Blue Nude Canoe

Laura Ushley's flaxen hair was blown by a little puff of wind through the open car window as she drove down the old two-lane road to River Outfitters, where she her rental canoe was waiting. Laura looked like a tan version of the Grace Kelly character in High Noon. There was very little light at 5 am, and a heavy fog still cloaked the river. Laura parked the car, paid the sleepy rental clerk in cash, and in short order was paddling a deep red Mad River canoe to a tiny island she liked to think of as her private possession.

Grasping an overhead limb, she tied the canoe up. She took a bagel out of a freezer bag, opened the thermos, and poured a hot cup of coffee. In utter silence, she sipped, the canoe invisible in the mist. Lost in almost a zen-like state, Laura drank coffee and watched the sun slowly burn the fog away. As sufficient light became available to paddle, she untied the rope and began to paddle. With the exertion, her cares and concerns melted away.

Soon, the day got warmer and she removed her shirt, revealing the skimpy pink bikini top she would wear. The pink bikini bra went well with her black denim cutoffs. Pink and black, Elvis would approve. She reached into her backpack, looked at the essential gear, moved past the flashlight, the waterproof matches, the bug juice, and found the suntan oil. Slowly and sensually, Laura rubbed the suntan oil on her slender, muscled arms. And oiled her firm stomach, flat from countless sit-ups. With exquisite care, Laura massaged the suntan oil on the upper portion of her swelling breasts. She turned her attention next to her firm, tan legs. Legs that were tan and braceleted and bare, and in the lamplight downed with no hair.

The rubbing motion, and the building heat of the day, made her remember that her pre-dawn drive had made it impossible for her to keep her usual morning date with her stainless stell shower head. But Laura was not concerned. The weather was magnificent, and she had remembered to pack her camo vibrator, which was designed for rugged field use in harsh climates and unforgiving landscapes. Certainly, she reasoned, an orgasm delayed was not an orgasm denied.

Laura spotted a small, level beach in an inlet and paddled into the dappled, leafy shade of the cypresses. It would be the perfect place to watch the Perseids tonight, only a mile or so from the take-out where she'd left the car. She jumped out of the canoe, grateful for the stylish yet functional Tevas that protected her feet from the rocky surface of the riverbed. She pulled the canoe up onto the sand and tied it to a cypress knee. After she hoisted her backpack and small cooler out, she quickly put up the tent, gathered some firewood, and spread an old quilt on the beach to watch the turtles on a fallen log by the river. Noticing the sun coming in through the shade, she unhooked her swimsuit top to let the warm rays lightly tan her skin, but first she slathered sunscreen on her incredibly voluptuous ears to protect against carcinoma. After a while, the warmth and the rigorous paddling overcame her and she fell asleep.

Exhausted from a difficult week at work and minimal sleep the night before, Laura began to dream. In her dream, a guy who looked remarkably like Daniel Day-Lewis was admiring her delicate ankles. And he was kissing the aforementioned ankles, moving to her calves. Laura's dream lover was beginning to kiss her dance-hardened thighs when suddenly Laura opened her eyes, not sure what woke her, but the lengthening shadows of the trees on the water made it chillier. When she heard someone clear his throat, she almost leapt out of her skin. Whipping her top back on, she tried to retain some modicum of savoir-faire, but her poise was shaken when she saw the godlike hunk of rangeresque masculinity standing beside a Jeep Wrangler at the end of a small dirt road.

Walking slowly toward her, he said: "Nice to see you." Then, as the realization of the inadvertent double-entendre hit him, a red flush emerged beneath the bronze of his face. Then they both laughed. He introduced himself as Clint Walkering, and told her the story of his youth as a cowboy in Wyoming, where the morally entitled Native Americans had named him "Cheyenne." In addition, Clint related his dream of an Internet startup, and briefly mentioned the early fortune based on stock options and general greed. Finally, of course, came his decision to realize his dream of spending his life in the scenic beauty of the protected forest.

In an almost shy way, Clint mentioned that he couldn't help but notice that Laura seemed remarkably fit. In due course, she confessed that her M.B.A. from Harvard had left her yearning for a more fulfilling, more somatically oriented way of life. And thus it was that Laura ended up as a featured dancer in Las Vegas. In that "sin city," her firm, supple body twisted in the neon lights. And thousands of visitors to Vegas brought home with them enduring memories of her sensuous body, covered only by a rhinestone thong, writhing into the warm Nevada night.

As they talked, twilight began to arrive and Laura invited him to stay for "cocktails" on the beach, which consisted of bottles of fruit juice. Then, as the air cooled, Laura mentioned her desire to wash some of the sweat of the day from her skin. For his part, Clint felt the same way. He had been on his way back from completing the outdoor "Vita" course and was in need of a shower. They agreed that common sense dictated a swim on the beach, especially inasmuch as she had a swimsuit on under he clothing and he wore REI multi-pocketed khaki cargo shorts.

From the corner of her eye, Laura watched as he unbuttoned his green shirt. Attempting to appear casual, Clint watched as Laura slowly removed her denim cutoffs. Given her Vegas experience, she could not help but turn the process of undressing into a show. As the tiny bikini bottom came to view, Clint sighed in visual pleasure, but paused to wonder if it it might be thong-esqe in design. This delightful suspicion was confirmed as Laura turned, exposing firm, tan hips as she stepped toward the water.

Clint gazed, transfixed, and then hastened toward the water. He was concerned that she might turn around before he could get waist-deep in the water and conceal the erection which he seemed unable to prevent. He thought of Janet Reno, but no dice; the erection remained. Swimming in his mind were deep red canoes and pale pink thongs.

Laura turned in the warm water and saw him looking at her. Her eyes caught his. She smiled and said "You had me at Park Ranger" but the touch of his hand on her shoulder cut her off. Still staring, she unhooked her bikini top yet again. Surely all the unhooking would wear out the clasp. But no matter. He took a deep breath, gazing at her nipples as they hardened in the now-cool air. "We shouldn't," he said. Her left hand moved up and began to flick her left nipple, mocking his attempt at self-control. He sighed, gave up, and covered said nipple with a kiss.

Laura dipped the bar of soap she'd grabbed into the water and began to lather Clint's chest. Gently washing off the sweat of his Vita course, she had to admire the way the suds ran down his skin, dark tan contrasting with the whiteness. When he picked up the soap and did the same, the slipperness and thoroughness of his washing made a wave of pure lust sweep over her. She ducked under the water to rinse the soap off and pulled his mouth back down to her nipple.

Almost dissolving in ecstasy, Laura emitted a small moan of pleasure and let her hands reach out to caress Clint's well-delineated biceps and pecs. She half-remembered, with the still rational part of her mind, reading that Daniel Day-Lewis ran 6 miles a day to prepare for his role in The Last of the Mohicans, and it was evident that Clint must have a similar exercise schedule. As her fingers wandered lower, she speculated what it would be like to eat a smores off his iron hard abs. Perhaps the marshmallows would be a little sticky for convenience, and had she packed the floss? Laura deplored the fact that so many people neglected flossing while camping. But the insistent pressure of his lips on her skin made it impossible to contemplate dental hygiene further.

Turning and turning in the deepening dusk, the Park Ranger could not hear the voice of reason. Swept away by a strange destiny in the blue sea of August, he gently lifted Laura onto a huge adjacent boulder covered with soft, fragrant pine needles. Determined to develop a foot fetish, or at least some semblance thereof, Clint rained passionate kisses on her metatarsals. As he kissed her legs, he paused to think of the "Blue Nude" by Matisse. But Laura was better. He idly thought of Picasso's "Blue Period," but then his kisses began to reach Laura's knees and he ceased thinking about Picasso.

Laura closed her eyes and shivered deliciously when his lips reached her upper thighs. She felt his hands on the sides of her legs, felt his hands lift her hips and cradle them, felt his hot breath on the sides of her thong. She gasped as his kisses burned through the thin fabric. Dimly, she realized that his hands were gently removing her thong, and she elevated her hips slightly as a gesture of cooperation.

Clint paused a second, watching her. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled her thong off. As he realized with an added jolt that she was shaven, his erection became harder and he pondered cutting diamonds with it in the back seat of an American luxury car. But then he realized that was just an old TV commercial. His hands, large and tan, grasped her hips again, fondling her hips, elevating them slightly, and then he was kissing her inner thighs. It was a slow journey, conducted at the pace of a bygone era.

She thought of the journey of Marco Polo, but stopped thinking as his kisses began to fall upon her shaven lips. Laura felt another, unexpected pleasure, and looked down to see that his one hand was gently caressing, then oh so lightly pinching, a shaven lip. Feeling it was one thing, but the sight was too much. She watched his tongue as it approached her clitoris, then shut her eyes as the unbearable pleasure overtook rational thought. Gasping, her first orgasm was upon her.

When she opened her eyes, her breathing normalized, Laura noticed that the stars were no longer visible. There was a thick cloud cover and even as she boldly toyed with the zipper of his cargo shorts, a warm rain began to sweep the river, drenching them both. The combined humidity and sexual tension made Laura feel as if she were an extra in a remake of The African Queen.

The sensation of Clint's lips and warm rain on her skin also made Laura realize that her dreams of Emersonian solitude, of becoming part and parcel of nature, were as ephemeral as the sanctity of the primeval wilderness and her career as a Las Vegas showgirl. Still, she sensed that she would achieve unity of a different sort in the near future without resorting to her camo vibrator. She led Clint out of the river and into the tent, where the pattering of the rain on the top created an intimate, inviting atmosphere.

She took a towel and dried him off, lingering teasingly on his broad back and thighs. She admired the effect that long hours of trail maintenance and whatever else rangers did had had upon his physique. Long, lean, and lanky, he could almost have doubled for Gary Cooper in High Noon or even modeled for Victoria's Secret, and his eyes, now shut, had the far-off cast of a man who spent hours atop a fire tower scanning for incendiary threats in the woods.

She wondered if the guys in fire towers had copies of Victoria's Secret catalogues up there. However, right now it was Laura who was on fire. She ran her fingers, then her lips, down his sculpted ribcage, then lower. She thought fleetingly of Paul Bunyan, but then lost herself in the sensation of Clint's velvety skin and his hands in her hair. Soon the sound of the rain on the tent roof was mixed with gasps and low cries of ecstasy.