GETTING AWAY MEANS GETTING IT JUST HOW SHE WANTS IT

They had made plans for the bed and breakfast months ago. It was a cute, simple B&B on the Coast, near a small town called Oysterville. They picked the place because they needed to get out of the city. Seems all year was work and deadlines and house projects. They just needed a weeked away. No cooking, no laundry, no yardwork...nothing. To recharge their batteries, they needed nothing more than the three basic humans things: eating, sleeping, sex. Especialy the last. They could always catch up later on sleep.



He started out driving and she read a magazine in the passenger seat. She had left her underwear at home; she said, who needs underwear this weekend?

As they drove, she felt the breeze from the vents slide up her legs, tickle her trimmed curls. She read him articles from Cosmo. They'd picked up a copy at the gas station on the way out of town. It had pieces like "What drive men crazy, ten tips to try tonight" and "what men would ask for in bed--secrets reveaed!" She read aloud and he added his oopinions. Talk of biting, spanking, tying up with with ties on the bedpost, whipped creme, blindfolds, made her increasing wet, and made his cock strain in his pants.

After an hour, they traded drivers. The conversation continued. She realized that even though she always felt free to do whatever felt good in bed with him, that they never really talked about it as they made love. They just did it, fell into the patterns of what worked well. As she drove and he continued to read to her from the magazine, her hand had moved down between her legs. She had pushed up her dress and was slowly running up and down her wet folds, grazing the now sesitive hood of her clit.


He stopped reading when he noticed. She noticed his pants were strained a spot of precum had appeared.

By now they were deep into the Coastal Range on a two lane road. They'd finished the magazine, but were still turned on. She reached over and unfastened his pants, releasing his half-hard cock to the open air. As she drove, she slowly storked it. She kept her eyes on the road, but could picture every inch and wrinkle in her mind. She knew exactly what she wanted when they arrived.

Finally they were on the coast. They checked in and set down the bags.

She unpacked a bottle of lube and set it on the bed. She then stripped totally naked and assumed the possition. On her hands and knees, she thrust her ass to the air, wide, open, inviting him to stand behind her, lube her up, and fuck her like she had needed to be fucked in years. He was hard, filled with the strain of hours of foreplay. He was ready. He would fuck her, no holding back.

He climbed behind her, lubed up, and pushed it home to the hilt. They both moaned deeply, having found exactly what they were needing.

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SHE FINDS WAY TO MAKE THE RIDE HOME MORE INTERESTING

The road from my college town to home wound down through a narrow mountain valley, following a rocky, crooked mountain river. Every quarter mile or so was an unmarked logging road, a turnout, or a gravel bank where a lone fisherman would fly cast. In spring the air was thick and humming with insects. As we drove, you'd get sticky, sweat on your thighs and legs. If we'd made love that morning, we could still smell it on our skin. We drove, hair whipping in the window. Kick off the flip flops.



As we drove, her hand rested on my thigh. The sun slipped down in splinters through the tree, and she began to rub through my jeans. Responding, I grew hard. She knew, and I knew what was next. She unzipped my jeans and wiggled around to drop her head in my lap.

I concentrated as we rounded each corner of the narrow road. Her lips touched my skin, still musky with our morning sex. I grew harder and she slipped her tongue slowly up and down my rigid shaft. I tried to focus on the road. She slurped and sucked then paused. More? she'd ask. I knew it was dangerous, but I eagerly said more.

Maybe we should find a turn off, she suggested.

Within a mile, we pulled off onto a logging road. I drove up, just out of sight of the road, parked. We didn't speak as she pulled a blanket from the back and continued to hike up the logging road, around a bend, out of sight of the car. We both knew what would come. She spread out the blanket and then we stripped off our clothes. Naked, the sun beat down on our backs, shoulders, and warmed our pubic hair. It was sexy, like Adam and Eve, maked in the forest, in a spot of sun.

She reached to my body and instantly it sprung back, hard and ready. Then we were together. She riding me, her breasts flopping in the sun, me on her, her fingernails criss-crossing my back, her on her knees, and me ramming into her like wild animals.

When we made love in our bed, it was sexy, but often soft as the flannel sheets. Sleepy like morning before coffee. But outside, she became a wild child. I became a savage. Somehow outdoors, we were stripped of civilization's moors. It was the call of the wild and it surged in our blood. We were sweaty, sticky, and savage. Instead of her usual cooing, "uuuuuummmmm, uuuummmm, baby, like that.....ooooohhhh." She barked out: "fuck me, fuck me hard."

I pounded her from behind. I grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her back harder, deeper. "Harder!" she screamed. "Harder, fuck me hard!" Her voice became jagged and raspy as she yelled. "Cum on my ass," she cried as she became to convulse in orgasm.

I pulled out and shot globs of sticky cum across her ass.

Exhausted, I collapsed back. She remained in position, her face buried in her arms, that were crossed on the ground, making a pillow. Her ass jutted in the air. Noontime sun is so bright. As I lay there, I stared at her body. Her two smooth round buttocks, creamy white, red scratches from our love making, bits of grass and dirt, pine needles stuck on with sweat. She left her ass in the air, feeling the sun and breeze dry the sweat. The globs of milky cum had splattered across her butt and lower back. some began to slip up her spine and begin to dry in the sun. Some dribbled down the cleft of her butt. It tickled the pucker of her anus, the few hairs that grew there that her razor never caught. She had a mole and a few freckles. And her vulva was swollen, red, glossy with her own juices. It cum slid over her lips, beading and dripping off her clit. It was a shinny pink, small bead of skin wrapped in her folds, brushed by her trimmed curls. There is nothing as beautiful, I thought, as a pure blue sky, framed by towering trees, and a woman's hindquarters jutting up the sky, her cunt rosy and slick from hard sex, cum caught on her curls, her ass open, exposed, her anus a tight wrinkled passage of invitation.

The image is burned in my memory. It remains my definition of wildness in wilderness.

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BACKSEAT

Sometimes when the mood grabs you, it's nice to hop in the back seat, take off just as many clothes as needed, and go to it. Yes?

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TRISH DISCOVERS AFTER WORK RELEASE IN HER CAR

Trish doesn't consider herself any kinkier than anyone else, but she does have a secret daily routine that even her husband doesn't know about.

Trish works as a ticketing agent at the local international airport. She started the job because she thought she was a people person and liked to travel. Now she's a mom and can't really take off on trips, and people just drive her crazy. She often works the swing and graveyard shifts. Whenever something goes wrong, she has to fix it. Whenever a storm hits Chicago or Denver, all hell breaks loose. Lost luggage, missed connections. Some nights are slow, but most nights stressful. There is always someone complaining about something. She's the lightning rod for it all.

At nights she comes home late, stressed, frazzled. She needs release, but doesn't like to wake her husband. He has early mornings, and to rouse him, get him hard, and get him in the mood is more production than needed. She just needs a quick way to unwind.

At first, she'd pack her vibrator to work. She'd leave it in the compartment between the seats. After work, she'd drive home, and pull it out.

One night, she noticed how the gear shift vibrated softly as the car idled. Curious, she straddled both seats and tried to position her body against the smooth plastic shifter. As she shifted her hips down, her foot slipped and punched the accelerator. the shifter whirled in response. She knew she'd found what she needed.

Now, nights after work, she grows wet as she drives the freeway. With each gear change, she things of the shifter inside her, her foot on the accelerator making a slow beat. She slides down onto the shifter, It fills her. She moves her vibrator into position and begins.



It does not take long--only as long as she needs it to take. Sometimes a minute. Sometimes she will stay for five or ten. Slowly working the pedal with her foot, the toy with her right hand. She closes her eyes and the tensions roll out of her in waves.

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GAS, GRASS, OR ASS

“Come on,” said Veronica. “Kerouac and Gary Snyder used to hitch hike up to Oregon all the time.”

“I don’t care,” said Alison. “That was like 50 years ago, and they were guys. I’m all for like girl power and shit, but come on. Be serious. We’ll take the Greyhound.”

“The Greyhound sucks. Where’s your adventure? Where’s the Open Road?”

“This isn’t the Beat Generation. You can’t find America out on the road anymore. You just find Walmart.”

“Fine, you can take the bus. I’m hitchin.”

Alison knew that Veronica would go alone. She also knew that if anything happened to Veronica, she’d never be able to live with the guilt. She reluctantly agreed.

Veronica wanted to go north, to Eugene, Oregon, to check out some annual hippie music festival called the “country fair.” She had a backpack and a tattered paperback copy of Kerouac’s One the Road and Dharma Bums and a vague idea that "the Open Road" still had lessons to offer the young who went looking.

So they set off, and stood beside the highway for the entire morning.

“Seriously, what they hell are two young hot ass chicks supposed to do?” complained Veronica.

“I told you this wasn’t the Beat Generation,” said Alison. She hoped Veronica would finally give up and they’d just walk back into town and buy a bus ticket.

Veronica lifted her skirt at the passing cars.

“Are you fucking insane?” yelled Alison. “You want to attract the pervs and the serial killers?”

“Oh come on,” said Veronica, “I’m just having fun.”

She had pulled her skirt back down by the time a trucker puller over to offer them a lift. He had red hair that stuck out from under his greasy ball cap, a mustache that hadn’t changed since the early 80s, and a pair of cheap mirrored aviator sunglasses. Veronica was quick to hop up into the cab. Alison gave her a look, but it was missed. She climbed up and they were off. As the driver shifted through his gears, she noticed that he was missing half of his fingers. They didn't say much as jammed the gears back up to 70 mph. Alison immediately mistrusted him. He’s the type to cut our throats, fuck our corpses, and then leave us in a roadside ditch, she thought. Or maybe he’d sell them to a truckload of farm laborers to for a nighttime gang rape in a field just off the freeway. Growing up in Red Bluff, her parents had warmed her about such things. According to them, it happened. Alison didn’t want to be a statistic of a cautionary tale told to other young women against the perils of hitch-hiking.


As soon as the driver had the truck going full speed, he looked at the girls with a smile and said, “Gas, grass, or ass, girls."

“Well, we don’t have any money,” said Veronica, as she pulled a zip-lock bag form her pack and began rolling a joint. "But the other two are negotiable."

The trucker laughed. Veronica rolled her joint, lit it, and passed it to the driver. Alison was terrified. She figured she was either going to get raped by a trucker, or that the stoned trucker would crash them all into a firey death. She secretly hoped for the later, as she could not imagine living with herself after a rape.

"We'll both make out with you," said Veronica.

Alison wanted to shout her objection over the drone of the engine, but mouth wouldn't even move to form the words.

"Fuck that," sad the trucker, exhaling a huge cloud of pot.

Veronica pulled a hit from the joint and held it in. The cab was hazy with smoke. Alison rolled down the window a crack. The roar of the freeway got louder, and she couldn't hear any of the conversation between Veronica and the trucker. She looked out at the pavement passing 70 mph below them. If she jumped, she would be killed. That would be her plan, she decided. Better than rape.

When she turned back, she saw that Veronica had unzipped the trucker's pants, taken out his cock, and was jacking him, as they drove. She kept her pace steady as they climbed over the Siskiyou Pass. As they crested and then rolled down the pass toward Medford, Veronica said, "This is where we get off, and where you get off, too." She turned in the seat, and went down on him. With gulps and slurps, and her head bouncing with the sway of the cab, she sucked him off.

The driver dropped them off in Medford. He hadn't turned out to be a killer. In fact, he said that usually he only had sex with guys, but that he would never turn down a hand-job or a blow-job. He thanked the girls for the ride and the pot and the "happy ending." He even gave them $100 to get a hot meal and a motel for the night. "You can't be too careful," he said.

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RAINED OUT PICNIC DOES NOT SPOIL THE FUN

They'd hoped for a warm, summer day, but this was Oregon in June. The day started sunny and warm enough. She wore a cute summer dress. They packed a picnic lunch. They planned to drive up the Gorge and hike one of the trails with waterfalls, and eat some cheese and salami and drink some Oregon pinot.

As they drove up the Columbia Gorge, the sky grew darker with clouds. A few rain drops hit the windshield. Then they'd hit a patch of sun, and then rain. They parked at the trailhead, and jumped out. It was cold and drizzly. They did go on their hike. He brought the camera, and she even flashed him a few times on the trail, whenever they were out of sight of the other hikers.

They returned to the car excited, but cold, and a little wet. There was no way they'd have an outdoor picnic. "Let's just have it here," she suggested. So they ate their cheese and salami and opened the wine bottle and passed it back and forth. Outside a few families dashed from their cars to the trailhead, or back from the trail and jumped back into their cars and drove off. The raindrops on the window made the inside of their car semi-private. People could see them inside, but not have a clear view of what they were doing unless they came right up to the window. So the other hikers, passed, unaware of the picnic in the car.

They finished the bottle of wine between the two of them, and she was no longer wet and cold, but feeling quite warm and giddy. During the hike, she'd pulled off her panties to be able to flash his camera. She turned in her seat, her legs open, her dress pulling up to show me her patch of curls. "That's nice," he said.

She smiled and responded by slipping off the straps of her dress, pulling the top down, and cupping one of her petite breasts in her hand. Her nipples were pinched from the cold. "Is that better?"

He nodded, and picked up the camera.

She held the wine to her body, suggestive of what she wanted to happen. He nodded and clicked.

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COUNTRY CALENDAR GIRL

When I left my hometown for college, my high school girl friend gave me a calendar she'd made. Each of the months showed a picture of her, so, as she said, I wouldn't forget her. In the rush and chaos that comes from the very first move from home to the college dorm, I'd glanced at it, thanked her, and tossed it in with the other items for school.

At the dorm, I did hang it. The more I missed my girlfriend, and home, the more I appreciated her gift. She was very sweet. A country girl, through and through. She was fairly tall, about 5'9", and slender--not skinny, but perfect. She liked to brag that if I ever wanted to buy her clothes, her measurements were: 36-28-36. She had nice C cup breasts, and a good figure. A sweet smile. And a pretty face that hadn't seem to loose its baby fat. It was like the face of a young country girl that had been placed on a woman's body. Back home, we rode horses, and fooled around in her dad's barn. On special dates, like prom, her dad let us take his new sports car.

On the calendar, the fall months had images of us carving pumpkins, and opening Christmas presents. I thought my girlfriend was cute, and I felt nostalgic for our times together. My roommates, and the other guys in the hall, didn't pay much attention to the calendar. In the images, they only saw Robyn in winter sweaters and coats, and her round, smiling face. She was cute enough in their minds, but not exactly a super model. They teased me for being so devoted, and passing up opportunities to date girls at our college.

Then, when Freshman year was nearly over, I flipped the calendar to May. There was a cute picture of Robyn on her Dad's sports car. It was a reference, no doubt to my senior prom the year before. In the background was one of the country roads we'd drive, and a place we'd found to park and mess around. She'd obviously taken the car to "our" spot, and picked out a more revealing spring outfit of a tube top and denim skirt. She sat on the hood of the car, sort of in a style of a classic pin-up.

This month's image caught the attention of my roommates. They gathered around for a closer look.

"Hey," said Travis, "She's panty flashing you!"

The guys hooted and hollered. "Damn, Jimmy," they said. "You are a lucky bastard."

"Holy shit" someone yelled. "She's not wearing panties!"

The guys then shoved and jostled closer.

"Now THAT's a girlfriend!" They high-fived each other and cheered. I must have been red with embarrassment, but also stoked with pride. I felt jealous that the guys had caught a peek of my girl, and something very private meant for me. But I was also pretty damn proud of Robyn, and her adventurous spirit. The image didn't reveal too much skin, just enough to make all the guys in the dorm stop by to take a good long look. They stopped teasing me about my fidelity to my high school girlfriend.

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WHEN GRANDMA GOT IT ON

Growing up, there was a version of history that went like this: The Victorians were prudes, and no one had sex and if they did, they didn't like it. The Roaring 20s had flappers and shorter skirts, but they were still prudes. Maybe a couple of them had sex, but they didn't really know what they were doing. In the Great Depression, people were too depressed to have sex. In WWII, too busy winning the War to have sex. And the 50s--no way was Apple Pie America having sex. And then in the Summer of Love, a sexual "revolution" occurred, and since then, we have all been liberated from the old fashioned, outdated, and embarrassed subject of sex.

The Baby Boomers like to think they invented sex, drugs, rock and roll. Of course, being the biggest generation in American history, who do they think was making all that whoopee that spawned them?

Growing up in this era of media, I see the grainy black and white images of steam trains and WII bombers. Because they are so small on my screen, somehow it seems like the machinery of yesteryear must be smaller, like models. Yet, an old WWII bomber is the size of the modern passenger jets. An old Ford Model A is actually not a wind-up toy car but about the same size as a Prius. An old steam train's wheel is taller than my head. Some how the past gets reduced like a diorama.


So too, it would seem that the tin-type faces of now long-dead generations in their bloomers and top hats would only have sex in the missionary position, and only for the act of pro-creation. In today's world we know we can find explicit images if we google words like "cock sucking." We think, girls gagging on stiff dicks, spreading wide, bending over, and gang bangs are somehow a reflection of our "Post Sexual Revolution," a product of this internet era. But why do assume that those somber faces in the dusty family archives weren't getting it on with just as must lust and gusto? They sucked cock, played with dildos, and had three-ways.

Here's a special tribute to those who "came" before us--

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CUP OF JOE, TO GO

Driving in the morning, stop for coffee. Just the right angle, a glimpse downblouse. Sexy.

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