really free and really brave, why are we so restrictive about public nudity? Most Americans are too scared to bare, even on a sunny beach. Worse, we make it damn near impossible for anyone else to be comfortable in their own skin.


Our European counterparts, however, don't seem to have such a cultural hang-up. It's prefectly common, socially acceptable--and legal--for both men and women to shed whatever clothes they want on beaches of Spain, France, Italy, and Greece.

Here's a tribute to our European friends, who set a good example. Although Americans have not seemed to pick up on it. Our loss, America. Clearly, the Europeans seem to be enjoying the sun and surf to their full advantage.

WORD OF THE DAY

Anasyrma (plural: anasyrmata), also called anasyrmos: lifting up of one's skirt with no underwear underneath

ICE IS VERY NICE

LIVING WITH THE NEWLYWEDS

This is probably not a good story to admit, but I find it sexy, and have to share.

Over the years of college, I had several odd and interesting roommates. At first it was the dorms, and dudes who stacked their empty beer cans into pyramids. I joined a group house of hippies for sophomore year. Another dorm, a crappy apartment with my friend Mark, a small house with a German exchange student, and at the end, perhaps weirdest of all to me: a condo with a newlywed couple, John and Isabelle.

It was a brand new condo complex, part of the large state university, built for married graduate students and families. Each condo was two bedrooms, bath, livingroom/kitchen. Pretty simple, and the rent, for the university town, was almost affordable. John and Isabelle were both grad students, John was going to become a city planner, or environmental engineer or something related to cities, policy and all that. Isabelle was getting her Masters of Education, studying early childhood development and dong student teaching at a local arts magnate school. They'd been married less than a year, and naturally really wanted to live alone, but the mounting school debt made them sublet one of their two bedrooms to help cover their rent and utilities.

I thought they were both nice enough folks, and honestly, getting out of the dorms and at least living somewhere decent was a real appeal. John and Isabelle had gotten some furniture and kitchen ware as wedding gifts. So the condo--as homogenized as it was, was still pretty comfortable living for a poor college kid like me.

The only divide was our age and relationship status. They were both in their late 20s and married, which seemed an entirely different world than me, age 22, and single. They had a sofa. I had a backpack. They had a complete set of dishware. I had a stack of library books. So we mostly kept to ourselves. It was fine, because we all had a full load of courses and I had a part-time job. I'd have to practically sneak in when it was late, so as not to wake them. John was sort of passive-aggressive, always "suggesting" ways I could help make the living situation better, like keeping my food on only one shelf in "their" fridge. Like not bringing my friends into the house, but doing "socializing" in other areas. I tolerated his controlling house rules, because the rent, the walking-distance to classes, and Isabelle. I have to admit, she was gorgeous. She was part Columbian, I believe, dark skin, sleek black hair, and the deepest eyes you'd ever seen. She was almost always gone, but we'd cross paths now and then, as she went out for a jog, or the gym. Even in spandex running shorts, jogging bra and loose-fitting t-shirt, she looked really hot. Even though the jogging bras compressed her chest, I could tell she had large, natural breasts. Sometimes in the early mornings, I'd hear her turn on the shower, which was only a thin wall between us and try to imagine how she looked naked.

I never heard her and John take a shower together. I never heard them having sex. It was weird. I just didn't get it. How could John marry such an amazingly beautiful Latina and not have sex with her every single night?

It wasn't my business, so I tried not to dwell on it. Of course, the more I tried not to think of their sex lives, the more I did. When they were away, I started searching the house for any trace of anything sexy. I admit, I even peeked under their bed, under the mattress, their sock drawers. The condo was absolutely immaculate. Under the bed had been vacuumed. The socks and underwear neatly folded. No box of toys, no bottle of lube, not even a package of condoms. This drove me crazy. How could a young, newlywed couple have no trace, whatsoever, of a sex life?

It was a mystery then, and in many ways, still a mystery. But it all changed one evening when I cam back from my job earlier than usual. It wasn't that late--maybe 11pm--but I knew that John and Isabelle usually turned in no later than 9pm, so I quietly turned my key in the door. I slipped off my shoes (one of John's house rules), and walked in by habit without flipping the kitchen light. I stopped suddenly. John and Isabelle looked up from the sofa as shocked to see me as I was to see them. To startled to move or say a word, my eyes quickly took in the scene. John and Isabelle were both on the sofa, fully clothed. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table, two glasses, half full, and the bottle half empty. They'd been sitting close, but not embracing, or kissing, just sitting, like any couple talking together. Everything was totally normal--except they'd both jumped, startled, as if caught doing something incriminating. And they were.....sort of. On the table was three or four small plastic bottles of finger paint like you'd find in a kindergarten. Isabelle had been finger painting stripes of orange, yellow, and green on John's face, much like Native American war paint. It was all very innocent, but also very bizarre.

You see--I'd lived in a student collective house of hippies. Face-painting there would have been totally part of that scene. But John and Isabelle, they were the pristine picture of suburban America, with all new furniture, a new car, both getting good educations, both destined for the model showroom lifestyle, gym membership, and lattes at Starbucks. The face painting seemed as out of place and a awkward as if I'd walked in on an S&M session. John, completely caught off gaurd, quickly gathered the paints and the wine, and grumbled something about "barging in." He retreated to his room, Isabelle following.

I stood, still frozen, now looking at the empty couch. Had I really seen that? What the hell had happened?

Whatever..... I went to bed.

When I woke up, John and Isabelle had left for their day. I peeked into the living room: it was as usual, the carpet perfectly vacuumed. The coffee table bare and polished. The chairs at just the right angles. In the kitchen, the dishes all clean and put away. The bathroom, clean as always, and tidy. Their bedroom: the bed made, the pillows propped up on the headboard. The dresser drawers all closed, and neat. I almost turned and walked away. I almost resolved that my married roommates were such neat-freaks that they simply did not have sex.

Still, I couldn't figure out how to make sense of the face painting. It wasn't kinky at all--but it was messy. And that is what made it so incongruous. As a teacher, Isabelle probably had a playful side. But John? Ha.

I was perplexed. Curiosity is often the byproduct of confusion. I couldn't help it. I entered their room and began to snoop. In the drawer by the bedside, I found a digital camera. On it were a couple photos. Apparently, the finger painting session had continued behind the closed door. I felt relieved and reaffirmed that a good-looking newlywed couple did actually have a sex life. And the funny irony is that of all the couples and all the things a couple could share, I never would have imagined finger painting being the foreplay of John and Isabelle. But se la vie. To each his own.

I know it was wrong, but I quickly copied the photos onto my laptop when I had the chance. I had finally gotten my wish, and Isabelle was even prettier than I could have ever imagined.

COUNTRY CALENDAR GIRL

When I left my hometown for college, my high school girl friend gave me a calendar she'd made. Each of the months showed a picture of her, so, as she said, I wouldn't forget her. In the rush and chaos that comes from the very first move from home to the college dorm, I'd glanced at it, thanked her, and tossed it in with the other items for school.

At the dorm, I did hang it. The more I missed my girlfriend, and home, the more I appreciated her gift. She was very sweet. A country girl, through and through. She was fairly tall, about 5'9", and slender--not skinny, but perfect. She liked to brag that if I ever wanted to buy her clothes, her measurements were: 36-28-36. She had nice C cup breasts, and a good figure. A sweet smile. And a pretty face that hadn't seem to loose its baby fat. It was like the face of a young country girl that had been placed on a woman's body. Back home, we rode horses, and fooled around in her dad's barn. On special dates, like prom, her dad let us take his new sports car.

On the calendar, the fall months had images of us carving pumpkins, and opening Christmas presents. I thought my girlfriend was cute, and I felt nostalgic for our times together. My roommates, and the other guys in the hall, didn't pay much attention to the calendar. In the images, they only saw Robyn in winter sweaters and coats, and her round, smiling face. She was cute enough in their minds, but not exactly a super model. They teased me for being so devoted, and passing up opportunities to date girls at our college.

Then, when Freshman year was nearly over, I flipped the calendar to May. There was a cute picture of Robyn on her Dad's sports car. It was a reference, no doubt to my senior prom the year before. In the background was one of the country roads we'd drive, and a place we'd found to park and mess around. She'd obviously taken the car to "our" spot, and picked out a more revealing spring outfit of a tube top and denim skirt. She sat on the hood of the car, sort of in a style of a classic pin-up.

This month's image caught the attention of my roommates. They gathered around for a closer look.

"Hey," said Travis, "She's panty flashing you!"

The guys hooted and hollered. "Damn, Jimmy," they said. "You are a lucky bastard."

"Holy shit" someone yelled. "She's not wearing panties!"

The guys then shoved and jostled closer.

"Now THAT's a girlfriend!" They high-fived each other and cheered. I must have been red with embarrassment, but also stoked with pride. I felt jealous that the guys had caught a peek of my girl, and something very private meant for me. But I was also pretty damn proud of Robyn, and her adventurous spirit. The image didn't reveal too much skin, just enough to make all the guys in the dorm stop by to take a good long look. They stopped teasing me about my fidelity to my high school girlfriend.

SASSY SELF-SNAP

THE PROJECT

When I started dating Rachel, she'd keep her pubes very neatly trimmed. As we were apart for months at a time, she decided to give up the daily chore of shaving. She was curious to see her hair grow back and how it would look. She'd write to me about the progress of her "project." And, if I was really lucky, she'd take a snap shot to send me as her report.

CABIN FEVER AND THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH

At first, Lydia was furious at her husband Mike for inviting his co-worker James to their cabin. Technically, the cabin belonged to both Lydia and Mike, because they were married, but the cabin had been passed down from Lydia's parents, and as a child she would join her family for summer vacations in the cabin. These were her favorite childhood memories--of long days swimming in the lake, and barbecues, and playing board games on the screen porch by the hiss of a Coleman lantern.

Her dad was a school teacher and an avid fisherman, so for Lydia, the cabin was not just a funky little rustic house built in the 70s beside a lake in upstate Minnesota, but rather a second childhood home. Perhaps, she realized, that was one of the things that attracted her to Mike. When they met, they were both teachers -in-training. Lydia was doing her assistant teaching at the same elementary school where Mike had come to work with the at-risk boys. At first, she thought her attraction to him was their connection to education, his dedication to helping youth. After seven years of marriage, she came to realize that the connection they shared to education was there--but it was a more intellectual bond. They both agreed on the same values and principles, but after that, the similarities were fewer. In fact, although Mike and Lydia had had a happy first couple years as newlyweds and new teachers, they'd settled into routines. Both the excitement and newness of marriage and teaching had worn off. They were both still dedicated teachers, and committed to each other. But the glamour and charge of waking every day to make a difference was gone: both teaching and married, Lydia had concluded, was a daily grind. It was hard work, and with every small advance in the classroom, each year a new batch of kids--the same issues and challenges. It was a wheel of repetition, reset each fall, back to square one. For this reason, her summers meant everything to her. For a few months, she could leave school behind. She could step back, almost in time, to when she was young and carefree. She could put fall out of her mind for a while, and just swim and relax, read the books she wanted to read--trashy summer pulp, and not text books. She wondered, secretly, if she'd jumped into her marriage with Mike because she liked him as an individual, or as a type: a man with a steady job, good benefits, and summers free to let her return to her cabin.

Mike had ruined her plan. He'd invited James.

Lydia and Mike both new James. He taught 5th grade and coached. Mike and James had always gotten along, and played on the same softball team. Lydia had never liked James' wife, and never really got close to either. But now James was divorced (no surprise). The divorce became the excuse Mike used to invite James to join them at the cabin. "Come on, honey," he said to Lydia. "James is going through a rough spot. We can't leave him alone all summer."

Lydia knew the real reason. Sure, maybe James was going through a "rough spot" but it wasn't pity that Mike was feeling for James. Simply, he wanted a buddy up at the cabin to drink beers with and shoot the beer cans off the stump with Dad's old .22 rifle. Basically, Mike wanted a distraction from the marriage that had fallen into a flatness of the day-to-day. The same-old, same-old. Of course he wanted James to come along. They'd be able to hang out and let Lydia do her thing. After seven years, they'd pretty much heard each other's stories. They knew the same "water cooler" talk at work. They loved each other--no question--but they found little to talk about.

It wasn't that they had a bad marriage; Mike would say that things were "fine." Spending a month at the cabin, just the two of them, was fine; but having James along was better. It wasn't like inviting a friend along on a honeymoon--that stage of their lives seemed far away. Somehow the daily sex turned into a few times a week, which turned into weekend sex, which turned into every week or two, or maybe once a month. The sex tapered so slowly over time that it just seemed a natural effect. They still had sex--it never stopped--but even those sessions were more like something they did because it was just part of the entire list of things: do laundry, wash dishes, scrub bathrooms, take out trash. At one time, they'd watched porn together, but not for a year or more. Each Valentines Mike would buy Lydia some sexy lingerie. It'd be worn that night, and then live in her dresser drawer.

Sadly, Lydia was reaching her sexual prime. She'd met Mike when she was 23. By 24 she married. Now, at 32, she felt like she was a totally different woman. She was no longer a college student. She couldn't even remember what it was like to date guys before Mike. Seriously, she tried to recall the sensation of kissing old boyfriends, and see if she could picture the shape, texture, scent of their penises. She could get the image, sort of, but it was more like something she'd read, than experienced. for her, it'd been Mike's body year after year. She knew exactly what it took to bring him off. She'd accepted that she'd have to spend alone time to get off herself. That was fine. Not exactly how she'd imagined married life would be. But, all in all, it was fine. Mike was always there for her. He didn't cheat. He treated her kindly, and, well.... he was her husband, and that was that.

She grumbled, but accepted the fact that James was now going to spend at least 3 or 4 weeks with them at the cabin.

As soon as all three were at the cabin, something changed. The air smelled sweeter, the sun warmer. There was an energy, a buzz that Mike and Lydia had not felt before. It was a youthful energy, a giddy. Lydia was not sure what had changed or why. For James, it was obvious: he loved the cabin, the loved the lake, and the porch overlooking the lake. But more importantly, he'd always had a thing for Lydia. Even when he was married--especially when he was married--he saw Mike and Lydia as the "perfect" couple. She was smart, and sexy at school, but here in the cabin, as she spent her days in shorts and bikini tops, she seemed extraordinarily sexy. In fact, one afternoon, he'd returned to the cabin to fetch something, and spied Lydia on the porch, sunning and napping. He stood, silently as possible, hidden in the shadow of the inside, peering at her bare skin through the screen. He knew he shouldn't look, but it was also exactly what he'd fantasied about. He was instantly hard, and by instinct, pushed his hand in his pants and began to stroke his cock.

In his mind, a scene played out like a porno: he'd step out on the porch, holding his stiff cock. Lydia would look up and blink. And smile. And reach for his cock with her mouth. Then he'd tug aside her bikini. He always wondered if Lydia was shaved. He was certain that she was. She was so hot to him. He'd flip her onto her knees and give it to her. He was now beating his cock hard.

What would happen if he stepped outside? Would Lydia scream? Laugh? Even if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, what would happen if Mike returned? James was already taking too long. No, that would be the worst thing to do to a best friend.

As he stared at Lydia on the deck and beat off, he still imagined her on her knees. He was pumping into her. But now he pictured Mike in the scene. He had his dick in her mouth. Yeah...that was it. He'd always imagined Mike and Lydia going at it. James had never had hot sex with his wife, the "ice queen" called her. So he transferred that passion to idea that Lydia and Mike had perfect, porn star sex. James didn't want to break them up. He didn't want Lydia to himself. He just wanted to join them, to have a small part of that passion. He pictured himself and Mike fucking Lydia. He decided then, that he would do everything he could to make it happen.

What he didn't know was that Lydia wasn't sleeping. He didn't know that she'd been completely aroused since arriving at the cabin. He didn't know that she'd fingered herself at least a dozen times in the few days they'd been there. He didn't know that she'd checked out his package as he walked around in shorts. It never occurred to him that Mike had put on a few pounds over the years and, in fact, had started a middle-aged paunch. Although James' hair was starting to thin, he was still pretty lean. Lydia had noticed. She'd actually been thinking of James as she spread out her beach towel. She removed her bikini top and lay back in the sun. She hoped to be caught. She wanted to be seen. She wanted both men to walk back to the cabin and catch her topless. She'd act surprised. But she hoped it'd make Mike a little jealous, and James a little horny.

She knew it was just a matter of time before the guys returned. The waiting made her more and more excited. She became wet. Is this the seven year itch, she wondered? At age 32, all she wanted was to be taken, ravaged. She wanted to feel a cok inside her. A new cock, with a new shape. She wanted to put it her mouth and taste new skin, new salty cum. As she thought about James' body, she became wet and reached into her bikini and touched herself.

That's when she heard a gasp from inside. Someone had already been watching her. This turned her on even more. Was it her husband, Mike? If so, was he seeing her, finally, as the sexy woman she was? Now fully awaken from her daydreaming her ears strained. She could hear the unmistakable sound of a man jerking off. She knew the sound well. Mike would beat off in the bathroom. He never realized even with the door shut, she could hear. She could her him slapping his meat, and then the grunt as he spurt. Then the flush of the toilet. That was fine. She took her alone time. He deserved his. She never mentioned it. But she was also never aroused by it. Now, she was half naked on the deck of her cabin, listening to the sound of a man beating off. Was it Mike stroking his cock, finally using her as his masturbation fantasy? She liked the idea.

But if it was Mike, he probably would have come outside--either to tell her to get dressed, or to take her into the bedroom for a quickie. She deduced that the man behind the screen, standing in the shadows of the cabin was not her husband, but his best friend James.

This drove her wild. She pushed two fingers into her already soaking vagina. "Oh yes," she gasped. "Give it to me." She imagined a cock bigger that her husband's penetrating her. She imagined her husband looking on, nodding his approval, as she stretched to accommodate a new cock. She knew it was unrealistic, but she was masturbating; she could fantasize however she wanted, right? She never imagined cheating on Mike, or being in love with another man. She just wanted a new cock. A new body to take her, ravage her. Even make her feel like a naughty slut, and not a proper, professional teacher. Having any sexlife beyond the typical, accepted monogamous married life was literally grounds for her to be fired. For seven years, she'd been a teacher, and always aware of sensitivity of keeping one's sex life private. Naked pictures of herself--even pictures drinking and partying could get her fired. Any porn on a computer could be ceased. Even a rental history of DVDs if there was ever any question of her sex life. She understood the reasons, working with kids, and knew the stories and cautionary tales passed down. But secretly, she wondered if she'd somehow missed out. She imagined that lawyers could have naughty sex. If lawyers had a threesome, no one would care. Three teachers, the PTA would have their asses fired.

Of course, the more dangerous something is, the more desirable. The thought of three teachers getting it on seemed especially naughty to Lydia. And even better, it was her Dad's old cabin. The place she grew up, and where she experienced her first sense of sexuality. She touched herself for the first time in a sleeping bag on the porch, listening to the crickets and the lapping of the lake on the shore. She'd go on long hikes alone, and some times slip off her clothes. She'd walk nude through the forest, wearing only her hiking boots. She knew she'd be in trouble if caught by her parents. She'd been warned that she'd be raped if caught by a stranger. But contrary to the caution, it gave her one of her first fantasies. She knew that real rape was a violent crime, and did not wish it on herself or any woman for real. But in fantasy, her "violators" were always very cute, very sexy, dashing, and polite, like cowboys in the old Westerns.

One of her regular fantasies was adapted from the classic Western good guy in white hat vs. bad guy in black. In this story, she was a Native American or a pioneer woman who lived in the woods. Along comes the bad guy, the train robber, dressed in black, with a load of money, escaping the law. He'd take her as a hostage. At his camp, he'd be gruff but a gentleman. She'd cook him a meal and nurse his wounds. He'd tell her she was "pretty flower ready to bloom." He'd say things like, "have you ever touched a man's gun before?" He'd place her hand on his crotch. She'd feel it move and she'd squeal. "Go on," he'd say, "it ain't gonna bite." And then he'd let her hold his cock in her hands, and pet it, and kiss it and then taste it. He'd show her what to do and make her suck him off.

It was less rape, really, than an initiation. Because he was the bad guy, he would deflower her. He would be strong, rough even, but never cruel. He'd have his way with her. First in the front, and then in the back, until she knew how to accept his cock in every way. She'd be his captive and his sex slave. Her favorite image was to be tied to a tree and taken.

Then, she'd hear gunfire. The goodguy was catching up, with his white hat and white horse. There would be a blazing fight while Lydia remained bound, naked, to a tree. The bad guy would ride off in a cloud of dust, never to be seen again. The good guy would ride up, dismount, and untie the poor Lydia. He'd scoop her up, and set her on his horse. He'd wash away all the dirt and blood and semen from her pale white skin. He'd tell her she'd been soiled by evil, but that it wasn't her fault. He'd marry her, and make her an honest woman. And they'd ride off into the sunset.

She found a stack of old porn mags her Dad had hidden. She'd sneak one out to the woods, and look at the images of sexy women, imagining herself in their positions. She'd spread out the pages so she could see several images at once and finger herself.
What a sexual girl she'd been, and now, decades later, that latent energy was boiling back up. On her back, half naked, fingering herself, she thought about the hidden magazines. She thought about the good guy in the woods, and the bad guy. She dipped and flicked her finger, imagining being penetrated--viloated--by the bad guy, as she listened to the unmistakable sound of a man beating off.

She knew it was James, her husband's best friend. He was the bad guy--the forbidden lover of her adolescent fantasy. Her husband, the calm, safe, thoughtful Mike, was the good guy that she had married and would grow old with. She didn't want to marry the outlaw, but she wanted him to teach her, to show her the ways of making love. She began to pitch her hips, pushing her fingers deeper. She could hear James inside, beating off, trying to stifle his moans. She matched her rhythm to his. Although separated by the screen door, they were fucking as if one.

She imagined James fucking her, and her sucking her husband. Or vise versa, James in her mouth, Mike in her ass. James in her ass, Mike offering his cock to her mouth. Maybe she needed both--the good guy, the bad guy. At the same time. That was what had been missing, always missing in her life. She could not have only the good guy, no more than she could settle down with the outlaw.

Her moans became high pitched and she began to cry out, "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," as she shook in a powerful orgasm. At the same time, holding back for this cue, James released a huge load of cum.

Later, they'd all three be together in the cabin. After a big spaghetti dinner and lots of wine, they'd continue drinking and talking, and flirting. James wouldn't be able to take his eyes off of Lydia, repeating the scene of her masturbating on the porch, trying to imagine what she looked like under her bikini, tasted like, felt like. Mike found his wife radiant that night, glowing in a look of sexual bliss. She wore a tight tank top and short skirt, and he could smell the scent of sweat, suntan oil, and her sex. He was seeing her renewed, vital and inviting his stares. He noticed her bending over to pour more wine for each of the men, and James checking out her small, but sexy cleavage. It didn't make him angery, but rather assured him that his wife was sexy. James, his friend, looked at Mike, and Mike nodded, as if to say, "hell yeah, check out those tits." Lydia bent over several times to pick up objects. Mike and James stared at her ass held in by the tight skirt and a peek of white panties, bunched up, revealing a clear outline of her vulva. Lydia found herself staring at James, knowing he'd been hard for her, and had gotten off from the show she'd put on. She knew it was just a matter of starting. Of crossing the line. Once crossed, there would be no holding back. Each of the three sensed it. The more Mike sensed James' desire for his wife, the more he desired her, too. The more Lydia felt the burning stares of the men, the more confident she became of her sexiness, and more eager to feel the two men and their hard cocks at the same time.

The fire was blazing and they were a couple bottles of wine into the evening, good and buzzed, and horny. "Hey, wanna know a secret," asked Lydia.

The two men glanced at each other, and both seemed to nod to say, "yeah, cool."

Lydia stood up, wobbled a little, and made her way toward the bedroom.

The men glanced at each other again. Then they followed. "Have a seat," said Lydia, patting the bed's patchwork quilt. "I want to show you something." The men glanced at each other again. Lydia swayed over to the wall, where she peeled back part of the wood paneling, left over from the 70s. Behind the panelling, she retrieved a couple dusty magazines. She brought them to the bed and hoped on, beside the two men. She flipped one open and they all started to check out the pictures. Page after glossy pages, she felt herself getting hotter and hotter.

She could see the straining bulges in the men's shorts. "You want to know my secret?" she asked. She knew this was the moment that would either break the spell, or set it into action. She let her hand slip into her panties, and begin to stroke herself. "When I was a teenager, I used to touch myself looking at these magazines. " Bot men stared at her, fixed on her hand, unable to take their eyes off. James glanced at Mike. Mike looked at his wife. She met his gaze and seemed to say, "This is ok, right?"

He had never seen his wife so desirable, so completely alive with sexual energy. His look seemed to say, "Oh my god yes!"

"Do you want to know my deepest secret?" asked Lydia, seductively.

Both men nodded slowly.

She gently reached out to each, softly rubbing their strained erections through their shorts, cupping their balls, and tugging at the elastic bands, signaling them that the talking was done and all three getting naked was next.

They'd have all summer to themselves to try each and every combination. And summers to come. At seven years, it would save Lydia and Mike's marriage. It would start a new chapter for them, a renewed sex life. For Lydia, it would fulfill a long-time fantasy, and make her childhood cabin even more fun to look forward to each summer.

EDDIE BAUER

Here's an image you won't find in the Eddie Bauer catalog, but it evokes the spirit of outdoor adventure. Here's to kaki walking pants, flannel shirts, and day hikes in the local nature preserve, and then taking it one step further. What better way to enjoy nature and being outside on a clear winter day. Here's to the sexy-sex definition of "outdoor active."

SPRING IS IN THE AIR

The best part of spring is warmer weather, sun breaking through the clouds. Women shed winter coats and sweaters. Rotate their winter closest for the thin blouses and tank-tops of summer.

SWIM SUITS AND BIRTHDAY SUITS

In the Victorian era, bathing suits covered as much of the body as possible--included stockings, hats and sleeves, and were made from wool that became heavy when wet. In 1907, Annette Kellerman, an Australian swimmer and water ballerina, wore a suit that exposed her arms, legs and neck to the United States. She was arrested for indecent exposure but helped pave the way for the swimsuit in the 20th Century.

In 1913, Carl Jantzen invented a two-piece women's woolen swimsuit. The close-fit design allowed women to swim more easily and competitively. About 1925, an elastic, two-way stretch textile made from Latex was introduced, called "Lastex." By the 1930s, the one-piece swimsuit gave way to the belted suit with or without top for men, (although many still wore the two-piece suits). For women, the lastex invention offered a more form fitted suit and the leg lines started to rise. The first completely synthetic fabric was invented by DuPont in 1938, called "nylon." In 1946, Louis Réard and Jacques Heim reinvented the "bikini," named after Bikini Atoll in the South Pacific. and the exposure of the midriff. Ursula Andress increased the bikini's fame in 1962, when she wore a white one in the James Bond film "Dr. No."

By the 1960s, the DuPont company had invented spandex, often sold under the brand name "Lycra." It remains a popular material for bathing suits. The 70's introduced the "thong" and the 80's brought along the "french cut" (leg openings high cut on the hips).

As the decades have evolved, swimwear has seemed to have gotten smaller along with the ability and desire to show more skin. Perhaps in time, we'll realize the the most flexible, the fastest drying, and the most affordable swim suit is your birthday suit.

BEYOND THIS POINT

As far as I can tell, swim suits were invented in the late 1900s. That means before the swim suit, all beaches were nude beaches. When Captain Cook first anchored off of Hawaii, he was greeted by naked natives. Eventually, though, the missionaries who followed were able to enforce a ban on nudity. How sad that the original nude beaches, like pristine wilderness, have been in rapid decline since the 19th Century.

Today, it is no longer natural to strip off one's clothes in the sun and leap in the surf. Now, it is illegal--considered "indecent." How has the mere sight of another human's body has become so taboo that teh very last of the nude beaches are strictly segregated, with signs to caution visitors. They are not even called "nude" beaches anymore, but rather "clothing optional," as if the option of wearing clothes should never be forgotten.

Here's to the last of the endangered nude beaches, and the right to feel sun on skin, sand and water. Here's to the beauty of being natural in nature. Here's to those who "dare to bare." You are brave, and you make me proud.


I, myself, am not a nudist. I do not frequent nude beaches. But I am glad there are still a few in America. If our natural and wild areas are the legacy we inherited and will pass down to the next generation, then it is a great shame to see a sign that says: Public Nudity Prohibited. That is an embarrassing sign of our narrow mindedness and fear toward the body. To me, such signs are "indecent" and "obscene."

To anyone who has stood up to these silly regulations and restrictions, I thank you. You set a good example for others to follow with the simple message that it's ok to be comfortable and not ashamed in our own skin.

A BEACH OF ONE'S OWN

A trip to the beach is fun--but to have a private beach is paradise. How lucky this woman, who relaxes and soaks up the sun. The surf rolls in. And all along the sandy shore, not another soul in sight.

BLUE PAISLEY NUDE

THISTLEDOWN

In the summer the weeds grow tall along the river bank. The wind sweeps up the thistledown and carries it in the air. It's a slow, summer feeling, with nothing to do, nowhere to go, but walk. And, when just out of sight of the road, maybe a quick flash for the camera.

My thanks to the couple who made this photo. You are so cute. And the day, and the sunlight, the setting and scene, so simple and perfect.

SPLASH OF SUN

It was the weekend, and finally time to relax. She napped, like a cat, with the afternoon sun slipping in, warm, from the window. She'd rolled and shifted in her sleep, and her skirt had bunched up on her hips. As the angle of the sun shifted, it moved down along her body. I caught it, a perfect moment, the light golden and warm on her smooth buttocks, suggestive and inviting. But she was so peaceful, so relaxed, I let her sleep, and took only a photo for my memory. I return to it and touch myself; sometimes looking can be just as powerful as possessing. Sometimes even more so.

GREEN RIVER, WYOMING

When people go to Wyoming, they go to the upper NW corner of the state: Yellowstone Nation Park, the Tetons, Jackson Hole, and Cody. A much smaller percentage may check out Cheyenne's Frontier Days, Devils Tower, or hunt Elk and Moose in the Big Horn Mountains outside of Sheridan--but no one goes to the lower SW corner. The main Interstate passes through, and so do the trucks--fueled up in Cheyenne, they push at 75 miles an hour to make time across a barren, alkali wasteland of bluffs, and arroyos, and oil fields.

There was a mining boom here once, and a railroad, and the historic markers note different camps of Chinese laborers who were masacured. It is a rugged and haunted past of vigilante justice, racism, and greed. The towns have almost dried up and tumbled off these wind-swept hills. There are bars for the oil men to spend their paychecks.

I know this because one summer I was hired to update the GO USA! series of travel books. I was fresh out of college, and lowest on the pecking order, so while the senior staff got all-expense trips to Hawaii, California, New York, I was stuck driving the open ranges of Wyoming, updating listings for tumbleweed motels and highway diners. SW Wyoming was my least favorite corner of the state, until I turned down a two-lane road off the interstate and drove south. The small road wound its way through the red hills for miles. As I neared the Utah border, the road began climbing into a mountain range. The sage turned to ponderosa pine. The bare red dirt became grass. I drove at least 20 miles into the mountains, climbing the twisting road, and then dropping to an open valley, with a river running through. After climbing out of the red desert, into this lush green valley, it was one of the prettiest sights I'd seen in the West.

The state park department had paved a parking lot, and built a boat ramp and rest room facility, as if expecting 100s of RV campers, tourists, fishermen, and river rafters. But that day, the middle of the summer season, I had the entire valley to myself. I was at least 50 miles from the interstate. It was just me and a warm sun, a slight breeze off the water, and nice shade under the cottonwood trees. It was past noon and the sun was high above. It was, I decided, a good time for a dip.

So I stripped and set my clothes on a park department picnic table. I waded into the cool, green water, and then dove. It was delicious.

Afterwards, as I sun-dried, I strolled over to a historic marker. (I always read ever marker because they provided instant material for the travel guide.) I was surprised. Unlike al the the others, this plaque did not speak of racial violence, or a great flood, or fire. Rather, it commemorated the first river expedition of this head waters. It wasn't Lewis & Clark, or some grizzly mountain man. It was three couples from France. It seemed so out of place--but then, I was so out of place...such a remote pocket where the vast mountains of northern Utah rise up from the high desert. I had found this place by chance. Had this first group?

They had packed their boats for an adventure, and navigated down river, headwaters to confluence, and south, until they reached the mighty Colorado. They were the first to white water this section of river, and for that the park department left a sign.

Standing naked, warming the river drops on my skin, I thought of this group. I pictured them all young, lean from outdoor activities, tanned, and smiling.

We all get youth once. I felt humbled that they had made theirs so full. Even if their legacy was now only an interpretive sign, in my mind it was the essence of an adventure with friends. I felt happy for them, and fortunate to be at the same place where they may have launched their boats.

The trip took them three months. I could only imagine setting off like that. I looked wistfully downriver as the the green water slide silently south, into deep mountains and eventually down narrow canyons. I tried to picture the group as they posed for a photo to commemorate the beginning of things. Then I turned back to my car where miles away semi-trucks barreled along the interstate.

CHE BELLA

She went to Italy in college. She fit right in.

BLUE

DOUBLE DOWN

They were siting outside for lunch. They'd been apart for a month. Each had been eagerly awaiting the reunion. With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she mentioned that she'd given herself an all new spring shave and trim just for him. "Oh really?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

She nodded, smiling. "Show me," he urged.

"Here?" she asked, glancing around.

"I bet you won't."

"Oooh, a bet! Want to make it interesting?"

He nodded, excited, but uncertain if she'd take the flirting into action. "$10."

"10? I'll see you're ten and raise you..."

"You're bluffing," he said.

She stared at him, her beast poker face.

"Ok, " he said, he pulled his wallet out. "He pulled out two twenty dollar bills."

$40 would pay for lunch, which was nice, but not the point. She knew she had him: he had no idea what she'd do. The element of surprise was hers--which is always the upper hand.

She stood, quickly. And although a few people might have glanced their way, she unzipped, showing she wasn't bluffing.