BUONA FORTUNA

When I went to Italy for the first time, I was awestruck by the women. The streets are like stepping in a fashion magazine. As much of a stereotype as it seems, its absolutely true. In Napoli, the Italian women all seemed to have slender long legs, expensive Italian shoes, and short dresses with tops that pressed their breasts so tightly that they seemed as if they could spill out at any moment. I'd gaze at them in fascination and longing, in cafes where they seemed to linger and sip espressos. Straddling the back of a moped as it sped past, or simply sitting in a courtyard.

At the museum of national archeology, they had a large open courtyard in the center of the building. Like everything in Italy, the building itself seemed to have been built thousands of years ago, and was overgrown and crumbling. As I walked down the side of the courtyard along the columns, I snapped photos of the fragmented torsos of Roman and Greek sculptures. About 30 feet away from me, sat a gorgeous woman, just relaxing in the sun. I zoomed my small camera all the way before lifting it, and pretending to snap a photo of the statue in front of me. Really, I had shifted just past the statue to the woman. She moved her head just as the shutter snapped, and I thought I had lost my perfect shot.

I knew I couldn't risk pointing the camera at her again without notice, so I moved on, as naturally as possible. I doubt she noticed at all. I felt so embarrassed at my shyness for not being able to simply approach a stranger in a foreign land and ask to take their picture, ashamed that I tried to sneak a photo, and worst of all--furious at myself for missing the moment.

I berated myself the remainder of the afternoon. I even made a second loop around the courtyard a little while later when it seemed less obvious. But she had gone. My perfect moment of an Italian woman basking in the sun of an ancient courtyard was nothing more than a blurry snapshot. Until I got back to the hotel and downloaded my images of the day. Blown up to full size, my eyes spotted something I hadn't noticed in the museum. No wonder she was so enjoying the sun and the warmth radiating from the stones. I had captured, in fact, my most perfect Italian moment.

I (HEART) NY

When I had the chance to present in NYC, I called Jenny. She was glad to host me, although, she warned, her apartment was the size of a closet. In graduate school, when Jenny and I dated, we were used to small, starving-student studio apartments. Nothing had prepared me for what New Yorkers called a "small" apartment. She had a bed and a dresser, a window that looked out at bricks and other windows, and a door.

So many years had passed, but giddy with seeing each other, Jenny took me out to see the sights of Manhatton. We returned late, slightly intoxicated, and exhausted. We stripped, by habit, to our underwear and slipped into her small bed. We were too exhausted to make love that night, but the next morning we were as comfortable as if we had.

Jenny stood in only her panties; semi -transparent, they revealed the thick of dark curls. She always let her hair grow uncut, and her panties would matte her curls, so that when I touched her, my finger would slip into her panties, wiggling into her briar of curls, to find soft, wet, flesh. She would get so wet. She also had nice breasts. They had lost a little of their firmness from our college years, but were still lovely in shape. Her nipples were always thick and responded to hard touching, and especially pinching. The harder the better. She stood, looking at me with a smirk as I picked up my camera. I wanted to record her and hold the image forever, but even then I knew I didn't need to--I knew every bend and fold for her. The years had not changed how we responded to each other's body's, what we liked, how we touched, and how we wanted to be touched.

Only inches from her, I knew she was already wet. I knew how it would feel to push into her panties, comb her curls and plunge my finger into her eager wetness. I was hard with this thought. She knew that, and knew how I tasted, and my textures. No doubt that is why she stood in the morning light, and smiled as I took her photo. We knew each other, and we knew what was next.

BESIDE THE FARM HOUSE

I love this image. I'm not sure what's going on here, and that's what makes it so great. She bends down to pick up clothes. Why is she nude? Has she been hanging laundry on a clothes line? Was she sunning outside? She's crouched, back to the camera. It's one of those moments that invite speculation. Almost like peeking behind the rose bushes as voyeurs on this scene.

OSEN

The Japanese word for hot springs is osen. The islands of Japan are active volcanoes, with thousands of onsen scattered across its countryside. The Japanese often talk of the virtues of "naked communion," hadaka no tsukiai for breaking down barriers and getting to know people in the relaxed, natural atmosphere. Traditionally, men and women bathed nude together at the onsen, but single-sex and swimsuit bathing has become the norm since the opening of Japan to the West during the Meiji period.

Once again, thanks to America for imposing its views of sexuality on other cultures and making nudity socially awkward for everyone.

GINGER OR MARY ANN?

Growing up, we watched lot of reruns of Gillian's Island. The basic question for girls was: who would you rather be: Ginger or Mary Ann? And for the boys, it was: who would you rather date? Ginger, the sultry movie star, or Mary Ann, the sweet, innocent farm girl? As kids, the answer was supposed to be Ginger, because she was far more glamorous. But I always liked Mary Ann. I suspected that she as a lot less innocent than people assumed.

TO BOB OR TO PEG?

In 2001, in his popular Savage Love column, Dan Savage noted that there was no common name for the practice of females penetrating heterosexual men with a dildo. The practice was nothing new. In the earliest photographic depictions of Victorians doing the deed, we see examples. Although we’ve inherited these images, the proper term, apparently, has been lost.

Apparently the Showtime series “Weeds” made reference to the practice (Season 2, episode 6). There is a depiction of pegging in the William S. Burroughs novel Naked Lunch. The dildo used in the scene is called a “Steely Dan III.” Apparently, it was the inspiration for the band name Steely Dan. Though no one, to my knowledge, uses the term “Steely Dan” to reference the sexual act of a gal ding her fella with a strap-on.

A popular porn series, “Bend Over Boyfriend” has become the standby name. Sort of like “Kleenex” becoming synonymous with tissue paper and Q-tip with that cotton swab thing you stick in your ear. But “Bend Over Boyfriend” is a mouthful. Some folks shorten it to an acronym, “BOB.”

But what to do with “BOB”? Could it become a verb? As in, “Last night my girlfriend and I were bobbing.” Last night we went bobbing? Last nigh my girlfriend “bobbed” me?

You can see the confusion. So, June 2001, in his column Savage Love, Dan Savage announced the winner of a new name for “Bend Over Boyfriend.”

And the winner….. (drumroll)…..pegging. As in, “Last night my girlfriend pegged me.” Humm…sounds more direct. And sort of dirty, like a pirate. Arrrrr.

Will the name stick? Almost 8 year later, it seems to be gaining some, ummm, traction…
Someone has posted a Pegging Resource page. And perhaps most hilarious of all: a site called Christian Nympho that discusses, in detail, whether pegging is a sin.

Pegging, as a sexual practice, has been given an entry on wikipedia, though, it has not yet gotten into the dictionary.

All in due time.

LADY GODIVA

According to legend, Lady Godiva took pity on the people of Coventry, who were suffering grievously under her husband's oppressive taxation. Lady Godiva appealed again and again to her husband, who obstinately refused to remit the tolls.

At last, weary of her entreaties, he said he would grant her request if she would ride naked through the streets of the town.

Lady Godiva took him at his word.

After issuing a proclamation that all persons should keep within doors and shut their windows, she rode through the town. The town tailor disobeyed her order and peeked thorugh his shutters as Lady Godiva rode pass his window. According to legend, he was struck blind. He was forever afterwards known as “Peeping Tom,” perhaps one of histories most famous voyeurs.

In the end, Godiva's husband keeps his word and abolishes the onerous taxes. And that, dear reader, is how naked protesting began.

ARTISTIC AUTOEROTICISM

SELF SNAP WITH MIRROR

RAINED OUT PICNIC DOES NOT SPOIL THE FUN

They'd hoped for a warm, summer day, but this was Oregon in June. The day started sunny and warm enough. She wore a cute summer dress. They packed a picnic lunch. They planned to drive up the Gorge and hike one of the trails with waterfalls, and eat some cheese and salami and drink some Oregon pinot.

As they drove up the Columbia Gorge, the sky grew darker with clouds. A few rain drops hit the windshield. Then they'd hit a patch of sun, and then rain. They parked at the trailhead, and jumped out. It was cold and drizzly. They did go on their hike. He brought the camera, and she even flashed him a few times on the trail, whenever they were out of sight of the other hikers.

They returned to the car excited, but cold, and a little wet. There was no way they'd have an outdoor picnic. "Let's just have it here," she suggested. So they ate their cheese and salami and opened the wine bottle and passed it back and forth. Outside a few families dashed from their cars to the trailhead, or back from the trail and jumped back into their cars and drove off. The raindrops on the window made the inside of their car semi-private. People could see them inside, but not have a clear view of what they were doing unless they came right up to the window. So the other hikers, passed, unaware of the picnic in the car.

They finished the bottle of wine between the two of them, and she was no longer wet and cold, but feeling quite warm and giddy. During the hike, she'd pulled off her panties to be able to flash his camera. She turned in her seat, her legs open, her dress pulling up to show me her patch of curls. "That's nice," he said.

She smiled and responded by slipping off the straps of her dress, pulling the top down, and cupping one of her petite breasts in her hand. Her nipples were pinched from the cold. "Is that better?"

He nodded, and picked up the camera.

She held the wine to her body, suggestive of what she wanted to happen. He nodded and clicked.

DOWNWARD GLANCE

A WRITER'S REGRET

Five years ago now, my friend Erin came to one of my book releases and brought along her best friend Kelly. Erin was tall, blonde, smart, and drop-dead gorgeous. She stole the attention in a room. Even though Kelly continued to appear at my readings, I never thought of her as attractive in her own right. She'd been so eclipsed by Erin, it was as if I could see only sun spots when looking at Kelly. It wasn't fair. I was just oblivious.

In time, Kelly and I began to meet for coffee or ice cream--innocent dates. I would get busy, and time would pass. A month, or more. I'd be so absorbed in my work, I'd forget about Kelly. Until the next month, or season, or whenever an event would push me back into the public light. Kelly would be there.

To be a busy artist and not intentionally aloof is nothing original. For the first couple years, I made no promises to Kelly. If she remained a casual friend, fine. But of course, artists are contradictory. They have huge egos which drive them to create their own individual work, and yet fragile self-esteems. Slight criticisms, minor failures, even a low attendance at a reading can drive a writer to self-loathing melancholy.

And Kelly, sweet as she was, fell into that emotional vacuum. She was always up for a glass of wine, a stroll by the riverfront. Even that was fine. But in summer, when we went swimming, I saw her for the first time not as a friend, or as an emotionally comforting crutch, but as a 33-year-old with an amazing body.

That is when I crossed the line from being just a self-absorbed artist, to an asshole. I knew I had to have her. So I made it happen. I invited her over, and did everything cliche: lit candles, put on music, poured wine. And it worked. Soon we were kissing and hands groping and a shirt off and then a bra. Her breasts truly were perfectly shaped and firm. They were the most perfect breasts I have ever experienced, which made me want her more.

I reached in her panties and she was wet. After some fingering, the panties came off. She didn't trim her hair, but let it grow natural. I hadn't seen a full patch of pubic hair for years. It was surprising how something that used to be natural and just normal, was now exotic and untamed. I went down for a taste. Her pussy was sweet.

She fumbled in my pants and pulled out my hard body. She stroked it, and tugged me up over her chest. With deep blue eyes, she looked at me, and stroked with firm, steady rhythm. I looked down at her, at her perfect breasts, smooth and the part of her cleavage, now fairly flat, with the weight of her natural breasts pulling to her sides. That's where she wanted me to cum. And I wanted it, too. It was a gift she had wanted to give me for years and I had been too blind to see.

She continued her steady pace, and I felt my balls churn. I knew the pressure was building. She did not speed up but stared at me and smiled, her smile straight and white with perfect teeth. How had I been so oblivious? Here was the sweetest midwestern girl still fresh off the farm, with her hand on my cock, bating me off to cum on her perfect tits. I couldn't believe my fortune. I wanted to confess love and propose marriage. And I came.

Time passed. I don't know why. I got busy. Another book. Something about the feelings that welled up for her scared me. I had crossed a line I wanted to take back, and she thought wed finally moved forward. She sent me a photo of her, posed by her bedroom mirror, looking at the self-timed camera with her beautiful eyes, waiting. She wrote: thinking of you. She said she wanted to see me again and pick up where we'd left off, take the next step.

There never was a next time. Work resumed. I retreated. Kelly, hurt, finally gave up. I'm not proud of this. It is a story I tell myself when I am feeling back and want to confirm what is wrong with me. It is a story that wakes me up and makes me look at my empty couch, and rewind time to the candlelight and music and wine. Go back just to the point, and then say it. Confess my feelings for her. Words can change the course of things, if you believe in words. And words never said change everything.

WHEN THE WOMEN'S MOVEMENT CAME TO MADISON

"You see, Carol, it's called a dildo. I put it in my vaginia."

"Ghee, I don't know Linda. Are you sure? It looks awful big?"

"Oh sure, you betcha. Fits in just fine. If you use a little Vaseline, you can even put it in your anus."

"Golly Carol. I never."

"Oh don't be bashful. Here, give it a feel."

"Oh ghee. Feels like the real McCoy."

"But it never goes soft and is always ready. Unlike our husbands!"

PARADISE LOST

Would somebody please tell me where this picture is from and how I can somehow transport back to the moment it was taken?

Just look at this: a lush tropical scene, with fronds and flowers, a spray of water comes out in a shower, two beautiful, naked women smile and laugh.

What else could this be but a glimpse of paradise once experienced, now long lost.

DR. PEPPER

There's an old jingle folks of a certain age will recall: I'm a pepper, you're a pepper, wouldn't ya like to be a pepper, too?

Perhaps if they used this image in their ad campaign, they would have attracted quite a few peppers.

NUDE BEACH NAMES

Before the Victorian Era and the invention of the bathing suit, all beaches were nude beaches. As the swimsuit became more common, beaches became segregated between the nude beaches and the non-nude areas. In the nude beaches, people would be nude, in the non-nude, they'd be in swim attire. Then the pressure not to be nude began to infiltrate the clothes-free beaches with the more politically correct "clothing optional."

In Europe, it has been a long tradition for women to be topless on beaches. The idea is a basic equal rights between sexes: if men can take off their shirts, so can women. If men cover their groin, so do women. So "topless beaches" in Europe are nothing new.

This woman takes a funny stand on the nude beach distinctions. Is she at a "bottomless" beach--that sounds funny. A "bottomfree" beach? Also a funny term. A "bare buns" beach?

Or has she just taken the suggestion of "clothing optional" to just just opt for her bikini top and bare the rest?


Whatever you call it, I call it sexy.

MONDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL

Greg and Darleene got married right out of high school. Hard to believe, but they'd just had their 15th high school reunion (and 15th wedding anniversary). At the last reunion, they reconnected with Miller. (Miller was his last name, but every since high school everyone just called him Miller.) He and Greg played football together in high school, and Miller was Best Man at their wedding. He was a couple years younger, a Sophomore when Greg was a Senior. Miller always looked up to Greg. Greg had been the football star, and had literally married the Homecoming Queen.

Queen Darleene. It rhymed. Darleene loved when they announced it at homecoming. She loved to say it in her mind. Queen Darleene. Sometimes she'd say it in frustration. Over the years, marriage wasn't easy. They had a nice house, and they had a baby. Then another. Things were pretty good, but over a decade, had sort of fallen into a routine of work, childcare, cooking, chores, driving.

Greg always thought Darleene was hot. She was the dream girl to be with in high school, and compared to some of her other classmates, she was still foxy. Even after two babies, she was still in good shape. He knew, in his mind, she was hot. But somehow their sex life just seem to dry up after 15 years, and the babies, and the poopy diapers, and the sleepless nights, and his back acting up from his old football injuries, aggravated by his work as a utility lineman.

So when Miller came back into their life, it was like old times. He'd gone to Arizona State to play ball, and had ended up getting married to a girl in Arizona, and it hadn't worked out and he eventually circled back to his hometown. He was glad to see Greg and Darleene again. After the divorce, he'd been on his own for years, and downright lonely. It was good to laugh with them about old times. Share dinner with them, and every Monday night, come over to watch football. And truthfully, he liked to watch Darleene. She'd serve them snack plates wearing skimpy shorts and a tank-top, showing off her legs and her breasts.

Darleene noticed his eyes on her body, and it felt good. Not since cheer leading in high school had boys undressed her with their eyes. She felt the old spark. On a whim, she pulled out Greg's old jersey. She stripped naked and slipped it on. It was long enough to hang like a summer dress. The fabric hung loosely, but her nipples, if hard, poked out a little, and the jersey was just thin enough to let light shine through and reveal the outline of her legs.

Dressed in the jersey, she casually walked in to the living room to give Greg and Miller another beer. Their eyes both immediately jumped. She could see the look on their faces--they were just like teenage boys again. Horny as hell. She told them she'd put the baby and the toddler to bed, and would be in the kitchen, and offered to fetch them a beer every commercial break. She told them just to yell "Beer Break!" whenever the game cut to commercial.

Her plan had its affect. Commercials came on regularly, and each time the guys would yell "Beer Break!" She'd waltz in with two cold ones, just like a beer model. She had given each beer a little shake before entering the room, so when she cracked one, the foam burst and dribbled down her arm and she handed each guy a beer with a wink. She made a point to stand directly in front of the big screen TV, so the light came through her shirt. She tried to lean down a bit lower each time she handed the guys a beer, so they could look down the V of the jersey and see the cleavage of her two bare breasts.

After the first quarter, the guys were pretty buzzed. They'd been pounding beers competitively, so neither one would have a part-finsihed beer by the next "Beer Break!" They shouted at the game, cheered, and high-fived. They high-fived with each beer, and began to hoot and whistle when Darleene swayed into the room with two fresh cold ones.

As half time neared, the guys were starting to get wasted. They cheered and hooted and hollered. For many women it might not have been at all sexy or romantic, but for Darleene, it was just like old times.

"Hey fellas," she said, in her sexy voice, "wanna know what the half time show is?"

They looked at her with big stupid, shit-faced grins. "Beer Break!?"

"Me," she said.

The guys looked at each other, confused, but excited. The hooted and high-fived.

Darleene started one of her cheers from high school. "Give me a G. Give me an O..." She jumped and kicked as she had on the sidelines of many high school games. Greg and Miller were both older, heavier middle aged men, but for now, they were just like their old selves, just dudes, best friends, teammates. Darleene was loving all the attention and had forgotten her lack of underwear when she high kicked, and flashed the guys.

"Whhoooa!" they yelled. The hooted, hoolered, and slapped high fives again. Greg wasn't mad--he was drunk, happy, and totally stoked that his hot Homecoming Queen wife was flashing her snatch at him and Miller. He saw that Miller was totally hot for Darleene--as he should be. She was the prize of Hoover High.

With the dudes cheering, Darleene spun around and touched her toes so her jersey rose up. Her cheerleading moves become more like a strip dance, as the half-time band music played from the TV. It was surprisingly erotic. The sounds of the tubas and snare drums, the marching band, all the dork kids who wanted her, and could never have her. Only the football elite could have her. Like the captain of the team, Greg, and the star running back, Miller.

She flipped up her jersey, giving each guy a look. She bent forward and shook her ass in their faces. She could feel their hot, beery breath on her.

"Look at that ass!" yelled Greg. "That's a fucking hot ass!"

"Hell yeah it is," yelled Miller.

"Look at them titties," yelled Greg as Darleene leaned forward, cupping her breasts, and pushing them first into Greg's face and then into Miller's.

"Hell yeah," yelled Miller, his face being smothered in Darleene's breasts.

The band was reaching its crescendo. Darleene knew the song by heart, knew how to time the big finale. With the crash of the cymbols, she stripped off her jersey and stood before both guys, just inches form their face and hands. Greg began to stroke her thighs and stomach. "Damn," he said, "You're fuckin hot, baby," he said.

"Hell yeah," said Miller.

"Is my wife fuckable or what?" said Greg, stroking Darleene's thigh and letting his hand move between her legs.

"Oh hell yeah," said Miller.

Darleene quivered to Greg's touch and parted her legs. She saw Miller's hands ready to touch her, his eyes fixed on her wet pussy, the buldge in his pants strained. Darleene knew that Greg was ready, too. She knew all it'd take was the suggestion.

"So, you two going to fuck me or what already?"

The two guys jumped into play, each moving as if on the field, positioning themselves in relation to the other. Playing ball, they could communicate just by physical movement, no words were needed. They stripped and took her to the living room floor. On her knees, Greg pushed in, and Miller, sitting back, gave her front row access to his cock. What a great cock, she thought, as she took it in both hands like a trophy. Greg pumped her from behind as she sucked and slurped. The game played on the TV. All the sounds and ref's whistles and cheers of the crowd seemed just for them, each reliving a moment of glory days.

SEEING DOUBLE

How he got these two girls in bed I don't know. He didn't either, because it seemed like it all happened so fast. For years he'd fantasized about sleeping with two girls at once, and now, before her could even get totally naked, there were two girls on his bed, naked, making out, with their legs open. Two pussy's, two assholes. All in view, all wet and inviting of his cock. He stroked himself through his shorts so he wouldn't get soft. Could you imagine not getting it up at this critical moment? He would never have such a perfect time. He'd been fumbling around, trying to find his camera. He knew every second he delayed could be the end of this absolute perfect moment. But he found his camera, and held it up over his head, trying to frame it all with being able to look into the view finder. He didn't quite frame it perfectly, but it showed just what it needed to. He'd always remember the moment in his mind, but the picture helped prove he wasn't making it up.

BW FIGURE POSE

Here's a lovely vintage picture of a figure model striking a classic pose of the pin-up era. She has a lovely figure, and the outdoor light cast soft shadows on her skin.

SEDUCING THE POOL BOY

In the classic 1967 film "The Graduate," recent college graduate Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) returns to his upper-middle class life of cocktail parties and swimming pools. At a party celebrating his graduation at his parents' house in Pasadena, Benjamin is visibly uncomfortable as his parents' friends congratulate him on his academic success and ask him about his future plans. Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft), the wife of his father's law partner, asks Benjamin to drive her home, which he reluctantly does.

Arriving at her home, she pleads for Benjamin to come inside, saying that she doesn't like to enter a dark house. Once inside, she forces a drink on him, and later exposes herself to him. Benjamin blurts out: ""Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me."

The line has become one the most classic in Hollywood's history.

My friend Mitch told me a similar thing happened to him. He, too, grew up in an upper-middle class suburb LA. Everyone had a comfortable house in the hills, with a swimming pool. As a student, he'd earn money by doing yardwork and cleaning pools. One of his neighbors, Dr. Brady, a famous Bel Aire dentist, would hire him. His wife, Bonnie Brady, was a bored housewife. She'd invite Mitch over under the pretense of doing chores, and then invite him to swim and relax as she suntanned on poolside.

She wasn't a knock-out, said Mitch. She had a short pixie haircut, one of the styles of the time, and a slender body. Fairly small breasts, but that, too, was more the style of the 1970s. She was the kind of woman who had "Our Bodies, Our Selves" on her bookshelf in plain view, and a white plastic vibrator by her bed, and who didn't hesitate about walking around in topless, or in a see-though sarong.

She'd rub suntan lotion on her legs, often parting them, trying to give Mitch a good look. Mitch, shy, or affraid Mr. Brady woudl return at any moment for his golf clubs, tried not to look. Of course he did, but he never made a move. So one day, Mrs. Brady did. As Mitch was swimming toward the pool laddar, Mrs. Brady stepped over him, offering him a full view of what she had to offer.

All Mitch could think to say to break the awkward tension was: "Mrs. Brady, you're trying to seduce me."

PACE ARROWS SUMMERS AND THE MYSTERY OF THE HIDDEN SNAPSHOTS

When we were growing up. we'd often take part of our summer vacation to to visit grandma. Grandma lived alone on the old family farm. Grandpa had died of a heart attack when I was very young. My siblings and I liked to run around the fields, explore the old hay barn, and help grandma pick peas and pull carrots from her garden. When you're a kid, it seems that the young have always been young, the old always old. I did not have the life experience or the imagination to look at grandma and rewind time. She talked of grandpa, and how they were married after the Korean War. She talked about life on the farm, out in all the rolling hills of the Mid-West. There was an old Pace Arrow travel trailer parked beside the small farm house. It looked like it'd been parked for decades.

Although the aluminum exterior was coated in decades of dust, and faded by the sun, the interior was perfectly preserved. Inside was small as the cabin of a sailing boat, with compact shelves, a small gas stove, an old metal fridge, and plaid cushions. The walls were plywood. It smelled of dust, and dead flies. But I loved it. When we'd stay over, I'd always ask to take a sleeping bag out to the trailer rather than sleep on the couch.

I knew grandpa and grandma had gotten the trailer after the Korean War and would take annual roadtrips--some out to California to visit a great-aunt I'd never met. Some to Oregon, where we also have family. To me, the travel trailer was more a museum than anything. I couldn't imagine grandma as a young married woman in her 20s and 30s. I never really knew grandpa. From old Army pictures, I knew he was slender, but strong. He often wore aviator-style sunglasses. The closest thing I could picture was one of the guys in the TV show MASH. I imagined her was a fun guy, someone who liked cocktails and to have fun with his pals. He liked pretty girls, because I found an old calendar from 1953, with images of pin-up girls. That was my first discovery in the trailer.

As I mentioned, the inside of the trailer was like a sailing ship. All the cabinets were small, and some had shelves inside, and drawers or shelves inside shelves. Partly, it's to save space, and partly to keep the contents of the trailer packed as tightly as possible during motion. Regardless, it didn't seem as if anyone had actually ever cleaned out the trailer. There was no food, inside, of course--the fridge and food cabinets had been cleared long ago to avoid mice. However, all the tiny camping cook pots were still stacked neatly in the cabinet by the stove. There were forks and spoons in a drawer, and miscellaneous utensils in another, an old can opener, cork screw, and spatula. It was as if the trailer was on standby, as if grandpa could pump up the tires and fill the propane tank, and grandma could wipe down the countertops and stock new food and they'd be off on another adventure. I guess that's what happened, when grandpa had a heart-attack. You never leave things totally unpacked and put away. Everything is half packed.

As a kid, you don't always understand the exact past of a place, its specific memory, or why it feels so alive, but it's an intuitive sensation. I found old TIME magazines from the 50s, and a in one drawer dozens of recipes clipped out from magazines. I was starting to feel what it might have been like to take a trailer from the Great Plains, across the Rockies to the Pacific. What an adventure it must have been. The highway system being built, and gas cheap and all the cars with big V8 engines that could haul a small Pace Arrow to new places.

The older I got, the more I explored the trailer. I was probably 12 or 13 when I found the first nude. It was a small black and white glossy image with ruffled edges. The kind a Brownie camera would take. Very similar to the ones of grandpa's Korean War scrapbook. The image showed a pin-up girl. As I looked closer, though, I realized the pin-up was inside a trailer. Then, I recognized the style of plywood cabinets and glancing from the image to the bed of the trailer, I realized the snapshot had been made right where I was standing. It was an eerie sensation, as it suddenly looking in on someone's private experience.


The model had a lovely body, which I appreciated as a 13 year old boy. It took me a while, but I realized the woman was not a professional pin-up, but actually Grandma. I couldn't believe my eyes. There she was,in her early 20s in the 1950s. She was a knock out.

I found another image, this one clearly had my grandpa in it, sitting on the door steps of the trailer, reading a map. A woman stands inside, holding a cup of coffee. She's walked over to the door to talk to him. He looks up. Her hair is darker, and bouffant, like in the style of the early '60s. Grandpa might have been about 30. Grandma still in her 20s.


My understanding and appreciation of my grandparents grew with that discovery. I saw them not just as old people on a farm, but once young and active and very attractive.

That was then. Years later, when I was in college and Grandma was sick, I returned to the farm with my family. We all knew Grandma was dying of lung cancer. Her entire generation chain smoked from the 40s up until my childhood in the 80s. By then it was too late. So, that last trip to the farm, we each took what we wanted to remember Grandma. I wish I could have taken the entire travel trailer. Instead, secretly, I took the handful of glossy black and white snapshots I'd uncovered as a teen.

Years later, after Grandma passed away, and the farm was sold, I puzzled over the images. In the first one, Grandma looks like such an innocent country girl. You can see her naturally sandy-blonde hair pulled up. Her freckled nose. In the second one, she looks older and more glamourous. She's plucked her eyebrows and put on make-up. She's died her hair brunette or dark red. Perhaps my grandpa set the camera on its tripod and set the self-timer. The image looks candid, but also a bit posed, as if they knew the door would be a nice frame for the composition. If Grandma has really just woken up with her morning coffee, would she have perfect makeup? The element of pose makes it even stronger. Just before the camera clicked, she shifted her leg, reached down and touched Grandpa on the shoulder. She was giving him a perfect sight, then, and always.

I don't know about Heaven. Or an afterlife. I'd like to think, though, that if it is true, and if we do go to Heaven, it's a returning point to our favorite memories. I'd like to think that there's a campground beside a lake in California, with a travel trailer parked at the shore, and Grandma and Grandpa are young again and beautiful. And naked.

ARTISTIC MIRROR

CUTIE IN SUNHAT

If I every shipwreck on an abandoned desert isle, I'd like to be a castaway with her. She's got a girl-next-door look that becomes sexier and sexier the longer you look and watch her move in the sunlight.

We might not need clothes in our tropical paradise, but a good sunhat helps.

LAUNDRY DAY

Karen hated laundry. She was always in a rush and laundry was the last thing she wanted to worry about. As she dumped a load of dirty clothes in the washer, she decided she might as well top off the load with the clothes she was wearing. "Might as well get this done," she said to herself. She shimmed out of her shorts, and then peeled off her blue undies.

She scooped up her clothes, and as she set them on the washer, it suddenly struck her that she was naked. She'd shower every morning naked, of course, ad when she changed clothes for bed at night, she was in some state of naked. And she was naked with her boyfriend. Well...she had been naked with boyfriends in the past. It'd been a long time. Perhaps that's why she sort of tuned out her own nudity in teh day-to-day. If she wan't actively having sex, she wasn't really thinking about it. The urge just retreated somewhere.

As she stood in her laundry room, the washed and dryer humming and bumping and churning and sloshing, she suddenly became aware of the sounds. Her laundry room sounded a lot like sex. With the heat of the dryer warming the room, she felt a bit hot. She let her hands reach down, caress her as if rediscovering her own body. The sensations returned. Her nipples became hard. She rubbed her left nipple with one hand while her right hand dipped a finger into herself. She was wet. Very wet. Her knees weakened as her finger slipped in and out of her.

Hand it really been so long? Had she simple lost track of her sexuality? Had she ben too busy, too stressed to even touch herself? There was no arguing, no stopping. Her finger knew what to do, where to rub, how hard to press. As the washer kicked into spin cycle, Karen could feel the orgasm starting. Her hand moved fast, harder. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, releasing a loud cry. She screamed over the shaking and spinning washer. So loud she even startled herself.


In all her stress of getting chores done, there had been one part of self-maintenance she'd overlooked. Letting her breathing slow and her knees stop shaking, she promised herself she'd make this part of her laundry routine. Now, she always looks forward to laundry day.

PARTY LIKE IT'S 1999

I was in school in 1999. The economy was great, and everyone who was a year or two older was getting fantastic jobs straight out of college. Everyone seemed to have money, even those of us on scholarships. There was a sense of living high--cocktails flowed like water. We had some great parties.

At the last party of the school year, we had a big barbecue at my friend Ben's house. I rode my old red motorcycle, which I'd bought used. It came in handy around school, easy to park, easy on gas. And popular with the girls.

At the party, my friend Sarah climbed on my bike. Taking the handlebars in both hands, she pretend to ride it. She made vroom-vroom noises as she twisted the throttle. People laughed. Clearly, she was wasted.

A crowd of guys circled around her, and several began snapping pictures. She was cute on the bike. She had straight, sandy-blonde hair. When she straddled the motorcycle seat, her oversized shirt went up, and showed her bare thighs. It was a cute, almost sexy sight; I could understand that. I didn't understand why so many guys kept coming over for photos.

"Man, she's totally out there," said one of them.

My friend Ben came over to assess the situation. Holding a burger in one hand and a beer in the other, he draped his arm around me, and said, "You better drive her home before one these guys gets any funny ideas."

"She seems ok," I said. "Sarah's always a little nuts."

"Better take a closer look," advised Ben.

He was right. I could see why the drunk guys crowed around her and cheered her on. I found Sarah's best friend, Kim, and had her take her back home to sober up a little and find some underwear.

SHOWER SELF SNAPS

Here is one of the best series of self-snaps. How fun, how spontaneous. She takes a mirror from the bathroom wall and sets it in the tub. She turns on the water. Then she climbs in, still in her panties and bra. She offers a front view, knees apart. Hair just starting to get damp from the spray.

A second shot, she turns, points the camera back, gets her ass framed in the mirror. Her panties are getting soaked in the shower--and transparent.

Next shot, she strips. Full view, she sits on the edge of the tub. Her hair now totally wet, her body gleaming as water drops run down her chest

And finally, a perfect good-bye: She moves to the mirror for a close up self portrait, and sticks out her tongue. How playful. Creative and adventurous, two qualities that this beauty displays. If she's this original and seductive in the shower with a mirror, I can only imagine what she brings to the bedroom...

RED COUCH, BLACK STOCKINGS

I have a red couch. Maroon, maybe, or wine colored. It's a dark oak mission style which goes well in my old bungalow. A nice place for a photo, I suggested to my girlfriend. She agreed, and fetched a pair of her stockings. The black and red compliment each other, and her pale skin looks even whiter against the contrast of the strong colors. I think it's a lovely, and sexy, image.

PROUD MARY

SLOW SUNDAY

Slow Sundays are times to sleep in, relax. Let the sun rise and melt dew on the lawn. Lay in bed, listen to birds outside the window. It must be spring.

SATURDAY MORNING

Saturday we got to sleep in a little, before starting errands. Apparently, she had a good night's sleep, and was feeling frisky. Waking up, I was treated to a the sight of her in her pajama pants, topless. Her breasts round and perfect. She then gave me a peak, a type of suggestion of what we could do before hopping in the shower.

SUMMER PICNICS, RECESSION-PROOF FUN

As Spring's first flowers begin to show, here's looking forward to summer. As we worry about the recession, let's not forget an earlier time, when vacations didn't mean breaking the bank account. Rather, summer vacations were celebrated with picnics in state parks, complete with the heavy wooden tables, the checkered table clothes, and the classic picnic basket. Beers and Cokes in the cooler. Burgers and dogs on the grill. A frisbee to toss. Simple summer fun.

Even better au natural!

RIDE NAKED!

The very first two-wheel, “petal-pushed” bicycle made its world debut in 1817, but the basic bicycle as we know it hit its stride in the 1890s “Golden Age of Bicycles.” The first chain-driven bicycle was developed around 1885 and a few years later air-filled tires and coaster brakes were added. Bicycling became both a popular pastime, as well as a practical form of commuting. Just as skinny dipping was a common form of swimming in rural lakes and streams at the turn of the century, no doubt some adventurous folks hopped on their bikes in the buff. Surprisingly, there is no real record of organized naked biking until a century later.

Organized naked bike rides seem to have taken off in 2001. In Spain, a naked bike ride was celebrated in Zaragoza, and naked riders joined the Fremont Summer Solstice Parade in Seattle. Naked riders have joined up with Critical Mass across the US, and other annual rides in Europe.

Although there’s an “official” World Naked Bike Ride (WNBR) website, the overall trend of naked bike rides seems to be a grassroots movement. Commonalities between naked bikers are colorful body paint, creative costumes, and sometimes decorated bikes. Underlying the public nudity is not so much a united protest against gasoline vehicles, or against the often hypocritical and sexist indecency laws; in the color and show, seems to be a statement against as a celebration pro-bike traffic, pro-green energy, pro-healthy living, and the simple right to be in the buff. Otherwise, it seems to truly be a free-for-all, with only one guiding motto: "Bare As You Dare.”




For the past several years, my hometown has held an annual naked bike ride. I have never gone, because it seemed naked bikers were, actually, rather unsexy. Now, looking at images around the world and learning more about public nudity laws and just how conservative we’ve become as a culture, I am pro nude bikers. They make our streets a little more colorful, a little more fun, and—most importantly of all—a little more free. What a true democracy that we live in when protest can be non-violent, and naked.

Here’s to a second “Golden Age of Bicycles.”