HOUSE SITTERS

When I was 14, my dad made me go to every house on our block and introduce myself. I offered my services in lawn mowing, weeding, washing cars, whatever the local neighborhood boy gets hired to do. It was summer and I was supposed to start "earning my way" in the "real world," as my Dad liked to say. "It builds character." What it really seemed to build was a set of menial job skills.

The extra money I earned each summer helped me go to movies, eat pizza with friends, as my Dad did not give any type of spending allowance in his "Real World." And the work, summer after summer, was steady: each summer, the lawns needed mowed, cars and motor boats and RVs needed scrubbing before and after their owners took their 2-week vacations. When the homeowners were gone, they'd have me pick up mail, water their flowers, and feed any pets. Dogs usually went on vacations with their owners, so mostly my chores involved dashing fish food into aquariums, or feeding cats and changing litter boxes. Not exactly glamorous. But year after year, the work was steady and the neighbors kept calling me back.

Then, in high school, I had a girlfriend. I invited her over to hang out with me when I went over to the Barkers. Bill and Bonnie Barker had a ranch house with big windows, modern art painting on the wall, square furniture, and a back patio with a pool and a tiki bar. Pool chairs and darts, they obviously threw cool pool parties. The rumor was that they were "swingers." Frankly, I didn't care what the Barkers did when they drove off in their RV for the week. All I knew was that I had their house to myself, and my girlfriend and I (like any teenagers) were going to take advantage of the situation.

My girlfriend was older than me, and she seemed so mature. We wasted no time in fixing drinks from the tiki bar. As I mowed the lawn, I became hot and sweaty. She suggested we cool off in their pool. "But I don't have my suit," I said.


"Duh," she said. "Big deal." She stripped and dove in. I followed. We swam and splashed an hung out, sipping on our "mai tais." I couldn't believe my luck, it was as if all the menial labor had finally paid off. I had a house totally alone with my girlfriend. Maybe some of the guys thought she was a bit "plain Jane," but to me, she was beautiful, and had a perfect figure. They hadn't seen her sunning herself by the pool, or sitting on the pool chair, naked as a jay bird.

I lost all my innocence that week. Drinking, skinny dipping, then washing the chlorine off with my first co-ed shower. In the afternoons, I'd quickly do my chores so we could swim and relax. We'd kiss and fondle each other in the pool, in the shower, on the patio.

On friday night, I told my folks that I was catching a movie with my friends. "Ok," my Dad would say. "You've earned it."

Yes I had. It was the last night of my housesitting for the Barkers, and I intended to make it a private date. No sooner than I was out the door, I headed down the block to the Barker's, where she was already waiting.

In the house at night seemed extra dangerous, extra naughty, and extra thrilling. Curiosity overtook us, and we couldn't help snooping around. The Barkers' master bed had a big headboard and two built-in side tables with drawers. In one, we found a jar of valseline and a torpedo-shaped plastic vibrator. We laughed. In the other drawer we found a stack of magazines. I'd seen Playboys. They were pretty common back then for my friends to find, sneak out and peek at. This stack was a magazine I hadn't heard of.

The women were far less attractive than the Playboy bunnies, but they had fewer inhibitions. Rather than soft focus, dreamy come-hither looks, the women in Mr. Barker's magazines spread their legs, parted their patch of curls to show the pink, wet skin. They got on their knees, butts in the air like dogs in heat wanting to be mounted. I was rock hard as my girlfriend and I casually flipped the pages. The images were completely lewd. In all the images I'd seen, women were coy, flirtatious, and silly. In those images, the models seemed to say, "golly!" and "ghee!" but in the images we were looking at, the women stared directly into the camera, eyes holding the viewer, their legs open with no questions asked, just a statement: "now!" I had no idea what was going through my girlfriend's head then, but my mind was exploding. It was a totally new way to look at women--not as passive, but as direct and sexually powerful.

Just then a photograph fell out from between the pages. It was a small black and white, the type we all had in scrapbooks the decade before. In it, a woman sat on a chair, in stockings and garter, her legs spread. It was similar to the images in the magazines, but even more erotic, because it felt real. The glossy image was tangible in my hand. I knew this was not just any woman in a magazine, but a specific woman, someone who had posed just for this image.

"Oh my god!" said my girlfriend. "That's Mrs. Barker!"

We held the image to the light and inspected it.

"See, with long hair. Like ten years ago."

If the week had challenged every sexual idea I'd ever had, this completely blew my mind. I had always seen Mrs. Barker as an "adult." She was married, had a house, went on vacation. I mowed their lawn and cleaned their pool and fed their fish. The term "adult" in my mind meant anyone not a student. There were three categories to me: little kids, students, and adults. Adults were old; they were nothing like students. Yet it never occurred to me that Mrs. Barker was probably around 30. If the picture had been snapped a decade ago, she would have been maybe 20? Not that many years older than my girlfriend. Mrs. Barker had a similar figure: lovely medium sized breasts, and the curls between her legs looked a lot like the curls of my girlfriend.

"She's foxy," said my girlfriend. "Look at those stockings."

I hadn't really considered the stockings. Now my eyes took them in, and how they framed her legs and pubic patch. I nodded.

"Let's do that!" said my girlfriend.

"Do what?"

"That!" she said and jumped from the bed. She went over to the dresser and began to sift through the top drawer.

"Go," she said.

"Go what?"

"Find a camera."

I was confused, overwhelmed. I moved as if in slow motion. It all seemed like a blur. I couldn't find Mr. Barker's polaroid, but found an older 35mm with film in it. When I returned, my girlfriend had found some stockings and a garter. With the magazine open on the bed, we reencated some poses.
She lay back on the floor the the curtain, her legs parted. She looked down at her nipple, hard with excitement. Snap. She sat on the rattan chair and opened her legs. I could see beads of her excitement in her tight curls. Snap. She pinched her nipples hard. And moaned. Snap.

I couldn't hold back any longer. I had to take her. We made love like we never had before, not soft and romantic, but hard and passionate. We were both so hot. She clawed my back and wrapped her silky legs around me as I pumped. I could see the open magazine and the image of Mrs. Baker as a 20-something sexy woman. I thrust deeper, harder, feeling not like a teenage boy having awkward sex, but like a man taking a woman. It didn't' feel like me and my girlfriend having sex, but rather two adults, two married, experienced adults gong at it in white hot passion. My girlfriend screamed as her orgasm over took her. I couldn't stop myself and gushed a huge load inside her.

We collapsed, sweaty, exhausted, but our hearts still racing, our breath ragged. Soon, we'd be ready to go again, and tried every position we could think of. She straddled me and rode me, her breasts bouncing, her hand reaching back and cupping my balls, making me shoot another load inside her. We rested entangled, and then I was hard again, and took her a third time, her on her knees, her breasts hanging down, jiggling, her pale bottom in the air, slapping back to meet my thrusts. I grunted and shot my last bit of semen.

We were totally spent, our hair wild, our skin salty. My cum leaked out from between her legs, and made wet spots on the bedsheets. Hers labia was red and swollen, soaked from her own orgasms and my spunk.

It was now late and we had to hurry. She helped strip the bed and change the sheets. And in a panic to avoid getting grounded, we kissed quickly, and each ran our separate ways home.

The Bakers returned, so our week of naked bliss was over. Our week, though, would have lasting effects. We knew we were more in love than ever, and that we wanted to get married, and have a house of our own. Thus was good, because we soon learned that my girlfriend was pregnant. Although we were young, it was happy news. It meant the end of summer jobs and stepping into a new role, the "real world," as my dad like to call it.

So I got a steady job, and I had to go around one last time around the block and tell my neighbors that I'd no longer be available for odd jobs. It certainly felt like the closing of a chapter. When I got to the Barkers, Mrs. Barker was home. She told me that was too bad that she would have to find a new summer pool boy, that I had been such a good worker. "We really appreciated how you took care of our house," she said, with a wink. She smiled at me, as if we shared a private secret.

As she talked, it was hard not to see her in relation to the photo we'd found. I knew what she looked like naked, when she was closer to my age. I knew that she liked sex like I liked sex. That I had done what she had done. On her floor, in her chair, on her bed. Then suddenly it dawned on me: That last night, in our rush to wash the sheets and get home, we'd forgotten the film in the camera.

THE ACCIDENTAL SKINNY DIPPER

For some of us, skinny dipping is less of a plan and more of an accident. Have you ever taken a dive off the high board, only to come up and find your swimsuit floating on the surface next to you?

Plenty of us have, and it can be downright embarrassing if it happens in front of a crowd. The moment is generally short-lived as you struggle back into your swimsuit, unless, of course,your friends saw everything. Then they'll never let you live it down.

A PERFECT DAY WITH DOG

Sunny summer day, grab flip flops and the dog's leash. Grab beer and snacks and sun screen. leap in the car, roll down the windows, smell the summer air and cut lawns.

Dog knows the way, sniff the passing forest.

Scramble down the unmarked trail. Far side of the lake, you are safe from prying eyes, or ticketing rangers.

Find your favorite rock again, the flat one that warms in the sun. Slip off your clothes, and feel the rock's warmth on you bare skin.

Summer is here. Feet tender from shoes all winter, learn to walk again on river rock.

Dog sniffs around and then comes back, joins you, watching the sun on the water glint. The pines smell sweet, like vanilla. Naked, you are free.

FUNNY SKINNY DIPPING STORY

The internet is a funny place, people. I found this post on a discussion thread called "What's your best skinny dipping story?" Well, a lot of the replies to the post were typically stupid, and many no doubt made up. But this one (posted three years ago!) by someone known only as "coconut" had this story to share. It rings so true, I completely believe it. Truth, dear reader, is stranger than fiction.

Here's the post, word for word, not one word less, not word more. It's a gem:

"My friends and I thought we were alone at this camp site and we took off our clothes and went into the lake. Next, we see a large group of campers running toward the lake to jump in. The counselor called them back and told them to lie down with their faces to the ground, this way they couldn't see us getting out and putting our clothes on. Obviously they peeked. oops."

BABY BLUE BIKINI BEACH BABE

What a cute photo. I love how this sexy beach goer casually sips from her cup, the crowd behind her completely unaware of the special vantage point of her friend with the camera. Could be any snapshot. At first glance it looks totally candid. Just another day at the beach.

The sexy thing about bikinis, is how little they cover, and how thin the fabric, inviting the eyes to draw more attention to what's covered. The strings so thin, sometimes knotted in bows, as if inviting a hand to tug. The line between concealing and revealing is never publicly thinner than with a bikini. This image just pulls that line a mere inch to one side, giving us a tantalizing glimpse.

ALL NATURAL BEAUTY

TREE HOUSE TRUTH OR DARE

When I was a kid, I had a tree house, down the hill past the barn, in the back field. Grandpa helped build it high in an old oak out of scrap wood. It had a rope ladder I could pull up, to keep my sister and her friends out.

At first, my tree house had a strict "no girls" policy. When I was a little older, I wanted to reverse my policy, but there were no girls offering to join me. Many times I'd sneak one od my dad's Playboys up to the treehouse, and stare longingly at the images.

The Millers has a daughter, several years older than me. Denise was 18 when I was 14 in the summer of 1978. School had let out, and I spent a lot of days in my tree house. One day, I spotted her walking across the field in her dress. I called to her from my perch in the tree. It took her a while to locate me, but she eventually walked over and looked up. I kicked down the ladder, and she came up to my secret spot.


She glanced around. I'd brought up an old blanket and some pillows to make it like a fort. She didn't seem impressed. Then her eye caught the corner of the Playboy sticking out from under a pillow.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it from it's hidden place and flipping it open. "You're too young for this!"

"No I'm not!"

She continued to flip though it as she sat down on the pillows. She'd stop and read the centerfold. "Miss April..." she said to herself. "I could be her..."

"You're just as pretty," I said.

"You think?"

"Heck yes."

"Oh you don't know. You're just a kid."

"No I'm not."

"Oh yeah?" she looked up at me from the magazine. She seemed to let her eyes move over my body and around the tree house and off into the distance, toward the field and the forest. The she said casually, "Ever play Truth or Dare?"

I hadn't.

"Truth or dare?" she asked.

"Truth."

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

I admitted that I hadn't. She'd dare me to kiss her. I leaned forward, mouth puckered. She laughed.

Then she asked if I'd ever seen between a girl's legs, and I admited, shyly, "Only in the magazines."

She lifted her sundress just enough to show me she wasn't wearing any underwear. I caught a glimpse of her thick triangle of dark curls.

She asked if I'd ever felt a breasts, and I said no.

"Hold out your hand," she instructed. I did. She took my hand and placed it squarely on her breast. She pressed her hand over mine, forcing me to cup her soft breast, feeling her through the light fabric.

She glanced down and noticed my erection straining in my pants.

"Truth or dare?" she asked.

Feeling bold from the recent touch of my first boob, I said with as much courage as I could muster: "Dare."

"Show me your pecker," she said.

I blushed, but tugged down my shorts, and let my boner spring out.

She looked at my body with interest. Did I ever touch myself? Sure, I admitted.

"Thinking of me?"

I nodded.

"Thinking of this," she asked, spreading her legs and showing me her bush again.

I nodded.

"Do you want me to show you?"

I nodded.

"Do you dare me?"

I was blushing, shaking, my dick sticking out in the wind. I stared at her body and her pale skin that had been under the cover of her summer swimsuit. She opened her lips, parted her curls with her fingers, and showed me her soft, pink skin.

"I dare you to touch yourself," she said.

Awkwardly, I fumbled with my penis. I was hard and the sight of her body sent me over the edge quickly. She watched me the whole time, letting one finger slowly glide up and down her wet lips.

When I was done, she flipped her dress back down and descended the ladder. "See ya around," she said. I didn't know if I should be embarrassed or proud.

In the following days, she'd return to the tree house. It was summer break and we both had plenty of time on our hands. She had a job at Dairy Queen, but it left plenty of hours to come by. Sometimes we'd look at the latest Playboy.

She would let me stare at her as she spread her body, as she touched herself, and told me to do the same. We'd get our timing right to cum at the same moment. The more we did it, the closer she let me get to her naked body. She never let me have sex with her, though; she said she didn't want to get pregnant. But she'd let me caress a nipple with one hand as I stroked with the other. She'd let me cum on her chest a few times.

By the end of summer, she even let me stick a finger inside her, and put my mouth on her, and taste a woman for the first time. She showed me how, and she would let me make her orgasm with my tougue on her clitoris and my finger stroking inside her pressing up against her vagina wall at her-g-spot. I didn't know the name then, but I knew to watch for the signals as she began to shake, and then release in orgasm.

At the very end of summer, she told me she had a special treat for me becuase I had given her so many orgasms. She took my penis into her mouth and sucked me off, until I came powerfully in a spasm. She didn't stop sucking until she had drained every drop of cum from my teenage balls. Then she looked up at me and wiped a drop of semen from her lips and smiled. "You're a good kid," she said. "And not a half bad lover. I'm gonna miss you."

She left for college and I never saw her again. Some said she went to New York and became a model.

Naked Paint Party

Things to do this weekend: host naked paint party.

Does any every have fun like this anymore? No wonder the Boomers glamorize the their youth. Growing up in the 1980s, we were told that sex was dangerous, sinful, and that we should always keep our nudity covered, and never, EVER under any circumstances, even thing of anything remotely sexual in a group setting.

These folks look like they are having fun. They don't seem to be hurting anyone. I'd like to get the invitation to one of these parties.

FLY BOYS

It is said that swinging began among American military communities in the 1950s, primarily out in the California desert among the elite test pilots. Out in the joushua tree wastelands, on remote air force bases, recently returned combat pilots from WWII flew the latest jet planes. It was here Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier in the X-1 named after his wife, "Glamorous Glennis," and here where these pilots pushed the envelop of aeronautics and set the path for the first generation of astronauts.

Perhaps these hardened combat vets had seen too many of their buddies never make it home. Perhaps they promised them they’d live life to its fullest. Perhaps the heat and the isolation of the Mojave made them bored and eager for some fun. Perhaps the machismo fueled them. Perhaps in the pack of pilots, women were few. And married to their buddies.

“Hey Chip, your wife sure has some body.”

“Hell yeah she does. I bet you want to take a test flight on that model, wouldn’t you, fly boy?”

“Yes Sir I would!”

“Oh, cut it out fellas, no need to fight over little ‘ol me. You're both cleared for take off.”

The hyper testosterone, frat-boy fighter pilot objectification of woman as an interchangeable tool like one of their jets is clearly sexist, and offensive, and if we admit it only to ourselves, a little bit sexy.

By the time the Korean War ended, the practice had spread from the military to the suburbs. The media dubbed the phenomenon “wife-swapping.”

TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE

"Badges? ....We don't need no stinkin badges."

A CLEAN COMFORTABLE ROOM

What I love about this image is that it's clearly a motel, with the same room layout of any motel room. Walk in, the bathroom is to the right, then the TV and mini-fridge and desk with the TV guide, and the two queen beds with the starched, scratchy sheets. The cups are wrapped in plastic. The carpet smells a bit musty. And for whatever reason, it's a total turn on.

When couples leave the routine of the bedroom, somehow motels are sexually charged. Many nights while traveling I've heard the headboard slapping the adjacent wall. When I've been in motels, I've been that person, grunting and panting and screwing like its the first time. What is it about the plain wall paper, ugly art, ice bucket and rubber-lined curtains, that gets us so hot and ready to romp?

Je ne sais pas.

Whatever it is, this lovely lady is ready. She's stripped naked and goes to the door to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and then bolt it, just in case.

ON LOCATION

I have no idea what prompted this shoot, but I'm glad someone had the sense to step back and make a quick snapshot. Who wouldn't love to be able to have been "on location" with this lovely crew.

ADVENTURE TO THE LAKE WITH NO NAME

I had a crush on Lauralee ever since the day I met her. Her slight southern accent is one of the things that got me, but also she was incredibly smart. She was one of the few people I could actually apply the label "intellectual."

I had wanted to date her for years, but she always had a boyfriend, and in the few times she didn't, I'd find have a girlfriend. I was just breaking up with one when this story happened. I'd been dating Patricia for about six months. It had gone from hot to horrid fast. We'd hung on by having sex, but essentially, there was none of the underpinnings to make a relationship work. When I had to go out of town for two weeks, Patricia lay into me with guilt. When she saw that it wasn't going to make me cancel my trip, she gave me the ultimatum: If you go, I won't be here when you get back. So I left.

When I returned, I called Lauralee. She had just broken up with her dumb ass boyfriend of the time. For the first time, we were both single and sad and needing a great day. So we jumped in her car with swim suits, a map of the national forest, and a bottle of whiskey.

We drove deep into the national forest, turning off the main highway to a primary forest road, to a secondary road, to a gravel road. Mile after mile, we wound deeper into the forest. It was August and hot. The gravel road kicked up dust. We had our windows rolled down.

On the map, I'd picked out a small, unnamed lake. I had no idea if we could find it, but I had pointed us in the general direction. The road got rougher. The ruts deeper, and finally, we bottomed out in her old beater car. As we stepped out, we stretched our legs and surveyed the situation. We were stuck pretty deep, up to the axle. Still, I wasn't in the mood to be defeated. It was a perfect day and I'd broken up with a girl that had put me down for months and I was tired of feeling bad for myself.

I found a strong stick and began to dig out the mud behind the tires. I knew going forward would only push us deeper, but potentially, if we could get traction, we could roll back up out of the tracks we had just made. So I dug and then rounded up small sticks. I wedged them under the tires, then I had Lauralee gently rock the accelerator as I pushed. After a few fruitless starts, the car popped backwards, caught the sticks under it, and shimmied back up out of the mud and onto hard ground. I stood, panting, with mud flecked across my face. "Let's go swimming," I said, grinning.

When I'd gone gathering dead wood, I discovered that we had, by sheer luck, gotten stuck less than 100 yards from the unnamed lake. Through a bluff of trees, we pushed to the beach. It was a tiny lake, half marsh reeds, and ringed on one side by a mud beach. When we reached it, we cracked out the whiskey and saluted the perfect blue sky, the blue-green lake, our triumph over the mud and our success at finding the unnamed lake. I pulled another swig of whiskey, feeling better than I had in months. She took another pull. And then I did, and she did. We drank and considered our good fortune.

"Turn around," said Lauralee. I turned as she stripped off her clothes and slipped into her suit. I wanted to peek and she knew. She had to have known that I harbored a crush on her for years. We were best friends. We'd sleep over at each others houses, in the same bed even, but never touch. Never cross the line beyond a plutonic hug. We'd been in pajamas together before, but whenever it came time to change, there was always a bathroom and a locked door.

Now, she changed in the wide open. I wished I could somehow snap a picture without her knowing. I wanted--needed--to save this moment.

When she was done, I stripped down to my boxers. We pulled more whiskey to brace ourselves for the mountain cold water and waded in. We could walk out nearly to the middle of the lake before the water was over our heads. The further we went, the deeper the sediment. It squished between my toes. "Eww," she said.

"Here," I offered. I reached out and invited her to hop up piggyback. As I carried her deeper, my feet sank further under our weight. I thought of her in her swimsuit, her barelegs wrapped around my waist. The deeper we got the more I had to bob, the more it threw her body onto me, the more I lost my balance. She shrieked for me not to drop her. The whiskey was taking effect. We'd polished off a good half of the bottle between us. I was suddenly buzzed and barely able to keep moving forward. The water was cold, but had pockets of warm. It was green and smooth on our skin. The sun reflected off the water. Somehow I knew the timing was perfect. I knew that of all the times I could have kissed Lauralee, I had never made the move. I knew if I never did, she would never. I knew if I'd made it at the wrong time, she would have shot me down. Dating Patricia, I had never had lower self-esteem. I decided now was the time. I could be brave. I could dare.

With a deft flip, I tuned Lauralee around, her legs now wrapped around me and crossed behind me, her arms draped around my neck, her face in front of my face. Without a word, I kissed her. She kissed back. We embraced, locked into each other, kissing passionately. Suddenly everything was perfect. Years of frustration laying beside her as if two slumber party friends was finally released. I had found our lake, saved her car, and was the hero of the moment. I knew it couldn't last. We were already dangerously shivering. We held each other closer, still locked in a kiss.

Slowly I began to wade back toward the shore. I knew that as soon as we reached it, something would have to change. I knew it meant my brief moment could end. Maybe all we'd share was one drunken kiss in a lake. As I turned, surveying the trees and the mountain peak, and our clothes and half-empty whiskey bottle on the shore, I decided that whatever happened afterwards would be just fine. The important thing was that I'd finally raised my courage to the point of making a move.

When we reached the shore, I let her slip from my waist. She teetered over to the bottle and took a quick pull, then handed it to me, shaking, her lips blue. I accepted. We then moved together and resumed our hug, as if seeking each other's vital warmth. We resumed our kiss and soon my hands were rubbing her shoulder blades, warming her, and tugging down her swimsuit.

I'd always wondered what Lauralee looked like topless. She often wore thin t-shirts without a bra. I could often see her nipples pressing the fabric. Now, I was hugging her, kissing her, and she was topless. She stepped back, and I got my first, incredible view.

She staggered a few feet away and then yanked off her suit. She almost fell as she squatted. Holy crap. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. For years Lauralee had always been reserved, almost prude about being around me; now she was buck naked in the middle of the forest, squatting in the sand.

When she returned she took my hand to lead me somewhere. With an instant decision, I yanked down my boxers. Now we were both buck naked beside the lake. We walked further up the beach until the wet mud turned to dry sand. I felt self-conscious yet also liberated, walking, hand in hand, out in plain view of the sky, around the corner of the unnamed lake.

Her knees buckled and she landed with a plop on the sand. I stood over her, naked, looking down at her. For the first time in my life, I could get a look at her as I'd always fantasized about. She was sort of a liberal type, didn't wear a lot of makeup, yet she shaved her legs and under her arms, I knew, so I assumed she probably shaved between her legs as well. As she lay on the ground, she comber her curls with her finger. Her curls were thick and almost reddish in color. She looked totally natural with the lake in the background and the jagged line of the forest. She had her eyes closed and continued to brush out the sand from her curls, and then, right in front of me, her fingers began to stroke.

I stood, naked, dumbstruck, as I watched her slowly begin to touch herself. Is this her gift to me? I wondered Is she saying that we will never be together but that we can be maybe be kissing and watching friends? I was estactic that I was not only seeing Lauralee naked for the first time in one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, but I was watching her masturbate.

She broke my trance be opening her eyes, looking directly at me and asking point blank: "So are you going to fuck me now?" Those were her exact words. I couldn't have made it up. I stood a second more, totally unsure of myself.

Then I lowered myself between her legs. I rubbed the tip of my cold-shruken penis on her now wet and warm vulva. Although I had a lot of whisky in my system, I managed to get hard. Pushing in was perfect. Smooth, warm, embracing, welcoming, drawing me deeper.

The funny thing about having sex outdoors is that as you're pumping away, mosquitoes are landing across your back, arms legs, in your ears. A stick is poking and you just want to move a rock really quick. You want to slap the mosquitoes. I was drunk and distracted and intimidated by Lauralee's sudden acceptance. I was fucking her bareback and didn't know if she was on the pill, if I could shoot or should pull out. All these thoughts swirl through my mind as I tried to focus on the fact that I was actually half-laying on Lauralee beside a lake, penetrating her. I pounded away. She wanted it harder and harder.

I knew I couldn't last. Alreadly I had built up from our prolonged kissing in the lake. I had a huge load of cum bursting. With one final pump, I pulled out and sprayed across her belly and chest. She looked at me, eyes bleary, and blinked.

We got up, brushed off. I itched my new mosquito bites, and we walked, naked, my cum drying salty with the lake water on her breasts, my erection now limp but wagging with each step, still slick with her juices, the light of the afternoon already fading, back to our clothes.

WORD OF THE DAY: NACKTREITEN

Nacktreiten is a German term for riding nude in the countryside. It originally applied to horseback riding, but can also refer to naked cycle riding.

Why America do we not have such a word, or such a cool tradition?

HIPSTERS

THE NEW JOY OF SEX -- A classic revised, for better or worse?

When I grew up in the 1970s, I found my parents’ copy of The Joy of Sex: A Gourmet Guide to Lovemaking. My best friend also found it on his parents’ bookshelf. In fact, all my friends, at some point, had either found a copy at home or had spent hours at another friend’s house, flipping page by thrilling page through, what seemed to be, the most popular book alongside the Bible and the Yellow Pages.

The Joy of Sex spent 11 weeks at the top of the New York Times bestseller list and more than 70 weeks in the top five (1972–1974).

First published in 1972, The Joy of Sex was a landmark in what Boomers like to claim as “the sexual revolution.” When published, there was nothing else like it. The famous Kinsey Report had rocked American’s understanding of their sexuality. But the state of sex manuals stuck with the science and sanitized the pleasure.

The original Joy of Sex contained numerous illustrations by Charles Raymond and Christopher Foss based on original photographs of the book's art director, Kenn Ford and his wife Anna. In contrast to the clinical style of earlier books about sex, the illustrations were titillating as well as illustrative. Unlike the glossy, airbrushed Playboy Bunny’s I found in my Dad’s magazine stack, the pencil-sketch images in The Joy of Sex showed a couple engaging in the actual act. I saw oral sex, both given and received, dynamic sexual positions with exotic sounding names (“croupade” for anything today we’d call “rear entry” and “feuille de rose” for rimming) and images that made me touch myself to orgasm. Most importantly, I saw images of a couple obviously in love. I saw them smile, flirt, and play. One image showed the woman playfully tied to the bedposts, legs parted and ready. (How I touched myself to that one!) And, as one good turn deserves another, an image of the man on his back, his ankles bound, and the woman on top. (How I dreamed one day a woman would do that to me.)

The center of the book also contained color images of sex from ancient Japanese and Hindi texts. These were exotic to me, not quite as erotic for my onerous purposes. However, they added to the central message of the book: sex is nothing new; it has been enjoyed in generations past—people today should enjoy it as well.

Throughout the book, I saw a couple, beautiful in their natural state, loving each other, embracing, kissing, and holding hands. It teaches that good sex is really, at heart, about good communication: “feeback means the right mixture of stop and go, tough and tender, exertion and affection. This comes by empathy and long mutual knowledge.”

While the spirit of the book is empowering, the text is, admittedly, cumbersome. The text, in parts, is warm and witty, and in others heavy-handed, and even a little pompous and judgmental. Then again, its author, Dr. Alex Comfort, was born in 1920 and studied medicine at Cambridge. So, reading Joy of Sex is at its fundamental level getting bedroom advice from a then 52-year-old White male upper-class English doctor. That, my friends, may not be the ideal image we conjure when imagining an advisor of our most intimate questions. Nonetheless, it’s now widely accepted that Dr. Comfort’s 1972 Joy of Sex set the standard for sex self-help books.

Now, a generation later, a new edition has been released. The new 2008 edition has been rewritten and “reinvented” by relationship psychologist Susan Quilliam, and, apparently, approved by Nicholas Comfort, Dr. Comfort’s son

Hearing this news, I have to admit, my heart sank. All the classic images, the sense of discovery and innocence flooded my memory. And the thought of a classic being “reinvented” felt, I’ll admit, like lossing part of my own coming of age. So of course, I had to learn more. I began to read and watch all the reports, blogs, and reviews of this “New Joy of Sex.”

The online articles point to the areas the new edition revised, focusing almost exclusively on “buttered buns” and “group sex.” “Buttered buns” is basically what some call “sloppy seconds.” Some of the blogs I came across point to the inclusion of “buttered buns” in the original Joy as the author’s endorsement of that act. If you actually read Comfort’s entry, he dismisses the practice as a “carry-over from a fairly general age behavior.” In the entry for “Foursomes and moresomes,” he states from the start that it’s a trend of his time, and that he doesn’t participate. While the idea may seem thrilling, the reality can leave some couples cold. Orgies, he says, “need a hell of a lot of martini-lubrication.” If a couple wants to experiment, he suggests caution and commutation between both partners. In short, he states, it’s not quality sex and even if a couple tires it, they’ll probably tire of it after the first or second session.

Apparently the very minor entries on horse riding and motorcycles have been deleted. In the original, Comfort says that he hasn’t actually tried either. He says that it’s rumored that some women can experience orgasm from riding. And for motorcycle sex, he doesn’t suggest actually fucking while riding, but some form of the female passenger behind on a private, isolated road, doing something as a form of foreplay—perhaps riding topless—not such a bad thing, as any Harley enthusiast knows.

On an ABC News special, Susan Quilliam proudly boasted that one of her additions was updating the original text’s view on “hygiene.” No doubt she was offended by Comfort’s original entry on deodorant. He calls for washing with soap and water, but stated plainly: “A mouthful of aluminum chloride in a girl’s armpit is one of the biggest disappointments bed can afford.” It’s hard to argue with that logic. Phermones, scientists now know, are one of the most powerful forms of sexual attraction. There’s nothing sexier than the slightly salty skin of a lover; few things are unsexier than the chemical taste of deodorant.

Pleading for natural scents to be an important ingredient in sex fits the larger aesthetic of the book. It celebrates a sense of being naked and natural. The couple in the illustrations is not Ken and Barbie, but a fairly average looking couple in their late 20s, early 30s. The woman has average B-cup breasts rather than implants and a triangle of pubic hair rather than a landing strip. Yes, the dude has a beard, and yes, he looks like a guy would have in 1972. But all fashion is cyclical. He also looks like some of the hipsters and idie rockers in the coffee shops I see everyday.


Now, beard dude and his hipster girlfriend are gone. In the 1990s, The Joy of Sex was revised to insert safe sex in the post-AIDS epidemic era. The black and white drawings were replaced by pastel color pencil. Mr. Dude had apparently “gotten a hair cut and a real job.” Gone was the beard. The woman, though, retained her unshaven underarms. In the new edition, gone is any semblance to the hippie and the hipster. Here we find a new dude with close-cropped, semi-spiked hair and his perky gal pal with dyed highlights.

Oh Boomers, can you just leave well enough alone? It’s like George Lucas going back to the original Star Wars and digitally altering Luke Skywalker’s haircut. As if that changes the story, or changes the historic impact of the movie’s 1977 release.

The original Joy of Sex is a classic. Dated, yes. Perfect, no. By today’s standards, it’s text heavy, and somewhat judgmental when pretending to be open-minded. While once breaking middle class barriers, it’s now quaint. Even laughable in places. It is, in a nutshell, reflective of its generation.

Yes, that’s a slam on the Boomers. But that’s my generation’s right to slam my parent’s generation, just as they slammed their 1950s “Leave it to Beaver” parents, just as the Roaring 20s slammed the Victorians….and on and on. Each generation becomes dated to the next. It’s inevitable.

So why update a classic of its era rather than just write a new book? Does the Mona Lisa need a facelift because she’s “dated”? Do we need the “revised” Declaration of Independence? Should we rewrite Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech because he uses the word negro?

Ironically, just last night, when I came home with a documentary on James Dean, my girlfriend said, “Oh I don’t like James Dean, his movies are so dated.” She thought his straight-legged Levis and hair combed back in a pompadour was pretty ridiculous. “I don’t get it,” she said. After watching the documentary, she said, “He’s actually really sexy.”


Yes, Jame’s Dean’s movies are dated. Part of the Technicolor look is exactly its charm. So, too, the shaggy 1970s man making love with his naturally unshaven partner. The pathos of Joy is an acceptance of thing natural, especially sex. Its fundamental thesis is that sex is natural, that we are naked animals and the many ways we can make love can be enjoyable and healthy.

Today’s media-rich generation no longer finds their parent’s Joy of Sex on the bookshelf. They can find anything sexual on the internet. It is far more explicit and extreme than anything that even Comfort could have foreseen.


Today, any kid with an internet connection can pull up 1,000s of images of every type of human sexual act, and every form of pornography. In the barrage, there are also detailed, informed, and clearly-written articles on safe sex, and positive pro-sex education.

It seems that the original Joy of Sex is more relevant today than ever. I think we are well past any danger that anyone would ever take the 1972 original as their sole source of information. Even the original encouraged readers to pick and chose—try one thing, and if you don’t like it, don’t do it. It never claimed to be the definitive source, and plainly stated that people’s individual tastes will vary.

Since there are so many quality sex ed sources available today, why not let people discover the original Joy of Sex? In this age of young women battling eating disorders, and crushing self-esteem issues from media projected body images—in a time when natural bodies are criticized and puffed up botox lips and silicone-inflated breasts are celebrated—wouldn’t it be a nice message to say to the young women of this upcoming generation: you are beautiful as you are, the size of your breasts, the way your hair grows and how it smells is natural. Sex is about love and communication with a committed partner. Sex is about having a loving relationship that is based on trust, respect, and genuine tenderness.


So, dear readers, if you’re now a little curious about what’s between the covers of the original Joy of Sex, then I have given you just a small part of my own adolescent experience. Rather than jump on Amazon for the new edition, I recommend searching your neighborhood used bookstore. Support your local business community, and the adventure of the hunt may be a perfect little weekend spice for you and your partner. And hey, if you don’t like the same parts I like, that’s part of Comfort’s original intent. And, if you read it in bed together, and have a good laugh, perfect. Laughter is in bed is also part of the joy.

WORD OF THE DAY: RUSTY TROMBONE

Rusty trombone is a euphemism for a sexual act in which a man stands while the other partner kneels behind him and performs analingus while reaching up beneath the testicles or around the body to masturbate him, mimicking the motions of a trombone player. The act is defined primarily by the physical orientation of the partners and the combination of analingus with manual penile stimulation; however, other positions and variations are possible. (And encouraged!)

FOOL'S RULES

I first picked this image because I thought it was cute.

If you read the rules, they all seem pretty standard: no life guard, parents watch your kids, take a shower before entering, etc, etc. Then you get to the line: "Only Fool's Don't Obey Rules." Does anyone else find this hilarious? Maybe they had to grow up in the 80s with the A-Team and Mr. T, "I pity the fool!"

At first glance, I loved the fact that the swimming rules mandated nude swimming, rather than enforcing clothed swimming only. It's a nice turn on all the signs at swimming locations enforcing a strict dress code and forbidding any nudity.

I wish "clothing optional" defaulted to nudity. That is, when people hike to a sandy beach or a mountain hot spring, they just assume they'll strip down to the buff and that anyone else who hikes to that location will do the same. Instead, in our anti-body culture, we assume that anyone who actually gets naked ANYWHERE besides their own private showers at home is completely abnormal and somehow perverted and morally questionable.

It seems odd to me our insistence on swimsuits. I mean, they are not that comfortable and are always cold and clamy coming out of the water. Why would anyone who loves being in nature and all that it stands for--sun and water and being comfortable in our skin, naked as a jay-bird, as any other animal--not want to be nude? Furthermore, I can't understand why we, as American culture, are so embarrassed, offended, and controlling of our bodies.

That's why, I realized, I can't support the rules on this sign, either. Forcing people to be naked is equally as offensive to me as forcing them to stay clothed. Why to we have to make the body a battleground, people?

Maybe I'll start a new campaign: Keep Clothing Optional.

SADDLE UP, DUDE

In the college "Career Center," I discovered an entire 3-ring binder with at least 100 ranches in Colorado that had regular seasonal positions for college students: horse wranglers, dishwashers, cooks, and guest services. Since I knew how to ride a horse, I applied for the Wrangler position, the highest labor l job on the dude ranch totem pole.


We'd work solid weeks, and then after a stretch of non-stop guests, we'd finally get a day off. Since there wasn't anywhere to go, anything to buy, and nothing to drink, we had to invent ays to entertain ourselves. There were plenty of double-dog dares and summer romances. Here's a memory of one of mine.

ONE WAY TO GET A PROPOSAL

Emily and I started as a long-distance relationship. We'd met when I went to Boston to visit friends, and we hit it off. We stayed in touch, exchanged letters and photos. She'd fly to the West Coast to see me in SF, and I returned to Boston for a second visit. Things were moving forward, but the week of intense non-stop sex separated by total withdrawal was hard on us both. Many of our letters become more sexually charged to compensate for the total lack of any physical contact.

At first, she sent me some cool photos of herself in the bathroom of her little apartment. In the first shot, she's pointing the camera into the mirror and covering herself, as if pretending to be modest. Another showed her in her bath, her hand suggestively between her legs. She confessed that taking self-snapshots was a turn on. As she thought of me, she'd touched herself.

She'd joke that she'd go online to and have to order a toy to "keep her company" while we were apart. The thought of her, naked after her bath, at her laptop, looking at various models of vibrators and dildos was a huge turn on for me. I wondered if she touched herself, thinking of her her toy.

I cautioned her that if she got one of those 12" dildos that she'd never be satisfied with the real thing. "Don't worry," she assured me. She said she'd pick out something perfectly sized, something that would do the trick until we were reunited.

Weeks passed and she built up the anticipation of her new purchase. In emails she'd send short updates. Like: searched tonight, many possibilities. Then came: Found one, perfect. And then: waiting for mail, horny as hell. And at last: Arrived, expect photo soon.

I couldn't believe it. She'd built it up more than a kid looking forward to Christmas. I couldn't wait to see what image she'd capture. What color was it, how big? A pocket rocket or a torpedo vibe? The famous rabbit?

At last the email appeared in my inbox. I saw that it was from her and had an attachment. I waited to open it until night, right before bed. When I finally looked at it, I was naked, hard, and ready. When I opened it, I instantly saw that she'd shaved since we were together last. Her toy was purple and hard plastic. A vibrator, I guessed. Her pussy was wet and looked like she'd already been using her toy. She lay on her back, and shot into a mirror.

Then I realized the obvious. I had completely assumed that she'd masturbated with the toy and taken a shot ust as she had finished. I took it for granted that she'd use the toy on her swollen clit and in her pussy. When I finally stopped taking in her puffy, wet, shaven labia as I beat off furiously to her image, I realized the toy was not, in fact, in her vagina, but rather stuffed in her tight backdoor. I had no idea how freaky she was! I came instantly at the sight.

Right then and there I knew I could not let this girl get away. The next day, I wrote her back my response, and an invitation to move in together and start our lives together, on the same coast. In one way, it would be the end of our long-distance. The image her last self-snap from Boston. But now, she's here. We're married, and my view is even better.

GAS, GRASS, OR ASS

“Come on,” said Veronica. “Kerouac and Gary Snyder used to hitch hike up to Oregon all the time.”

“I don’t care,” said Alison. “That was like 50 years ago, and they were guys. I’m all for like girl power and shit, but come on. Be serious. We’ll take the Greyhound.”

“The Greyhound sucks. Where’s your adventure? Where’s the Open Road?”

“This isn’t the Beat Generation. You can’t find America out on the road anymore. You just find Walmart.”

“Fine, you can take the bus. I’m hitchin.”

Alison knew that Veronica would go alone. She also knew that if anything happened to Veronica, she’d never be able to live with the guilt. She reluctantly agreed.

Veronica wanted to go north, to Eugene, Oregon, to check out some annual hippie music festival called the “country fair.” She had a backpack and a tattered paperback copy of Kerouac’s One the Road and Dharma Bums and a vague idea that "the Open Road" still had lessons to offer the young who went looking.

So they set off, and stood beside the highway for the entire morning.

“Seriously, what they hell are two young hot ass chicks supposed to do?” complained Veronica.

“I told you this wasn’t the Beat Generation,” said Alison. She hoped Veronica would finally give up and they’d just walk back into town and buy a bus ticket.

Veronica lifted her skirt at the passing cars.

“Are you fucking insane?” yelled Alison. “You want to attract the pervs and the serial killers?”

“Oh come on,” said Veronica, “I’m just having fun.”

She had pulled her skirt back down by the time a trucker puller over to offer them a lift. He had red hair that stuck out from under his greasy ball cap, a mustache that hadn’t changed since the early 80s, and a pair of cheap mirrored aviator sunglasses. Veronica was quick to hop up into the cab. Alison gave her a look, but it was missed. She climbed up and they were off. As the driver shifted through his gears, she noticed that he was missing half of his fingers. They didn't say much as jammed the gears back up to 70 mph. Alison immediately mistrusted him. He’s the type to cut our throats, fuck our corpses, and then leave us in a roadside ditch, she thought. Or maybe he’d sell them to a truckload of farm laborers to for a nighttime gang rape in a field just off the freeway. Growing up in Red Bluff, her parents had warmed her about such things. According to them, it happened. Alison didn’t want to be a statistic of a cautionary tale told to other young women against the perils of hitch-hiking.


As soon as the driver had the truck going full speed, he looked at the girls with a smile and said, “Gas, grass, or ass, girls."

“Well, we don’t have any money,” said Veronica, as she pulled a zip-lock bag form her pack and began rolling a joint. "But the other two are negotiable."

The trucker laughed. Veronica rolled her joint, lit it, and passed it to the driver. Alison was terrified. She figured she was either going to get raped by a trucker, or that the stoned trucker would crash them all into a firey death. She secretly hoped for the later, as she could not imagine living with herself after a rape.

"We'll both make out with you," said Veronica.

Alison wanted to shout her objection over the drone of the engine, but mouth wouldn't even move to form the words.

"Fuck that," sad the trucker, exhaling a huge cloud of pot.

Veronica pulled a hit from the joint and held it in. The cab was hazy with smoke. Alison rolled down the window a crack. The roar of the freeway got louder, and she couldn't hear any of the conversation between Veronica and the trucker. She looked out at the pavement passing 70 mph below them. If she jumped, she would be killed. That would be her plan, she decided. Better than rape.

When she turned back, she saw that Veronica had unzipped the trucker's pants, taken out his cock, and was jacking him, as they drove. She kept her pace steady as they climbed over the Siskiyou Pass. As they crested and then rolled down the pass toward Medford, Veronica said, "This is where we get off, and where you get off, too." She turned in the seat, and went down on him. With gulps and slurps, and her head bouncing with the sway of the cab, she sucked him off.

The driver dropped them off in Medford. He hadn't turned out to be a killer. In fact, he said that usually he only had sex with guys, but that he would never turn down a hand-job or a blow-job. He thanked the girls for the ride and the pot and the "happy ending." He even gave them $100 to get a hot meal and a motel for the night. "You can't be too careful," he said.

PRAIRIE ROSE

If I had a little house on the prairie, I'd want to shack up with this beauty. Yee haw!

THE HAPPY ENDING BIKINI WAXER

Several years ago, when I lived in Clinton, I had a client--I'll call her Vikki. Vikki came in every month or so for color and wax. She liked to keep her hair "up top" super blonde, and her hair "down below" freshly waxed. I'd call her attractive: she was slender and had obviously been a hottie in high school. But she had now begun showing signs of her age, and she seemed to be resisting as much as she could. She often wore tiny tight dresses that showed off her nice legs and as much cleavage as her breasts would allow. I never judged her, though. The salon was a place free of judgements.

There is a bond that forms between women, especially when it comes to brazilian waxes. I'd set Vikki's color with foil, and then we'd move back to the wax room. Vikki would lay back on the table and hitch up her mini-skirt. The first time it actually shocked me, because she wasn't wearing any panties. She explained that the procedure left her skin feeling a little raw and the cool breeze under her skirt helped sooth it.

Vikki parted her legs, and I began to spread the wax in a downward motion to match the direction of hair growth. Some salons use synthetic wax, but I always like the real stuff: bee's wax. It has a stronger grip, actually, and when it comes time to pull, I want to give my client's a clean strip. Normally, I only do a strip along each edge of the bikini line--that's the area that can get red and bumpy from a razor. But the hair that grows right along the vulva is often not as course, and can be kept clear with a simple razor. Vikki, however, wanted the full treatment. When the wax was set, but still pliable, I'd peel it off. Vikki would cry out in pain, but also with a sigh, as if she really liked the sensation.

When Vikki lay on the table, her legs spread, she alway wanted to talk about sex. She told me about her husband, and their sex life, and how he wasn't very good in bed. "He was mediocre when we started," said Vikki, "and got worse." She would tell me in vivid detail about his inability to please her sexually. There is something about the setting of a salon, and the relationship between hairdresser and client that is confessional. A priest is a figure of authority; an analyst is a clinical professional. But a hairdresser is the peer. Vikki could tell me anything, and I'd listen. I'm a good listener. It comes with the job.

Vikki said that since her husband never gave her oral sex, she stopped giving it to him. Their sex life had completely come to a stand-still. And, she said, her husband had been going to "massage" parlors. She'd found the credit card bills, and make a call to them, questioning the hundreds of dollars each week as fraud. They promised to investigate, and then told her the purchases checked out. Vikki looked up the business name and when she drove by, saw that it was clearly one of those places that offered a lot more than just a massage. "Too bad they don't have those sort of things for women," said Vikki. "It's not fair."

"It's not fair," I said. Agreeing with a customer was always the right answer.

The waxing took about 20 minutes. As I finished up, I'd wipe her with antiseptic to avoid infection, and then powder. She'd have her eyes half open, sort of glazed, and her mouth parted. She looked like she was really enjoying the sensation and she'd let little moans escape her lips. I could see her freshly bare vulva parted, swollen red, and wetness seeping from her and mixing with the powder. I knew that any unprofessional contact with a client could get me fired, and maybe even my license revoked. Still, I knew a woman's responses as I knew my own. Vikki would roll her hips just slightly to my brush strokes. She'd bite her lower lip with her teeth. I knew it was crossing a line, but I secretly enjoyed teasing her. I'd flick my powder brush over her newly bare skin and tell her, "It looks very nice."


After I was done, she'd run a finger down to inspect my work, and say things like, "Ohh, I just love the sensation of a fresh wax" or "oooh, so smooth."

"I need to wash up and get some things ready," I'd say as I gathered my things. "Why don't you meet me back at my station is a sec, ok?"

A few moments later, she'd return, her mini-skirt pulled back down, with a smile and a glow on her face. I could guess that she'd just rubbed out a quick climax in the waxing room. But hey, women came to the salon to relax and feel good about themselves. And as long as she tipped well, and kept coming back, it was all good with me.

I made good money at the salon, but as time went on, rent went up and student loans were coming due. I also had some credit card debt, and it seemed to get bigger each month. I thought about Vikki and her story of her husband, and his big spending at his weekly "massage."

I knew the reputation of massage parlors where businessmen would go on their lunch breaks. I knew the term, "happy endings." I knew women used the salon as their form of relaxation, like pedicures. Vikki used her waxing session to release a little pent up sexual energy. I wondered how far I dared go, if maybe I could help her a long a little? Give her a helping hand, so to speak, and a happy ending? If the massage parlors could triple their tips from leaving clients happy, what hard was there in helping one of my clients?

It would be potentially easy, I figured. Vikki didn't need to be a lesbian or even bisexual. It wasn't about her attraction to me, but simply, my ability to provide an orgasm for her. It seemed my brushing powder on her got her wet and all worked up for her private time. All I needed to do was keep going.

The next time Vikki lay on the table, her legs parted, I simply continued to dab powder, flicking her with the brush, lightly. As usual, her hips would subtlely push up to meet the flicks, her spine arch. Her hands grasp the table. I gently swirlled the brush around, lightly. How a woman likes to be touched. Like a tongue lapping. He clitoris had grown swollen. It stuck out, completely visible with only bare skin around it, like a small, shiny pink pearl.I pretended to let my hand "accidently" graze it. This sent a visible shiver up her back.

I knew I had her. Her eyes were mostly shut, glazed over. She wasn't looking at me at all. It was as if I wasn't even in the room. She was laying on her back, legs wide, her pussy soaking with her own excitement, her clit swollen and ready to be touched. This is the moment of making love when a guy will say something and ruin the mood. He'll ask something obvious and stupid like, "What do you want?"

He should know. She should see her body open, waiting, eager for the touch as Vikki was. I knew no words were needed. I simply continued to swirl the powder brush over Vikki's vulva, and gently touched her clit. A sigh escaped her lips, that I knew meant "yes, continue." With one finger, I began to rub her clit. Now that permission had been granted by both sides, her hips began to thrust upward. With on hand, I continued to rub her spot. With the other, I turned the powder brush in my hand. I didn't use the cheap plastic brushes--I took pride in my work and giving my clients the best. I had always preferred an old-fashioned boar's hair natural bristle brush with a wooden handle. The wooden handle made a nice small dildo that I knew, when pressed upon her opening, would combine the sensation of penetration and clitoral stimulation.

Her wet lips enfolded easily around the head of the brush handle. Just then she reached toward the brush. "Oh no!" I thought. I panicked. I'd gone too far. I'd pushed beyond external teasing to actual sexual penetration. I almost stuttered out my appology, but before I could, I realized her hand was simply guiding my brush lower. As she raised her hips higher off the table, she pointed the brush handle to her freshly waxed anus. Slick with her own juices, the top of it pressed into her flesh. She let out a load moan. "Oooh yeah," she sighed.

She was now wriggling on the table, her hands clutching the table, her hips thrusting upward, trying to take in more than the few inches of the brush handle. With my finger stimulating her clit and the pressure in her back, she began to shake. Her sharpe breath got shorter and shorter and higher and higher ptiched. The she seemed to tense completely, frozen, the expression on her face totally blank, as if seized by her orgasm. Then she collapsed, her whole body going slack. Her eyes still stared at the ceiling as her breath slowed.

I then quietly said what I had always said, "I need to wash up and get some things ready. Why don't you meet me back at my station is a sec, ok?"

Vikki returned a few moments later, as usual, with a glow and a smile. I finished up her color, cut, style, and set teh next appointment. Nothing was said about what had just happened; it was something two women understood. The tip was, as expected, generous. I smiled, thinking of her husband seeing the credit card bill and not being able to do a thing about it.

DON'T MESS WITH SPARTAN WOMEN

The women of ancient Sparta (Lacedaemon) were a special breed among ancient Greek women. Unlike other female Greeks, they were athletic and educated.

In pursuit of physical perfection and self-dependence, Spartan women had the advantage over other Greek women. Spartan women had wide legal rights; they could own land and slaves as well as lend money. Spartan girls were given the same food rations as the boys and were allowed to drink undiluted wine.

Ancient Sparta is remembered as society with rigorous codes of training and physical exercise. In Ancient Greece, athletes competed nude. In fact, the Olympic games were conducted nude until 393 A.D. when a Christian emperor banned them because he thought they were Pagan.

The word gymnos, meaning nude, is where we get the terms gymnasium and, of course gym class. Adolescent girls were subject to strict training regime that made them every bit as fit as the guys. Classical sources list as part of a girl’s education racing, wrestling, throwing the discus and javelin and trials of strength. Both genders competed and trained in sight of the opposite gender; boys were naked, girls practiced sports either naked, too, or in light tunics which didn't cover too much. (Talk about making gym class more fun.)













The 1862 painting by Degas, “Spartan Girls Challenging Boys” depicts a group of four Spartan girls confronting five boys. One girl thrusts forward her arm, while a boy lifts his arms forming a circular opening, as if the suggesting a reversal of penetration and power. Another boy is one his knees, certainly suggestive of a submissive posture.

Spartan women wore briefer clothing than other Greek women, and word has it that they sometimes dispensed with these garments and went nude in the town if they wished, treated with the same respect as clothed people.

The most known Spartan of ancient times is legendary Helen, who was allegedly abducted by Paris and taken to Troy. Helen was such a beauty, it is said, that her husband king Menelaus of Sparta could not let her go without a fight. Thus were launched “a 1,000 ships” and the 10-year Trojan War.

NUDE V. NUDIST

I've been reading about the history of nudism and come to the conclusion that I am not a nudist. The history is fascinating, actually. It is a largely untold history of a social movement. Nude is a state of nakedness; nudism is a lifestyle. Since the 1930s, Nudists have been gathering at private resorts, where they have shed their clothes to enjoy not only nude recreation, but a naturalist way of life. Often these locations or their memberships had specific rules as to who could belong and who couldn't, and what they could, and couldn't do.

I have all due respect for such folks, and uphold their freedom to join whatever group they so choose, whether it be the local Elks, the VFW, or the AANR (the American Association for Nude Recreation). I guess, though, that I echo the line from Groucho Marx, "I'd never join a club that would have me as a member."

Today there are nude cruises, nude resorts, nude conventions. That's fine. But actually organizing nudity takes some of the fun out of it. To be always nude is as impractical as being always clothed. There is a time, place, and purpose for both. No one wears clothes in the shower and I'm pretty sure there are few nudist bee-keepers. I love nudity. I love the human body. Do I really want my bus driver to be buck ass naked? Not so sure.

However, just as it would be ridiculous to walk into your morning shower in pajamas, it seems absurd that every beach, river, creek, stream, lake and pond on this planet is not "clothing optional."

Part of the inherent joy of being out in nature is getting away from the constructs of urban life. If I hike 15 miles to a remote lake and find another swimmer, I sure hope they are naked: male, female, young or old...it doesn't matter because we are both out in nature, no longer who we are in the city. We are simple outdoors, in the sun, beside water, and will logically strip down. Maybe we hike a little farther apart for the privacy of noise, or just to relax alone. I hope it is never in shame of our bodies, natural as the trees and shrubs, rocks and dirt.

I am not a nudist, I have decided. I do not seek a naked lifestyle. But I do want the god-given freedom to be naked in nature. Frankly, keeping shopping areas and public city places restricted makes flashing all the more daring, fun, and erotic. But forcing someone to wear a swimsuit in a hot spring or mountain creek or sandy shoreline is just unacceptable. Even if I spend my day in the city, here beside my laptop, I want to know that far out somewhere, in a river or lake, someone has stripped down, just as humans have forever, and stepping into the water to enjoy a refreshing swim and then the felling of sun warming the drops of water on bare skin as it dries.