Angie Eveready was not given to long bouts of contemplation. She was a firm adherent of the "if it feels good, do it" school of social behavior. But in the wake of her third, less-than-perfect experience with making love in the great outdoors, she felt the situation required a good, old-fashioned think.
The perfect place for such deep introspection was stretched out on something like a massage table, while a sweet Italian chiropractor named Dr. Ari A. Fresca did all sorts of delicious things to her bare back, and shoulders, and thighs, and bottom.
Her first taste of sylvan sex, a romp in the woods with Ernie, had been a total blast, at first. But it ended in failure when his dog, Buford the Beagle, nosed into the act, so to speak, in a very up-close and personal way.
Then came her near-drowning experience while skinny-dipping. How was she supposed to know that Bruce, the wildlife biology grad student she was giving an underwater blow-job, would become so mesmerized by the sight to two damn coons he wouldn't think to let her surface?
Those unsatisfactory experiences lead to some second thoughts, not to mention, insect bites, a crick in her neck, muscle strains in her back, a minor concussion, and one helluva cold. The back and neck were mending nicely, thanks in no small part to the dedicated work of Dr. Fresca.
It was in the midst of this discontent that Ralph showed up. Like most members of the small student body at Wodehouse College, he was a friend of a friend. They met at an Earth Day planning session.
Ralph was a sharp dresser and fast talker. Many otherwise charitable observers considered him a low-life, slime-ball. Others insisted he was more like a case of persistent jock itch. But he had these soft, puppy-like eyes that, for no discernable reason, gave certain females the mistaken impression they could safely confide in him.
It wasn't long before Angie joined that number, confessing her love of the wilderness and her long-held fantasy of communing with nature by making love in the great out-of-doors. After her third post-planning session beer at Ralph's apartment, she even admitted to her two recent failures in this regard. She then granted Ralph a sample of what would be in-store should she ever achieve the long-sought natural nirvana.
All this fired Ralph with an even greater zeal to help Angie fulfill her fantasy. The term "even greater" is appropriate, for when it came to face and figure, mother nature had been very kind to Angie. She possessed the type of body the late Aldous Huxley would no doubt have described as, "pneumatic." While her long legs, shapely bottom and generous bosom diverted the attention of most men, those who managed to lift their gaze would behold an exquisite, Madonna-like face that featured dark brown eyes, full lips, and a smile that was both beatific and seductive.
It was an accepted truth around campus that whatever Ralph might lack in looks, smarts, and class, he more than made up for with a line of solid-gold bullshit. Using this skill, he convinced Angie her problem with outdoor sex wasn't the fantasy or setting, but her male partners. She needed a guy who wouldn't bring a dog along or get fixated by two raccoons, someone who had access to a mountain cabin near a waterfall, and who knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness. In other words, she needed a fellow nature-lover like Ralph.
By Ralph's somewhat loose standards, he wasn't lying, not really. He did know enough not to bring a dog and wouldn't know a raccoon from a rhino. He also thought that, with a little luck, he might be able to wangle a remote cabin he spent a miserable night in many years ago. To consider his claim that he knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness as valid, however, one would need to accept his contention that all any sane person needed to know about the wilderness was to stay the hell out of the place.
Though Angie was just a WC freshman, she possessed a remarkably inclusive attitude towards men. Still, guys with beady eyes, a face strikingly similar to that of a ferret, a scrawny body built by years of easy living, and the personality of a two-faced rat, were not her favorite type. But those soft eyes and the promise of a mountain cabin near a waterfall proved too much to resist. She agreed.
Angie's cousin, roommate and best friend, Etta Toups, greeted the news with something less than wholehearted support. It was Etta's considered opinion that going from Bruce the grad student to Ralph the lifetime undergrad was a case of trading in a joke for a jerk.
Etta kept trying to talk Angie into giving Ernie, the first of her failed outdoor partners, another chance. There was no denying Ernie had a lot going for him. He was sweet and sort of cute, easy to coax into doing whatever she wanted, and had great stamina. The fact he was hung like a Clydesdale contributed in no small way, so to speak, to his appeal. But he also had that damn beagle. Thanks to Dr. Fresca's magic fingers her body, once a mass of pain and agony, was healing quickly. The bump on her head was gone, so were the headaches the concussion caused. But the memory of that day in the pines, when she was on top of Ernie, blissfully communing with nature and his super schlong, and what happened when Buford's cold nose made contact with a very personal spot, well, it was still painfully fresh and more than enough to outweigh everything else.
So Angie headed off to spend the weekend with Ralph in a mountain cabin near a waterfall.
The cabin in question was the seldom used property of a friend of the second wife of one of Ralph's cousins. He told Angie it belonged to his uncle. The location played a large role in its limited use. Reaching it required an extended hike up, and up, and up a long, narrow, overgrown trail. Even well-conditioned day-trippers found the feat a challenge. For those who were out-of-shape, and toting a backpack loaded with enough supplies for a weekend, it was crushing.
Being a gentleman, and a man whose idea of exercise was popping the top on another beer, Ralph let Angie lead the way. This gesture accomplished two things. It kept her from seeing him sweating and straining while giving him a highly motivating, low-angle view of her ample bottom in motion. This most inspiring view managed to keep him climbing that long, long trail even as he felt a growing kinship with those who endured the Bataan Death March.
No doubt spurred on by the vision undulating before him, Ralph managed to reach the cabin without collapsing or throwing up. They both gratefully dropped their overloaded packs. While Angie admired the tall hardwood trees surrounding the cabin, Ralph tried to unlatch the door. This proved a time consuming process. Due to a combination of lust of exhaustion, his fingers refused to stop shaking.
Unoccupied, rustic cabins often acquire a memorable, earthy aroma. This is most evident when first entering the structure. Consider for a moment; Grandma's attic. Now add in mold, mildew, animal droppings and the funky aroma of socks left months ago by some poorly-groomed hunters, and you begin to get the idea.
It was Ralph's plan to get Angie inside, spread out the sleeping bags, and begin the first of what he hoped would be many boisterous bounces in the cabin. The strong, unique aroma that wafted out of the cabin door, along with the sound of that waterfall, cancelled that plan.
When he tried to get her inside, she gave him a big kiss, giggled and slipped away. Her idea was to leave the door open so the cabin could air out while they went to find the waterfall. This didn't seem like a very good idea to Ralph who was both horny and still exhausted from the climb.
