The first couple of stops were a real learning experience: the campgrounds were mostly primitive, so being able to shower or wash dishes or clothes was a luxury. Don't get me started on restrooms--we even learned to make a "cowboy outhouse" by digging a small hole and building a makeshift seat out of branches roped together. We did try to steer towards better-equipped camps when possible. I did miss the luxuries of home, but the challenge was kind of exciting, and I enjoyed meeting people. We got good at finding a quiet location, watching sunsets in the forest, relaxing for a few days, then moving on. It's funny how quickly you can adapt. At each camp or national park we would seek out a board with posters or fliers for a nearby festival or market or "great fishing," and we'd start in that direction. Since we were on the East Coast, we started heading west and south, randomly, just exploring. While Ken drove, I'd play my guitar along with the radio. Sometimes we sang along together, even teasing each other when one of us got the lyrics wrong. I found myself really relaxing for the first time in years. Free.
At one point, we were short of money, and the park refused to cash our check, so Ken dressed in brown shorts and knee-socks and found (he said) a broad-brimmed ranger hat, then, posing as a park ranger, started to charge cars for parking. I think he made nearly fifty bucks before we spotted the real rangers eyeing us and had to run off! We hid in our tent until they passed by, and then we both laughed and made fun of each other for being so bad. It felt good to break the rules. I felt a rush like electricity in my soul--a new part of me woke up. I didn't know my straight-laced, law-abiding husband had a streak for larceny or playacting, but it was good to know too. Being bad felt good.
A few days later, we settled in next to a small lake. Ken went off to fish, and I was scrounging wood for a fire. I came across a Ranger first-aid cabin and talked to the rangers inside. One of the young men wolf-whistled as I walked up, catching me off guard. I was about to berate him, then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window: my blonde hair was braided back, I wore cut-off short pants and a blouse tied at my midriff, and beat-up sneakers covered in dirt. This was a far cry from my normal sundress or housecoat, shoes, underwear, and bra. After weeks of camping, you simply got tired of the upkeep that a more modest and traditional wardrobe demanded. I noticed I'd lost a little weight, accentuating the curves from my hips to my breasts. More importantly, I hadn't been whistled at in years, and never by men the same age as my son. I felt myself blushing a little, feeling flattered, in fact. I talked to the rangers, enjoying their lusty eyes on my body, posing and lightly flirting for the first time since I was in high school. When talking, they mentioned a music festival at a nearby campground and then chuckled, brazenly asking if I was going. Well, as a married woman, I shut them down pretty quickly but accepted the paper flier that described the event and left for my camp.
After they were out of sight, I leaned against a tree, catching my breath. I felt flustered and hot; my breathing was heavy, and my face was red. I felt strangely aroused. Could it have been due to the not-so-subtle sexual attention of those two rough young men? I slipped a hand down my shorts and felt my pussy--it was wet! I started thinking of those rangers, letting them take my clothes off, those young eyes admiring my body, their hands roaming over my buttocks, my waist, up to my breasts...
I stopped, taking several deep breaths and trying to compose my appearance. Then I started off to camp. Ken was there, cleaning the fish he'd caught. He proudly showed me the catch, plus some blueberries and wild carrots that he'd found.
I quickly got the fire going, and we sat back watching the flames grow higher. Ken speared the fish onto sticks to cook them as I looked on. He had let his beard grow; his frame seemed more muscular these days. I hadn't thought of him sexually in a long time; lovemaking was a monthly or birthday event for us these days. Maybe I'd forgotten what desire felt like. When did that happen? Feeling adventurous, I leaned over and kissed him. Ken kissed me, then pulled back (to check on the fire), so I leaned in and pulled him close, passionately kissing him.
"Whoa! What's gotten into you?" he murmured into my neck.
"You, hopefully!" I replied playfully.
I pretty much tackled him, tearing at his clothes and pressing my mouth against his. Again, he pushed back and said, "At least let's go into the tent!" I stopped what I was doing and looked around; there were no lights or other camps for miles. But I shrugged, and we settled into the tent, where Ken turned and closed the flaps behind us.
Ken started undressing, and I sat on our sleeping bag and watched. Once he was down to his underwear, he looked over at me and asked, "Are you going to undress?"
I smiled and replied, "Undress me." I wanted to be desired; I wanted to see a little passion in my husband of over 20 years, but he reached over and started to undress me as if I were one of our kids getting ready for bed. Oh, well. At last, I leaned back, nude, and beckoned him to join me. Ken joined me, pulled the sleeping bag over us and only then dropped his drawers. Modest to the end.
Sex with my husband was fun when we were young (I never really achieved an orgasm, but the intimacy was nice, and it seemed to cement our relationship.) but over time sex had become obligatory, a ritual where my marital duty was to serve him, or more precisely, let him use my body to get off. He penetrates me, thrusts a few times, squirts, and then rolls over and goes to sleep. Right now, however, my body needs a man. I needed to feel a penis inside of me, thrust with passion, to lose myself in bliss.
Ken mounted me in missionary style; we kissed as he found my vagina. I gasped as he inserted his penis in me--that welcome fullness, the exquisite pleasure, the physical contact with my vagina--so familiar, so comfortable. I tried to wriggle and extend his contact with my clitoris, but he seemed oblivious to that effort. He started thrusting, and I spread my legs so I might feel him as deeply as possible.
My body needed a man, and I wanted to feel his penis thrusting into my vagina, his manhood swell up and explode inside me, that somehow I had satisfied him completely. However, a few minutes later I heard him grunt and then pull out, rolling off me. I lay there, like a race car stuck at the starting line, watching the other cars speed by me. I got up and, still nude, checked on the fire. I enjoyed the feeling of being naked outside our tent, so exposed, in the fresh air, so I stayed naked while I worked. The fish was done, I made up two plates and then grilled the carrots, added a side of blueberries each, and woke up Ken.
Ken saw me nude outside, exposed and free, but turned back into the tent, returning with a long T-shirt and shorts for me. I rolled my eyes but reluctantly dressed before we ate dinner.
After we ate, we shared a bottle of wine and just talked. Ken commented that I seemed happier out here, that camping agreed with me, and that he was glad I was here with him, under the stars, just enjoying each other's company. He mentioned that we could stop at the next town, call the colleges, check up on our kids and our neighbors, and maybe send a few postcards, and I agreed, absently. I was thinking of those two young rangers I'd met earlier. Muscular, fit, and boldly eyeing my body as if I were anywhere near their age. After a full evening of stargazing and idle chatter, Ken said he was turning in and took my hand, so I followed him into our tent. I guess I was hoping for another round of intimacy, but he simply crawled into the sleeping bag and passed out.
I lay there, listening to Ken's breathing, then the crickets and bullfrogs outside. Carefully, I moved out of my sleeping bag and crawled outside the tent, dropping my clothes and standing in the cool air, completely naked again. It felt liberating, just standing there, one with nature. I took a few deep breaths, my breasts rising and falling, and then I lay down in the damp grass and looked into the stars--so many of them here, far from city lights. After a few minutes, I spread my legs, feeling the cool air rush across my labia, the wet grass tickling my bottom. I started thinking about those two young rangers undressing me, touching me, admiring my breasts, my butt, kissing me, and their hot breath on my neck. I imagined their strong hands exploring my body. Mmm, mmm. My hand reached down to my vagina; tentatively, I let one finger part my lips and felt the moisture from my tryst with my husband Ken earlier; the slick wetness was still there. I felt around until my fingers rested on my clitoris, then started gently teasing, rubbing, and stroking it. It felt exquisite. With my other hand, I pinched and massaged my nipples, feeling them harden in the cool air. I thought about what those young men would do to me if they happened to find me here, nude, my vagina wet, my nipples hard. Suddenly, I felt my climax approaching, rising--like a full-body sneeze--until the dam burst and I started to shake and quiver with an intense release! I had to bite down on my fist to keep from crying out! I kept rubbing my clit until the massive wave crashed over me, and then heaving and shaking, I started to relax and feel a calming peace overtake my entire being.
I lay there, breathing labored, my mind a fog, my body completely relaxed, just staring up at the stars, nude and completely exposed, feeling completely free. Then, I did it again.
The next morning, I rose just after Ken-, and found the flier that a young ranger had given me: "Revival '74 at Nude Creek. A Weekend of Music, Dancing, and Peace" I showed it to Ken, and we decided to drive down and check it out. A few days later, we arrived.
The rangers had explained that "Nude Creek" was named because in the 1800s it had flowed past a mine. The water picked up lime and other caustic mining chemicals, which killed off the fish and plants not only in the creek but nearby as well, leaving a bald swath of rocks and dirt for miles. Eventually, the mine closed, and over the decades, Mother Nature healed the creek; the plants and fish returned, but there was still a newness, like the skin of a scar, for miles downstream. I still giggled at the name.
We parked the station wagon early on Friday morning, a long time before the other campers would show up, just to scout the area and pick a prime location. We did find an excellent spot near the actual creek, under a willow tree, right near the shoreline. There were blackberry bushes on a nearby ridge. The creek was big, anywhere from 40 to 100 yards wide, shallow mostly, with a few deep spots, and the mountain water was clear and warm from the sun. After pitching the tent and claiming our spot, we make a final trip to the station wagon for the last of our supplies.
There was only one other camper there, a friendly young man who arrived on a motorcycle, packed with camping gear. The young man introduced himself as Mike. He shook my hand, then Ken's. He was discreet, but I caught his eyes lingering on my breasts, then down my body, to my butt. I should have been offended, but I found myself flattered. If Ken noticed, he didn't say anything. Mike looked the same age as my oldest son, maybe 22 years old, young and fit, a little more slightly built, his reddish-brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. His facial hair accentuated his strong jawline and high cheekbones; he had piercing green eyes. Ken was fascinated by meeting a real traveling motorcyclist, like the author of his book, and they became easy friends, even though Ken was old enough to be his dad.
