As long as I can remember, I have loved trees. The tall, straight columns of white barked birch that bloomed into green umbrellas far, far overhead made me feel joyous. The squat, bumbling, smooth and dark mangrove whose roots spread like spider webs in dark waters make me feel inquisitive. The giant round and rough oaks, who like old men guard against time make me thoughtful.
There is a tree for every mood, a mood for every tree. I love to rub my palm across their trunks, their roots, their branches. To feel their rough skin, sometimes so rough it hurts.
I used to climb the trees and sit among their wide branches in the nooks and crannies and imagine that those spaces had been made just for me. And if I wrapped my legs around a wide limb and rubbed just right, oh. Then the pressure would build in my pelvis. And heat would flow through me as if from the tree itself, and I would grow as rigid as the branch and feel such a sensation of pleasure and wonder.
I would wrap my arms around the tree and hold it close so that my nipples and breasts rubbed against it, the rough firm surface pressing into me, and I would imagine the tree as a lover. The trees would always hold me in their strong embrace, keep me safe high in their towering reach, and never refused me pleasure.
I love trees.
As a young adult, I love nothing better on a warm summer day than to go out into the remote forests and search for lovely trees. I would search for one whose branches made just the right shape, whose bark was as smooth or rough as I desired that day, a tree who aroused me.
When I set out one sunny July morning, I thought this day would be no different. I was going to visit a forest I had not been to before. It was quite far away from Denver, a five-hour drive into the mountains and via ill-kept roads. This was the reason I had four-wheel drive and massive tires, though.
Usually, I went to national parks. There are tons in the Rocky Mountains, and it only takes an hour or two of hiking to get away from other people. I knew it was dangerous, what with the mountain lions and bears and snakes, not to mention the more mundane dangers of getting lost or caught in a rockslide. But my desire for the trees drove me away from people, deeper into the forests. It was not a call I could ignore, no matter how much I tried.
I took precautions, of course. I carried bear mace and a whistle and a compass and a first aid kit and enough food and water to last two days. I had never needed any of it. But as much as I was tempted to leave it behind, I didn't. At least, I told myself, the extra weight was good exercise, and that showed in my lean body.
My skin was tanned from my frequent hikes and my hair bleached blond from the sun. My hair frizzed as I only ever bothered to untangle it with my fingers and never brushed it. I had green eyes that always seemed to draw attention. My co-workers at the hiking and camping supply store where I worked said I looked like I belonged in the wild, and that's how I felt.
Every day, the only thing that kept me sane was counting down to my next day off, my next day I could escape the city and hike.
Today I was going to private property. I felt a bit bad about planning to trespass, but I hoped I would be there and gone and they would never know. I just had to go see the tree.
It had started with a photograph posted on a tree lovers' website. Oh, most of the people on the site didn't love trees like me. They loved to look at them, to paint them, to sit under them - not to have sex with them. When I couldn't get out to the forest though, I would sometimes masturbate with a photo of a good tree, imagining that I could actually touch it, feel it's bark and leaves, with the sun and wind warming and cooling my naked skin.
When I first saw the photo, time had stilled. More intense arousal than I'd ever felt for a tree gripped me. It became an obsession. I copied the image of the glorious pine tree and used it to create prints and personalize blankets, pillows, and dishes. My apartment soon became filled with the image of the tree,
my
tree.
It was a massive white pine, the kind of conifer whose needles are soft and delicate. This one was the largest I'd ever seen, and beautifully symmetrical and conical. Layer upon layer of long gentle needles towering into the sky, at least nine stories high. The photo was taken from across a lake, and the pine reflected in the pristine water gloriously. It almost seemed alive.
I tried to find more images of my perfect pine tree, but no reverse image search could ever find another view of it.
I had to find it. I figured out the IP address of the person who'd uploaded the photo, spent money to tie to tie IP address to a location using a web service, extracted the date the photo was taken, analyzed the lighting to determine an approximate latitude and longitude, and poured over Google Maps satellite images, staring at blurry trees on mountain tops.
When I finally found it, I could not believe that the blurry pixelated, top view, satellite image of my white pine flooded me with the same arousal that the original photo had. There was something special about this tree, something magical. And, it was only five-hours away.
But still, I thought today would be a day like any other. I could go, find the tree, take my pleasure, and come home. And hopefully, I would rid myself of this inconvenient obsession in the process.
