I'm not sure this story qualifies as erotica, but it is certainly adult in nature. I don't claim to have 'written' this story in the sense of it being made up totally in my mind. I lived it. Here, I have just written it down.
Have you ever had an incident that just stuck in your head and wouldn't go away? Even after 30 years or so? Follows a true story based on such a memory-sticky event. Names have been changed.
Boone was a fellow I worked with in the '80s. He was cocksure and confident and had the looks and physique to go with that attitude. Boone was smart, too. Unlike many on our work team, he had completed a bachelor's degree at a good school prior to joining our group. He wasn't using much of his 'school learning,' though, as that college degree was in divinity, and Boone was far from being a choir boy.
He was the first to the bar after work and would be the leader in the drinking songs as an evening wore on. He liked Monty Python songs and was especially fond of Bruce's Philosophers' Song. If you don't know this song, you should look it up on YouTube as it is great fun. His most recent marriage was deep into the process of ending, and he had a reputation as having a wandering eye and roaming hands. The wife had been a green-eyed, raven-haired petite beauty who called herself a witch and was known for liking to sunbathe topless in her back yard in the company housing neighborhood where we all lived.
In the bar, at the end of the day when she had moved out of their shared home, one of the guys asked him, "So, Boone, what are you going to do now that you're single again?"
Boone chewed his snarl for a few seconds, spit from the side of his mouth into an empty Shiner Bock beer bottle, looked the questioner in the eye and said, "Fuck all a' your wives."
In the brief lack of oxygen in the room, not a one of the dozen or so of us doubted that he meant what he said. That was Boone. As one who had already seen Boone flirt with my wife, Claire, and seen the quickening of her pulse and the increase in her color it caused, I was one of the ones not breathing. Boone's comment was, I am sure, soon known to most of the wives even if they didn't hear it directly from his lips.
This was Texas, in oil country. The company we worked for expected us to work hard and to get a lot of work done—sometimes that meant long hours and an always on-call environment. On the other hand, they knew that such a work environment required good team morale and allowed for us to have some down time to blow off steam.
We were a rough-and-tumble but family-oriented group. Mostly men, although there were a handful of women working with us, even some that worked as hard and long as the guys. The good, hard workers were always good sports and liked to play hard just as did the men. The old cliché of work hard, play hard was true for this group, men and the few women alike. A couple times a year, we would plan a group get away, generally over a 3-day weekend.
Most of us had tents or RVs and the rest could generally rent a cabin or trailer at the selected spot. We would take up a collection to handle costs for ice, drinks, rental boats and so forth. Our company would fund some of the costs. We would bring spouses, kids, pets, the works. Some rode in on motorcycles, most in sedans or pickup trucks, while others drove motor homes. While on the outing we would generally share meals around campfires and tales would be told under the stars until near morning light. Liquid adult refreshments were never in short supply and the dress code was casual to the extreme.
Over the years we had company outings at state parks and private reserves. This particular year, in early September, we had chosen the marina and campgrounds at Lake Amistad about 20 miles northwest of Del Rio, Texas, and had reserved the entire campground for the weekend. Lake Amistad, a man-made reservoir, straddles the mostly barren U.S.-Mexico border, and in years with normal rainfall is a beautiful lake. This year was one of those years and the lake was gorgeous, though the South Texas weather is still pretty hot in September with daily highs running around 90 o F. (32o C.) and shade in the region is always hard to come by. Good weather for boating, lazing, and swimming. When it's that hot, clothing tends to become minimal.
This outing was over a long weekend a few months after Boone had made his pronouncement in the bar regarding wives. Rumor was that he was already having some measure of success.
I had gone out to the lake campground a day early with three other members of our work crew—two guys, Don and Frank, and one of the hard working gals, Sharon. Sharon had brought along her two immense Black Labradors. For years, the four of us seemed to be the ones called upon to make things happen. Our job here was to serve as the advance team – make sure everything was ready for the long weekend, sign the rental agreements, take the mandatory boating-safety course for operating their rental boats, haul up the firewood and drink coolers (stocked, of course), rig up a large Coleman shade canopy near the main fire pit, make sure fire extinguishers and first-aid kits were stocked and in place and just scout the area in general making sure we knew the closest place to get ice and replenish other needed supplies.
That evening after dark, relaxing with drinks around a small campfire after a light dinner, we all decided that to wash off the day's dust and sweat, what we really needed was a swim. I don't recall whose idea it was, but it was quickly agreed upon by the four of us there. The dock was a few dozen yards downhill from our relaxing spot. Frank started it – running down the hill to the dock, beer in hand.
By the time Don, Sharon, her two black labs, and I got to the dock, Frank was pulling off the last of his clothes and yelling, "Last one in is a...."
We didn't hear the final part over the splash. The three of us glanced at each other, shrugged, and proceeded to strip and jump into the lake. As the moon was only a slight waxing crescent, and there was no other light nearby, it was pretty dark, anyway. Sharon's dogs joined us—they had no clothing to be concerned with—and a good time was had by all.
We greatly enjoyed the cool water for a while, swimming, floating, splashing, continuing our tall tales from the fireside, laughing and hooting. Sharon was a blonde beauty, shaped by hard work and the harsh Texas sun, and it surely didn't hurt my feelings to be treated to the view of her naked and wet body in the very minimal moonlight. We had worked together for three or four years and I had often wondered just how she would look undressed. I even got one really good close-up view as I offered her a hand up out of the water.
Once we were tired (and perhaps a bit less intoxicated) it seemed time to retire, so that we did, straggling up the hill in various states of undress to our own separate beds. I spent a few moments making sure the campsite was secure, and the fire was completely doused. My sleeping spot was a decent bed in a screened pop-up rental tent trailer Claire and I had secured for the weekend. I remember aiming my head for my pillow, but I don't remember it actually making contact. I slept the sleep of the just, whether I deserved it or not.
I awoke to a bright, already hot morning, my ears filled with blood curdling screams. Vaulting out of bed in my boxers, I burst out or the tent-trailer and looked for the source of the sound of violent distress. Looking toward the lake, I saw Sharon standing on the dock, but facing the campground. Her hands were at the sides of her head, her mouth agape, she looked much like the character in the famous painting, The Scream, by Edvard Munch. But her screams, interspaced with sobs, were no work of art. Each new cry seemed louder and caused my skin to prickle and chills to run across my chest in spite of the bright, already hot sun.
I ran down to the dock trying to avoid the worst rocks with my bare feet and reaching out my hand, said, "Sharon, Sharon. What's wrong?" She couldn't speak but just pointed to the shore near the north side of the dock. Following her gesture with my gaze, I found a large plywood sign, painted grey, and lettered in red. The message:
'CAUTION!
NO SWIMMING NEAR SHORE!
WATER MOCCASINS!'
Why we hadn't seen that sign the day before while launching and retrieving the boat, or the night before, as we stripped and swam with abandon, I can't tell you. I can tell you that it certainly upset Sharon there in the severe morning light. To be truthful, I felt a bit queasy, myself. But maybe that was just because of what we had eaten and drunk the night before. In any case, nobody had been bitten, and that, I thought, was a good thing. Sharon's dogs were OK, too, so she was soon calmed.
By noon, the rest of the families were arriving. The afternoon was spent getting campsites set up and preparing for the communal evening meal and bonfire. Most of the families set up near my rented tent-trailer in cleared campsites with electricity, water, and easy access to the restroom and shower facility. Claire arrived at about two o'clock and I helped her put her few things away in our tent-trailer, then I set up the chaise lounge chairs while she changed into a swim suit for an afternoon of relaxing. Children played basketball and on the playground equipment, with frequent breaks for shade and hydration. Parents were busy keeping sunblock slathered on the kids. Boone, traveling alone, set up a small two-person-size pup tent at a primitive area about halfway down the hill to the lake shore. His tent seemed as much a loner there as Boone himself often seemed. Don, Frank, and Sharon were busy getting ready for the big cookout and bonfire.
As evening approached the area quieted a bit as families gathered at their campsites for a bit of clean up before our evening gathering. The evening meal was a big success. We had grilled chicken, sausages, prime rib-eyes, and hot dogs. Families had brought salads and casseroles. Our company fund had paid for the firewood and charcoal and all of the condiments, utensils and paper plates and cups. Of course, we all had plenty of liquid refreshment, as well.
After dinner and clean-up we gathered around the bonfire like a real Norman Rockwell outtake. One of the guys took it upon himself to tell some mild ghost stories just right for the younger kids. Of course, a few of the teenagers had snuck away to the dock or who knows where. If you were paying attention, you could hear occasional laughter from them or perhaps see the subdued glow of something being smoked. At about nine o'clock, families started to put the younger ones to bed.
