ALL NATURAL BEAUTY
Showing posts with label vintage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vintage. Show all posts
TREE HOUSE TRUTH OR DARE
When I was a kid, I had a tree house, down the hill past the barn, in the back field. Grandpa helped build it high in an old oak out of scrap wood. It had a rope ladder I could pull up, to keep my sister and her friends out.
At first, my tree house had a strict "no girls" policy. When I was a little older, I wanted to reverse my policy, but there were no girls offering to join me. Many times I'd sneak one od my dad's Playboys up to the treehouse, and stare longingly at the images.
The Millers has a daughter, several years older than me. Denise was 18 when I was 14 in the summer of 1978. School had let out, and I spent a lot of days in my tree house. One day, I spotted her walking across the field in her dress. I called to her from my perch in the tree. It took her a while to locate me, but she eventually walked over and looked up. I kicked down the ladder, and she came up to my secret spot.
She glanced around. I'd brought up an old blanket and some pillows to make it like a fort. She didn't seem impressed. Then her eye caught the corner of the Playboy sticking out from under a pillow.
"What's this?" she asked, taking it from it's hidden place and flipping it open. "You're too young for this!"
"No I'm not!"
She continued to flip though it as she sat down on the pillows. She'd stop and read the centerfold. "Miss April..." she said to herself. "I could be her..."
"You're just as pretty," I said.
"You think?"
"Heck yes."
"Oh you don't know. You're just a kid."
"No I'm not."
"Oh yeah?" she looked up at me from the magazine. She seemed to let her eyes move over my body and around the tree house and off into the distance, toward the field and the forest. The she said casually, "Ever play Truth or Dare?"
I hadn't.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
"Truth."
"Have you ever kissed a girl?"
I admitted that I hadn't. She'd dare me to kiss her. I leaned forward, mouth puckered. She laughed.
Then she asked if I'd ever seen between a girl's legs, and I admited, shyly, "Only in the magazines."
She lifted her sundress just enough to show me she wasn't wearing any underwear. I caught a glimpse of her thick triangle of dark curls.
She asked if I'd ever felt a breasts, and I said no.
"Hold out your hand," she instructed. I did. She took my hand and placed it squarely on her breast. She pressed her hand over mine, forcing me to cup her soft breast, feeling her through the light fabric.
She glanced down and noticed my erection straining in my pants.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
Feeling bold from the recent touch of my first boob, I said with as much courage as I could muster: "Dare."
"Show me your pecker," she said.
I blushed, but tugged down my shorts, and let my boner spring out.
She looked at my body with interest. Did I ever touch myself? Sure, I admitted.
"Thinking of me?"
I nodded.
"Thinking of this," she asked, spreading her legs and showing me her bush again.
I nodded.
"Do you want me to show you?"
I nodded.
"Do you dare me?"
I was blushing, shaking, my dick sticking out in the wind. I stared at her body and her pale skin that had been under the cover of her summer swimsuit. She opened her lips, parted her curls with her fingers, and showed me her soft, pink skin.
"I dare you to touch yourself," she said.
Awkwardly, I fumbled with my penis. I was hard and the sight of her body sent me over the edge quickly. She watched me the whole time, letting one finger slowly glide up and down her wet lips.
When I was done, she flipped her dress back down and descended the ladder. "See ya around," she said. I didn't know if I should be embarrassed or proud.
In the following days, she'd return to the tree house. It was summer break and we both had plenty of time on our hands. She had a job at Dairy Queen, but it left plenty of hours to come by. Sometimes we'd look at the latest Playboy.
She would let me stare at her as she spread her body, as she touched herself, and told me to do the same. We'd get our timing right to cum at the same moment. The more we did it, the closer she let me get to her naked body. She never let me have sex with her, though; she said she didn't want to get pregnant. But she'd let me caress a nipple with one hand as I stroked with the other. She'd let me cum on her chest a few times.
By the end of summer, she even let me stick a finger inside her, and put my mouth on her, and taste a woman for the first time. She showed me how, and she would let me make her orgasm with my tougue on her clitoris and my finger stroking inside her pressing up against her vagina wall at her-g-spot. I didn't know the name then, but I knew to watch for the signals as she began to shake, and then release in orgasm.
At the very end of summer, she told me she had a special treat for me becuase I had given her so many orgasms. She took my penis into her mouth and sucked me off, until I came powerfully in a spasm. She didn't stop sucking until she had drained every drop of cum from my teenage balls. Then she looked up at me and wiped a drop of semen from her lips and smiled. "You're a good kid," she said. "And not a half bad lover. I'm gonna miss you."
She left for college and I never saw her again. Some said she went to New York and became a model.
When I was a kid, I had a tree house, down the hill past the barn, in the back field. Grandpa helped build it high in an old oak out of scrap wood. It had a rope ladder I could pull up, to keep my sister and her friends out.
At first, my tree house had a strict "no girls" policy. When I was a little older, I wanted to reverse my policy, but there were no girls offering to join me. Many times I'd sneak one od my dad's Playboys up to the treehouse, and stare longingly at the images.
The Millers has a daughter, several years older than me. Denise was 18 when I was 14 in the summer of 1978. School had let out, and I spent a lot of days in my tree house. One day, I spotted her walking across the field in her dress. I called to her from my perch in the tree. It took her a while to locate me, but she eventually walked over and looked up. I kicked down the ladder, and she came up to my secret spot.
She glanced around. I'd brought up an old blanket and some pillows to make it like a fort. She didn't seem impressed. Then her eye caught the corner of the Playboy sticking out from under a pillow.
"What's this?" she asked, taking it from it's hidden place and flipping it open. "You're too young for this!"
"No I'm not!"
She continued to flip though it as she sat down on the pillows. She'd stop and read the centerfold. "Miss April..." she said to herself. "I could be her..."
"You're just as pretty," I said.
"You think?"
"Heck yes."
"Oh you don't know. You're just a kid."
"No I'm not."
"Oh yeah?" she looked up at me from the magazine. She seemed to let her eyes move over my body and around the tree house and off into the distance, toward the field and the forest. The she said casually, "Ever play Truth or Dare?"
I hadn't.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
"Truth."
"Have you ever kissed a girl?"
I admitted that I hadn't. She'd dare me to kiss her. I leaned forward, mouth puckered. She laughed.
Then she asked if I'd ever seen between a girl's legs, and I admited, shyly, "Only in the magazines."
She lifted her sundress just enough to show me she wasn't wearing any underwear. I caught a glimpse of her thick triangle of dark curls.
She asked if I'd ever felt a breasts, and I said no.
"Hold out your hand," she instructed. I did. She took my hand and placed it squarely on her breast. She pressed her hand over mine, forcing me to cup her soft breast, feeling her through the light fabric.
She glanced down and noticed my erection straining in my pants.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
Feeling bold from the recent touch of my first boob, I said with as much courage as I could muster: "Dare."
"Show me your pecker," she said.
I blushed, but tugged down my shorts, and let my boner spring out.
She looked at my body with interest. Did I ever touch myself? Sure, I admitted.
"Thinking of me?"
I nodded.
"Thinking of this," she asked, spreading her legs and showing me her bush again.
I nodded.
"Do you want me to show you?"
I nodded.
"Do you dare me?"
I was blushing, shaking, my dick sticking out in the wind. I stared at her body and her pale skin that had been under the cover of her summer swimsuit. She opened her lips, parted her curls with her fingers, and showed me her soft, pink skin.
"I dare you to touch yourself," she said.
Awkwardly, I fumbled with my penis. I was hard and the sight of her body sent me over the edge quickly. She watched me the whole time, letting one finger slowly glide up and down her wet lips.
When I was done, she flipped her dress back down and descended the ladder. "See ya around," she said. I didn't know if I should be embarrassed or proud.
In the following days, she'd return to the tree house. It was summer break and we both had plenty of time on our hands. She had a job at Dairy Queen, but it left plenty of hours to come by. Sometimes we'd look at the latest Playboy.
She would let me stare at her as she spread her body, as she touched herself, and told me to do the same. We'd get our timing right to cum at the same moment. The more we did it, the closer she let me get to her naked body. She never let me have sex with her, though; she said she didn't want to get pregnant. But she'd let me caress a nipple with one hand as I stroked with the other. She'd let me cum on her chest a few times.
By the end of summer, she even let me stick a finger inside her, and put my mouth on her, and taste a woman for the first time. She showed me how, and she would let me make her orgasm with my tougue on her clitoris and my finger stroking inside her pressing up against her vagina wall at her-g-spot. I didn't know the name then, but I knew to watch for the signals as she began to shake, and then release in orgasm.
At the very end of summer, she told me she had a special treat for me becuase I had given her so many orgasms. She took my penis into her mouth and sucked me off, until I came powerfully in a spasm. She didn't stop sucking until she had drained every drop of cum from my teenage balls. Then she looked up at me and wiped a drop of semen from her lips and smiled. "You're a good kid," she said. "And not a half bad lover. I'm gonna miss you."
She left for college and I never saw her again. Some said she went to New York and became a model.
Naked Paint Party
Things to do this weekend: host naked paint party.
Does any every have fun like this anymore? No wonder the Boomers glamorize the their youth. Growing up in the 1980s, we were told that sex was dangerous, sinful, and that we should always keep our nudity covered, and never, EVER under any circumstances, even thing of anything remotely sexual in a group setting.
These folks look like they are having fun. They don't seem to be hurting anyone. I'd like to get the invitation to one of these parties.
FLY BOYS
It is said that swinging began among American military communities in the 1950s, primarily out in the California desert among the elite test pilots. Out in the joushua tree wastelands, on remote air force bases, recently returned combat pilots from WWII flew the latest jet planes. It was here Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier in the X-1 named after his wife, "Glamorous Glennis," and here where these pilots pushed the envelop of aeronautics and set the path for the first generation of astronauts.
Perhaps these hardened combat vets had seen too many of their buddies never make it home. Perhaps they promised them they’d live life to its fullest. Perhaps the heat and the isolation of the Mojave made them bored and eager for some fun. Perhaps the machismo fueled them. Perhaps in the pack of pilots, women were few. And married to their buddies.
“Hey Chip, your wife sure has some body.”
“Hell yeah she does. I bet you want to take a test flight on that model, wouldn’t you, fly boy?”
“Yes Sir I would!”
“Oh, cut it out fellas, no need to fight over little ‘ol me. You're both cleared for take off.”
The hyper testosterone, frat-boy fighter pilot objectification of woman as an interchangeable tool like one of their jets is clearly sexist, and offensive, and if we admit it only to ourselves, a little bit sexy.
By the time the Korean War ended, the practice had spread from the military to the suburbs. The media dubbed the phenomenon “wife-swapping.”
It is said that swinging began among American military communities in the 1950s, primarily out in the California desert among the elite test pilots. Out in the joushua tree wastelands, on remote air force bases, recently returned combat pilots from WWII flew the latest jet planes. It was here Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier in the X-1 named after his wife, "Glamorous Glennis," and here where these pilots pushed the envelop of aeronautics and set the path for the first generation of astronauts.
Perhaps these hardened combat vets had seen too many of their buddies never make it home. Perhaps they promised them they’d live life to its fullest. Perhaps the heat and the isolation of the Mojave made them bored and eager for some fun. Perhaps the machismo fueled them. Perhaps in the pack of pilots, women were few. And married to their buddies.
“Hey Chip, your wife sure has some body.”
“Hell yeah she does. I bet you want to take a test flight on that model, wouldn’t you, fly boy?”
“Yes Sir I would!”
“Oh, cut it out fellas, no need to fight over little ‘ol me. You're both cleared for take off.”
The hyper testosterone, frat-boy fighter pilot objectification of woman as an interchangeable tool like one of their jets is clearly sexist, and offensive, and if we admit it only to ourselves, a little bit sexy.
By the time the Korean War ended, the practice had spread from the military to the suburbs. The media dubbed the phenomenon “wife-swapping.”
TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE
"Badges? ....We don't need no stinkin badges."
"Badges? ....We don't need no stinkin badges."
ON LOCATION
I have no idea what prompted this shoot, but I'm glad someone had the sense to step back and make a quick snapshot. Who wouldn't love to be able to have been "on location" with this lovely crew.
I have no idea what prompted this shoot, but I'm glad someone had the sense to step back and make a quick snapshot. Who wouldn't love to be able to have been "on location" with this lovely crew.
HIPSTERS
FOOL'S RULES
I first picked this image because I thought it was cute.
If you read the rules, they all seem pretty standard: no life guard, parents watch your kids, take a shower before entering, etc, etc. Then you get to the line: "Only Fool's Don't Obey Rules." Does anyone else find this hilarious? Maybe they had to grow up in the 80s with the A-Team and Mr. T, "I pity the fool!"
At first glance, I loved the fact that the swimming rules mandated nude swimming, rather than enforcing clothed swimming only. It's a nice turn on all the signs at swimming locations enforcing a strict dress code and forbidding any nudity.
I wish "clothing optional" defaulted to nudity. That is, when people hike to a sandy beach or a mountain hot spring, they just assume they'll strip down to the buff and that anyone else who hikes to that location will do the same. Instead, in our anti-body culture, we assume that anyone who actually gets naked ANYWHERE besides their own private showers at home is completely abnormal and somehow perverted and morally questionable.
It seems odd to me our insistence on swimsuits. I mean, they are not that comfortable and are always cold and clamy coming out of the water. Why would anyone who loves being in nature and all that it stands for--sun and water and being comfortable in our skin, naked as a jay-bird, as any other animal--not want to be nude? Furthermore, I can't understand why we, as American culture, are so embarrassed, offended, and controlling of our bodies.
That's why, I realized, I can't support the rules on this sign, either. Forcing people to be naked is equally as offensive to me as forcing them to stay clothed. Why to we have to make the body a battleground, people?
Maybe I'll start a new campaign: Keep Clothing Optional.
I first picked this image because I thought it was cute.
If you read the rules, they all seem pretty standard: no life guard, parents watch your kids, take a shower before entering, etc, etc. Then you get to the line: "Only Fool's Don't Obey Rules." Does anyone else find this hilarious? Maybe they had to grow up in the 80s with the A-Team and Mr. T, "I pity the fool!"
At first glance, I loved the fact that the swimming rules mandated nude swimming, rather than enforcing clothed swimming only. It's a nice turn on all the signs at swimming locations enforcing a strict dress code and forbidding any nudity.
I wish "clothing optional" defaulted to nudity. That is, when people hike to a sandy beach or a mountain hot spring, they just assume they'll strip down to the buff and that anyone else who hikes to that location will do the same. Instead, in our anti-body culture, we assume that anyone who actually gets naked ANYWHERE besides their own private showers at home is completely abnormal and somehow perverted and morally questionable.
It seems odd to me our insistence on swimsuits. I mean, they are not that comfortable and are always cold and clamy coming out of the water. Why would anyone who loves being in nature and all that it stands for--sun and water and being comfortable in our skin, naked as a jay-bird, as any other animal--not want to be nude? Furthermore, I can't understand why we, as American culture, are so embarrassed, offended, and controlling of our bodies.
That's why, I realized, I can't support the rules on this sign, either. Forcing people to be naked is equally as offensive to me as forcing them to stay clothed. Why to we have to make the body a battleground, people?
Maybe I'll start a new campaign: Keep Clothing Optional.
SADDLE UP, DUDE
In the college "Career Center," I discovered an entire 3-ring binder with at least 100 ranches in Colorado that had regular seasonal positions for college students: horse wranglers, dishwashers, cooks, and guest services. Since I knew how to ride a horse, I applied for the Wrangler position, the highest labor l job on the dude ranch totem pole.
We'd work solid weeks, and then after a stretch of non-stop guests, we'd finally get a day off. Since there wasn't anywhere to go, anything to buy, and nothing to drink, we had to invent ays to entertain ourselves. There were plenty of double-dog dares and summer romances. Here's a memory of one of mine.
In the college "Career Center," I discovered an entire 3-ring binder with at least 100 ranches in Colorado that had regular seasonal positions for college students: horse wranglers, dishwashers, cooks, and guest services. Since I knew how to ride a horse, I applied for the Wrangler position, the highest labor l job on the dude ranch totem pole.
We'd work solid weeks, and then after a stretch of non-stop guests, we'd finally get a day off. Since there wasn't anywhere to go, anything to buy, and nothing to drink, we had to invent ays to entertain ourselves. There were plenty of double-dog dares and summer romances. Here's a memory of one of mine.
NUDE V. NUDIST
I've been reading about the history of nudism and come to the conclusion that I am not a nudist. The history is fascinating, actually. It is a largely untold history of a social movement. Nude is a state of nakedness; nudism is a lifestyle. Since the 1930s, Nudists have been gathering at private resorts, where they have shed their clothes to enjoy not only nude recreation, but a naturalist way of life. Often these locations or their memberships had specific rules as to who could belong and who couldn't, and what they could, and couldn't do.
I have all due respect for such folks, and uphold their freedom to join whatever group they so choose, whether it be the local Elks, the VFW, or the AANR (the American Association for Nude Recreation). I guess, though, that I echo the line from Groucho Marx, "I'd never join a club that would have me as a member."
Today there are nude cruises, nude resorts, nude conventions. That's fine. But actually organizing nudity takes some of the fun out of it. To be always nude is as impractical as being always clothed. There is a time, place, and purpose for both. No one wears clothes in the shower and I'm pretty sure there are few nudist bee-keepers. I love nudity. I love the human body. Do I really want my bus driver to be buck ass naked? Not so sure.
However, just as it would be ridiculous to walk into your morning shower in pajamas, it seems absurd that every beach, river, creek, stream, lake and pond on this planet is not "clothing optional."
Part of the inherent joy of being out in nature is getting away from the constructs of urban life. If I hike 15 miles to a remote lake and find another swimmer, I sure hope they are naked: male, female, young or old...it doesn't matter because we are both out in nature, no longer who we are in the city. We are simple outdoors, in the sun, beside water, and will logically strip down. Maybe we hike a little farther apart for the privacy of noise, or just to relax alone. I hope it is never in shame of our bodies, natural as the trees and shrubs, rocks and dirt.
I am not a nudist, I have decided. I do not seek a naked lifestyle. But I do want the god-given freedom to be naked in nature. Frankly, keeping shopping areas and public city places restricted makes flashing all the more daring, fun, and erotic. But forcing someone to wear a swimsuit in a hot spring or mountain creek or sandy shoreline is just unacceptable. Even if I spend my day in the city, here beside my laptop, I want to know that far out somewhere, in a river or lake, someone has stripped down, just as humans have forever, and stepping into the water to enjoy a refreshing swim and then the felling of sun warming the drops of water on bare skin as it dries.
I've been reading about the history of nudism and come to the conclusion that I am not a nudist. The history is fascinating, actually. It is a largely untold history of a social movement. Nude is a state of nakedness; nudism is a lifestyle. Since the 1930s, Nudists have been gathering at private resorts, where they have shed their clothes to enjoy not only nude recreation, but a naturalist way of life. Often these locations or their memberships had specific rules as to who could belong and who couldn't, and what they could, and couldn't do.I have all due respect for such folks, and uphold their freedom to join whatever group they so choose, whether it be the local Elks, the VFW, or the AANR (the American Association for Nude Recreation). I guess, though, that I echo the line from Groucho Marx, "I'd never join a club that would have me as a member."
Today there are nude cruises, nude resorts, nude conventions. That's fine. But actually organizing nudity takes some of the fun out of it. To be always nude is as impractical as being always clothed. There is a time, place, and purpose for both. No one wears clothes in the shower and I'm pretty sure there are few nudist bee-keepers. I love nudity. I love the human body. Do I really want my bus driver to be buck ass naked? Not so sure.
However, just as it would be ridiculous to walk into your morning shower in pajamas, it seems absurd that every beach, river, creek, stream, lake and pond on this planet is not "clothing optional."
Part of the inherent joy of being out in nature is getting away from the constructs of urban life. If I hike 15 miles to a remote lake and find another swimmer, I sure hope they are naked: male, female, young or old...it doesn't matter because we are both out in nature, no longer who we are in the city. We are simple outdoors, in the sun, beside water, and will logically strip down. Maybe we hike a little farther apart for the privacy of noise, or just to relax alone. I hope it is never in shame of our bodies, natural as the trees and shrubs, rocks and dirt.
I am not a nudist, I have decided. I do not seek a naked lifestyle. But I do want the god-given freedom to be naked in nature. Frankly, keeping shopping areas and public city places restricted makes flashing all the more daring, fun, and erotic. But forcing someone to wear a swimsuit in a hot spring or mountain creek or sandy shoreline is just unacceptable. Even if I spend my day in the city, here beside my laptop, I want to know that far out somewhere, in a river or lake, someone has stripped down, just as humans have forever, and stepping into the water to enjoy a refreshing swim and then the felling of sun warming the drops of water on bare skin as it dries.
GINGER OR MARY ANN?
Growing up, we watched lot of reruns of Gillian's Island. The basic question for girls was: who would you rather be: Ginger or Mary Ann? And for the boys, it was: who would you rather date? Ginger, the sultry movie star, or Mary Ann, the sweet, innocent farm girl? As kids, the answer was supposed to be Ginger, because she was far more glamorous. But I always liked Mary Ann. I suspected that she as a lot less innocent than people assumed.
Growing up, we watched lot of reruns of Gillian's Island. The basic question for girls was: who would you rather be: Ginger or Mary Ann? And for the boys, it was: who would you rather date? Ginger, the sultry movie star, or Mary Ann, the sweet, innocent farm girl? As kids, the answer was supposed to be Ginger, because she was far more glamorous. But I always liked Mary Ann. I suspected that she as a lot less innocent than people assumed.
WHEN THE WOMEN'S MOVEMENT CAME TO MADISON
"You see, Carol, it's called a dildo. I put it in my vaginia."
"Ghee, I don't know Linda. Are you sure? It looks awful big?"
"Oh sure, you betcha. Fits in just fine. If you use a little Vaseline, you can even put it in your anus."
"Golly Carol. I never."
"Oh don't be bashful. Here, give it a feel."
"Oh ghee. Feels like the real McCoy."
"But it never goes soft and is always ready. Unlike our husbands!"
"You see, Carol, it's called a dildo. I put it in my vaginia."
"Ghee, I don't know Linda. Are you sure? It looks awful big?"
"Oh sure, you betcha. Fits in just fine. If you use a little Vaseline, you can even put it in your anus."
"Golly Carol. I never."
"Oh don't be bashful. Here, give it a feel."
"Oh ghee. Feels like the real McCoy."
"But it never goes soft and is always ready. Unlike our husbands!"
PARADISE LOST
Would somebody please tell me where this picture is from and how I can somehow transport back to the moment it was taken?
Just look at this: a lush tropical scene, with fronds and flowers, a spray of water comes out in a shower, two beautiful, naked women smile and laugh.
What else could this be but a glimpse of paradise once experienced, now long lost.
Would somebody please tell me where this picture is from and how I can somehow transport back to the moment it was taken?Just look at this: a lush tropical scene, with fronds and flowers, a spray of water comes out in a shower, two beautiful, naked women smile and laugh.
What else could this be but a glimpse of paradise once experienced, now long lost.
DR. PEPPER
There's an old jingle folks of a certain age will recall: I'm a pepper, you're a pepper, wouldn't ya like to be a pepper, too?
Perhaps if they used this image in their ad campaign, they would have attracted quite a few peppers.
There's an old jingle folks of a certain age will recall: I'm a pepper, you're a pepper, wouldn't ya like to be a pepper, too?
Perhaps if they used this image in their ad campaign, they would have attracted quite a few peppers.
BW FIGURE POSE
Here's a lovely vintage picture of a figure model striking a classic pose of the pin-up era. She has a lovely figure, and the outdoor light cast soft shadows on her skin.
Here's a lovely vintage picture of a figure model striking a classic pose of the pin-up era. She has a lovely figure, and the outdoor light cast soft shadows on her skin.
SEDUCING THE POOL BOY
In the classic 1967 film "The Graduate," recent college graduate Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) returns to his upper-middle class life of cocktail parties and swimming pools. At a party celebrating his graduation at his parents' house in Pasadena, Benjamin is visibly uncomfortable as his parents' friends congratulate him on his academic success and ask him about his future plans. Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft), the wife of his father's law partner, asks Benjamin to drive her home, which he reluctantly does.
Arriving at her home, she pleads for Benjamin to come inside, saying that she doesn't like to enter a dark house. Once inside, she forces a drink on him, and later exposes herself to him. Benjamin blurts out: ""Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me."
The line has become one the most classic in Hollywood's history.
My friend Mitch told me a similar thing happened to him. He, too, grew up in an upper-middle class suburb LA. Everyone had a comfortable house in the hills, with a swimming pool. As a student, he'd earn money by doing yardwork and cleaning pools. One of his neighbors, Dr. Brady, a famous Bel Aire dentist, would hire him. His wife, Bonnie Brady, was a bored housewife. She'd invite Mitch over under the pretense of doing chores, and then invite him to swim and relax as she suntanned on poolside.
She wasn't a knock-out, said Mitch. She had a short pixie haircut, one of the styles of the time, and a slender body. Fairly small breasts, but that, too, was more the style of the 1970s. She was the kind of woman who had "Our Bodies, Our Selves" on her bookshelf in plain view, and a white plastic vibrator by her bed, and who didn't hesitate about walking around in topless, or in a see-though sarong.
She'd rub suntan lotion on her legs, often parting them, trying to give Mitch a good look. Mitch, shy, or affraid Mr. Brady woudl return at any moment for his golf clubs, tried not to look. Of course he did, but he never made a move. So one day, Mrs. Brady did. As Mitch was swimming toward the pool laddar, Mrs. Brady stepped over him, offering him a full view of what she had to offer.
All Mitch could think to say to break the awkward tension was: "Mrs. Brady, you're trying to seduce me."
In the classic 1967 film "The Graduate," recent college graduate Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) returns to his upper-middle class life of cocktail parties and swimming pools. At a party celebrating his graduation at his parents' house in Pasadena, Benjamin is visibly uncomfortable as his parents' friends congratulate him on his academic success and ask him about his future plans. Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft), the wife of his father's law partner, asks Benjamin to drive her home, which he reluctantly does.
Arriving at her home, she pleads for Benjamin to come inside, saying that she doesn't like to enter a dark house. Once inside, she forces a drink on him, and later exposes herself to him. Benjamin blurts out: ""Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me."
The line has become one the most classic in Hollywood's history.
My friend Mitch told me a similar thing happened to him. He, too, grew up in an upper-middle class suburb LA. Everyone had a comfortable house in the hills, with a swimming pool. As a student, he'd earn money by doing yardwork and cleaning pools. One of his neighbors, Dr. Brady, a famous Bel Aire dentist, would hire him. His wife, Bonnie Brady, was a bored housewife. She'd invite Mitch over under the pretense of doing chores, and then invite him to swim and relax as she suntanned on poolside.
She wasn't a knock-out, said Mitch. She had a short pixie haircut, one of the styles of the time, and a slender body. Fairly small breasts, but that, too, was more the style of the 1970s. She was the kind of woman who had "Our Bodies, Our Selves" on her bookshelf in plain view, and a white plastic vibrator by her bed, and who didn't hesitate about walking around in topless, or in a see-though sarong.
She'd rub suntan lotion on her legs, often parting them, trying to give Mitch a good look. Mitch, shy, or affraid Mr. Brady woudl return at any moment for his golf clubs, tried not to look. Of course he did, but he never made a move. So one day, Mrs. Brady did. As Mitch was swimming toward the pool laddar, Mrs. Brady stepped over him, offering him a full view of what she had to offer.
All Mitch could think to say to break the awkward tension was: "Mrs. Brady, you're trying to seduce me."
PACE ARROWS SUMMERS AND THE MYSTERY OF THE HIDDEN SNAPSHOTS
When we were growing up. we'd often take part of our summer vacation to to visit grandma. Grandma lived alone on the old family farm. Grandpa had died of a heart attack when I was very young. My siblings and I liked to run around the fields, explore the old hay barn, and help grandma pick peas and pull carrots from her garden. When you're a kid, it seems that the young have always been young, the old always old. I did not have the life experience or the imagination to look at grandma and rewind time. She talked of grandpa, and how they were married after the Korean War. She talked about life on the farm, out in all the rolling hills of the Mid-West. There was an old Pace Arrow travel trailer parked beside the small farm house. It looked like it'd been parked for decades.
Although the aluminum exterior was coated in decades of dust, and faded by the sun, the interior was perfectly preserved. Inside was small as the cabin of a sailing boat, with compact shelves, a small gas stove, an old metal fridge, and plaid cushions. The walls were plywood. It smelled of dust, and dead flies. But I loved it. When we'd stay over, I'd always ask to take a sleeping bag out to the trailer rather than sleep on the couch.
I knew grandpa and grandma had gotten the trailer after the Korean War and would take annual roadtrips--some out to California to visit a great-aunt I'd never met. Some to Oregon, where we also have family. To me, the travel trailer was more a museum than anything. I couldn't imagine grandma as a young married woman in her 20s and 30s. I never really knew grandpa. From old Army pictures, I knew he was slender, but strong. He often wore aviator-style sunglasses. The closest thing I could picture was one of the guys in the TV show MASH. I imagined her was a fun guy, someone who liked cocktails and to have fun with his pals. He liked pretty girls, because I found an old calendar from 1953, with images of pin-up girls. That was my first discovery in the trailer.
As I mentioned, the inside of the trailer was like a sailing ship. All the cabinets were small, and some had shelves inside, and drawers or shelves inside shelves. Partly, it's to save space, and partly to keep the contents of the trailer packed as tightly as possible during motion. Regardless, it didn't seem as if anyone had actually ever cleaned out the trailer. There was no food, inside, of course--the fridge and food cabinets had been cleared long ago to avoid mice. However, all the tiny camping cook pots were still stacked neatly in the cabinet by the stove. There were forks and spoons in a drawer, and miscellaneous utensils in another, an old can opener, cork screw, and spatula. It was as if the trailer was on standby, as if grandpa could pump up the tires and fill the propane tank, and grandma could wipe down the countertops and stock new food and they'd be off on another adventure. I guess that's what happened, when grandpa had a heart-attack. You never leave things totally unpacked and put away. Everything is half packed.
As a kid, you don't always understand the exact past of a place, its specific memory, or why it feels so alive, but it's an intuitive sensation. I found old TIME magazines from the 50s, and a in one drawer dozens of recipes clipped out from magazines. I was starting to feel what it might have been like to take a trailer from the Great Plains, across the Rockies to the Pacific. What an adventure it must have been. The highway system being built, and gas cheap and all the cars with big V8 engines that could haul a small Pace Arrow to new places.
The older I got, the more I explored the trailer. I was probably 12 or 13 when I found the first nude. It was a small black and white glossy image with ruffled edges. The kind a Brownie camera would take. Very similar to the ones of grandpa's Korean War scrapbook. The image showed a pin-up girl. As I looked closer, though, I realized the pin-up was inside a trailer. Then, I recognized the style of plywood cabinets and glancing from the image to the bed of the trailer, I realized the snapshot had been made right where I was standing. It was an eerie sensation, as it suddenly looking in on someone's private experience.
The model had a lovely body, which I appreciated as a 13 year old boy. It took me a while, but I realized the woman was not a professional pin-up, but actually Grandma. I couldn't believe my eyes. There she was,in her early 20s in the 1950s. She was a knock out.
I found another image, this one clearly had my grandpa in it, sitting on the door steps of the trailer, reading a map. A woman stands inside, holding a cup of coffee. She's walked over to the door to talk to him. He looks up. Her hair is darker, and bouffant, like in the style of the early '60s. Grandpa might have been about 30. Grandma still in her 20s.
My understanding and appreciation of my grandparents grew with that discovery. I saw them not just as old people on a farm, but once young and active and very attractive.
That was then. Years later, when I was in college and Grandma was sick, I returned to the farm with my family. We all knew Grandma was dying of lung cancer. Her entire generation chain smoked from the 40s up until my childhood in the 80s. By then it was too late. So, that last trip to the farm, we each took what we wanted to remember Grandma. I wish I could have taken the entire travel trailer. Instead, secretly, I took the handful of glossy black and white snapshots I'd uncovered as a teen.
Years later, after Grandma passed away, and the farm was sold, I puzzled over the images. In the first one, Grandma looks like such an innocent country girl. You can see her naturally sandy-blonde hair pulled up. Her freckled nose. In the second one, she looks older and more glamourous. She's plucked her eyebrows and put on make-up. She's died her hair brunette or dark red. Perhaps my grandpa set the camera on its tripod and set the self-timer. The image looks candid, but also a bit posed, as if they knew the door would be a nice frame for the composition. If Grandma has really just woken up with her morning coffee, would she have perfect makeup? The element of pose makes it even stronger. Just before the camera clicked, she shifted her leg, reached down and touched Grandpa on the shoulder. She was giving him a perfect sight, then, and always.
I don't know about Heaven. Or an afterlife. I'd like to think, though, that if it is true, and if we do go to Heaven, it's a returning point to our favorite memories. I'd like to think that there's a campground beside a lake in California, with a travel trailer parked at the shore, and Grandma and Grandpa are young again and beautiful. And naked.
When we were growing up. we'd often take part of our summer vacation to to visit grandma. Grandma lived alone on the old family farm. Grandpa had died of a heart attack when I was very young. My siblings and I liked to run around the fields, explore the old hay barn, and help grandma pick peas and pull carrots from her garden. When you're a kid, it seems that the young have always been young, the old always old. I did not have the life experience or the imagination to look at grandma and rewind time. She talked of grandpa, and how they were married after the Korean War. She talked about life on the farm, out in all the rolling hills of the Mid-West. There was an old Pace Arrow travel trailer parked beside the small farm house. It looked like it'd been parked for decades.
Although the aluminum exterior was coated in decades of dust, and faded by the sun, the interior was perfectly preserved. Inside was small as the cabin of a sailing boat, with compact shelves, a small gas stove, an old metal fridge, and plaid cushions. The walls were plywood. It smelled of dust, and dead flies. But I loved it. When we'd stay over, I'd always ask to take a sleeping bag out to the trailer rather than sleep on the couch.
I knew grandpa and grandma had gotten the trailer after the Korean War and would take annual roadtrips--some out to California to visit a great-aunt I'd never met. Some to Oregon, where we also have family. To me, the travel trailer was more a museum than anything. I couldn't imagine grandma as a young married woman in her 20s and 30s. I never really knew grandpa. From old Army pictures, I knew he was slender, but strong. He often wore aviator-style sunglasses. The closest thing I could picture was one of the guys in the TV show MASH. I imagined her was a fun guy, someone who liked cocktails and to have fun with his pals. He liked pretty girls, because I found an old calendar from 1953, with images of pin-up girls. That was my first discovery in the trailer.
As I mentioned, the inside of the trailer was like a sailing ship. All the cabinets were small, and some had shelves inside, and drawers or shelves inside shelves. Partly, it's to save space, and partly to keep the contents of the trailer packed as tightly as possible during motion. Regardless, it didn't seem as if anyone had actually ever cleaned out the trailer. There was no food, inside, of course--the fridge and food cabinets had been cleared long ago to avoid mice. However, all the tiny camping cook pots were still stacked neatly in the cabinet by the stove. There were forks and spoons in a drawer, and miscellaneous utensils in another, an old can opener, cork screw, and spatula. It was as if the trailer was on standby, as if grandpa could pump up the tires and fill the propane tank, and grandma could wipe down the countertops and stock new food and they'd be off on another adventure. I guess that's what happened, when grandpa had a heart-attack. You never leave things totally unpacked and put away. Everything is half packed.
As a kid, you don't always understand the exact past of a place, its specific memory, or why it feels so alive, but it's an intuitive sensation. I found old TIME magazines from the 50s, and a in one drawer dozens of recipes clipped out from magazines. I was starting to feel what it might have been like to take a trailer from the Great Plains, across the Rockies to the Pacific. What an adventure it must have been. The highway system being built, and gas cheap and all the cars with big V8 engines that could haul a small Pace Arrow to new places.
The older I got, the more I explored the trailer. I was probably 12 or 13 when I found the first nude. It was a small black and white glossy image with ruffled edges. The kind a Brownie camera would take. Very similar to the ones of grandpa's Korean War scrapbook. The image showed a pin-up girl. As I looked closer, though, I realized the pin-up was inside a trailer. Then, I recognized the style of plywood cabinets and glancing from the image to the bed of the trailer, I realized the snapshot had been made right where I was standing. It was an eerie sensation, as it suddenly looking in on someone's private experience.
The model had a lovely body, which I appreciated as a 13 year old boy. It took me a while, but I realized the woman was not a professional pin-up, but actually Grandma. I couldn't believe my eyes. There she was,in her early 20s in the 1950s. She was a knock out.
I found another image, this one clearly had my grandpa in it, sitting on the door steps of the trailer, reading a map. A woman stands inside, holding a cup of coffee. She's walked over to the door to talk to him. He looks up. Her hair is darker, and bouffant, like in the style of the early '60s. Grandpa might have been about 30. Grandma still in her 20s.
My understanding and appreciation of my grandparents grew with that discovery. I saw them not just as old people on a farm, but once young and active and very attractive.
That was then. Years later, when I was in college and Grandma was sick, I returned to the farm with my family. We all knew Grandma was dying of lung cancer. Her entire generation chain smoked from the 40s up until my childhood in the 80s. By then it was too late. So, that last trip to the farm, we each took what we wanted to remember Grandma. I wish I could have taken the entire travel trailer. Instead, secretly, I took the handful of glossy black and white snapshots I'd uncovered as a teen.
Years later, after Grandma passed away, and the farm was sold, I puzzled over the images. In the first one, Grandma looks like such an innocent country girl. You can see her naturally sandy-blonde hair pulled up. Her freckled nose. In the second one, she looks older and more glamourous. She's plucked her eyebrows and put on make-up. She's died her hair brunette or dark red. Perhaps my grandpa set the camera on its tripod and set the self-timer. The image looks candid, but also a bit posed, as if they knew the door would be a nice frame for the composition. If Grandma has really just woken up with her morning coffee, would she have perfect makeup? The element of pose makes it even stronger. Just before the camera clicked, she shifted her leg, reached down and touched Grandpa on the shoulder. She was giving him a perfect sight, then, and always.
I don't know about Heaven. Or an afterlife. I'd like to think, though, that if it is true, and if we do go to Heaven, it's a returning point to our favorite memories. I'd like to think that there's a campground beside a lake in California, with a travel trailer parked at the shore, and Grandma and Grandpa are young again and beautiful. And naked.
CUTIE IN SUNHAT
If I every shipwreck on an abandoned desert isle, I'd like to be a castaway with her. She's got a girl-next-door look that becomes sexier and sexier the longer you look and watch her move in the sunlight.
We might not need clothes in our tropical paradise, but a good sunhat helps.
If I every shipwreck on an abandoned desert isle, I'd like to be a castaway with her. She's got a girl-next-door look that becomes sexier and sexier the longer you look and watch her move in the sunlight.
We might not need clothes in our tropical paradise, but a good sunhat helps.
SUMMER PICNICS, RECESSION-PROOF FUN
As Spring's first flowers begin to show, here's looking forward to summer. As we worry about the recession, let's not forget an earlier time, when vacations didn't mean breaking the bank account. Rather, summer vacations were celebrated with picnics in state parks, complete with the heavy wooden tables, the checkered table clothes, and the classic picnic basket. Beers and Cokes in the cooler. Burgers and dogs on the grill. A frisbee to toss. Simple summer fun.
Even better au natural!
As Spring's first flowers begin to show, here's looking forward to summer. As we worry about the recession, let's not forget an earlier time, when vacations didn't mean breaking the bank account. Rather, summer vacations were celebrated with picnics in state parks, complete with the heavy wooden tables, the checkered table clothes, and the classic picnic basket. Beers and Cokes in the cooler. Burgers and dogs on the grill. A frisbee to toss. Simple summer fun.
Even better au natural!
GREEN RIVER, WYOMING
When people go to Wyoming, they go to the upper NW corner of the state: Yellowstone Nation Park, the Tetons, Jackson Hole, and Cody. A much smaller percentage may check out Cheyenne's Frontier Days, Devils Tower, or hunt Elk and Moose in the Big Horn Mountains outside of Sheridan--but no one goes to the lower SW corner. The main Interstate passes through, and so do the trucks--fueled up in Cheyenne, they push at 75 miles an hour to make time across a barren, alkali wasteland of bluffs, and arroyos, and oil fields.
There was a mining boom here once, and a railroad, and the historic markers note different camps of Chinese laborers who were masacured. It is a rugged and haunted past of vigilante justice, racism, and greed. The towns have almost dried up and tumbled off these wind-swept hills. There are bars for the oil men to spend their paychecks.
I know this because one summer I was hired to update the GO USA! series of travel books. I was fresh out of college, and lowest on the pecking order, so while the senior staff got all-expense trips to Hawaii, California, New York, I was stuck driving the open ranges of Wyoming, updating listings for tumbleweed motels and highway diners. SW Wyoming was my least favorite corner of the state, until I turned down a two-lane road off the interstate and drove south. The small road wound its way through the red hills for miles. As I neared the Utah border, the road began climbing into a mountain range. The sage turned to ponderosa pine. The bare red dirt became grass. I drove at least 20 miles into the mountains, climbing the twisting road, and then dropping to an open valley, with a river running through. After climbing out of the red desert, into this lush green valley, it was one of the prettiest sights I'd seen in the West.
The state park department had paved a parking lot, and built a boat ramp and rest room facility, as if expecting 100s of RV campers, tourists, fishermen, and river rafters. But that day, the middle of the summer season, I had the entire valley to myself. I was at least 50 miles from the interstate. It was just me and a warm sun, a slight breeze off the water, and nice shade under the cottonwood trees. It was past noon and the sun was high above. It was, I decided, a good time for a dip.
So I stripped and set my clothes on a park department picnic table. I waded into the cool, green water, and then dove. It was delicious.
Afterwards, as I sun-dried, I strolled over to a historic marker. (I always read ever marker because they provided instant material for the travel guide.) I was surprised. Unlike al the the others, this plaque did not speak of racial violence, or a great flood, or fire. Rather, it commemorated the first river expedition of this head waters. It wasn't Lewis & Clark, or some grizzly mountain man. It was three couples from France. It seemed so out of place--but then, I was so out of place...such a remote pocket where the vast mountains of northern Utah rise up from the high desert. I had found this place by chance. Had this first group?
They had packed their boats for an adventure, and navigated down river, headwaters to confluence, and south, until they reached the mighty Colorado. They were the first to white water this section of river, and for that the park department left a sign.
Standing naked, warming the river drops on my skin, I thought of this group. I pictured them all young, lean from outdoor activities, tanned, and smiling.
We all get youth once. I felt humbled that they had made theirs so full. Even if their legacy was now only an interpretive sign, in my mind it was the essence of an adventure with friends. I felt happy for them, and fortunate to be at the same place where they may have launched their boats.
The trip took them three months. I could only imagine setting off like that. I looked wistfully downriver as the the green water slide silently south, into deep mountains and eventually down narrow canyons. I tried to picture the group as they posed for a photo to commemorate the beginning of things. Then I turned back to my car where miles away semi-trucks barreled along the interstate.
When people go to Wyoming, they go to the upper NW corner of the state: Yellowstone Nation Park, the Tetons, Jackson Hole, and Cody. A much smaller percentage may check out Cheyenne's Frontier Days, Devils Tower, or hunt Elk and Moose in the Big Horn Mountains outside of Sheridan--but no one goes to the lower SW corner. The main Interstate passes through, and so do the trucks--fueled up in Cheyenne, they push at 75 miles an hour to make time across a barren, alkali wasteland of bluffs, and arroyos, and oil fields.
There was a mining boom here once, and a railroad, and the historic markers note different camps of Chinese laborers who were masacured. It is a rugged and haunted past of vigilante justice, racism, and greed. The towns have almost dried up and tumbled off these wind-swept hills. There are bars for the oil men to spend their paychecks.
I know this because one summer I was hired to update the GO USA! series of travel books. I was fresh out of college, and lowest on the pecking order, so while the senior staff got all-expense trips to Hawaii, California, New York, I was stuck driving the open ranges of Wyoming, updating listings for tumbleweed motels and highway diners. SW Wyoming was my least favorite corner of the state, until I turned down a two-lane road off the interstate and drove south. The small road wound its way through the red hills for miles. As I neared the Utah border, the road began climbing into a mountain range. The sage turned to ponderosa pine. The bare red dirt became grass. I drove at least 20 miles into the mountains, climbing the twisting road, and then dropping to an open valley, with a river running through. After climbing out of the red desert, into this lush green valley, it was one of the prettiest sights I'd seen in the West.
The state park department had paved a parking lot, and built a boat ramp and rest room facility, as if expecting 100s of RV campers, tourists, fishermen, and river rafters. But that day, the middle of the summer season, I had the entire valley to myself. I was at least 50 miles from the interstate. It was just me and a warm sun, a slight breeze off the water, and nice shade under the cottonwood trees. It was past noon and the sun was high above. It was, I decided, a good time for a dip.
So I stripped and set my clothes on a park department picnic table. I waded into the cool, green water, and then dove. It was delicious.
Afterwards, as I sun-dried, I strolled over to a historic marker. (I always read ever marker because they provided instant material for the travel guide.) I was surprised. Unlike al the the others, this plaque did not speak of racial violence, or a great flood, or fire. Rather, it commemorated the first river expedition of this head waters. It wasn't Lewis & Clark, or some grizzly mountain man. It was three couples from France. It seemed so out of place--but then, I was so out of place...such a remote pocket where the vast mountains of northern Utah rise up from the high desert. I had found this place by chance. Had this first group?
They had packed their boats for an adventure, and navigated down river, headwaters to confluence, and south, until they reached the mighty Colorado. They were the first to white water this section of river, and for that the park department left a sign.
Standing naked, warming the river drops on my skin, I thought of this group. I pictured them all young, lean from outdoor activities, tanned, and smiling.
We all get youth once. I felt humbled that they had made theirs so full. Even if their legacy was now only an interpretive sign, in my mind it was the essence of an adventure with friends. I felt happy for them, and fortunate to be at the same place where they may have launched their boats.
The trip took them three months. I could only imagine setting off like that. I looked wistfully downriver as the the green water slide silently south, into deep mountains and eventually down narrow canyons. I tried to picture the group as they posed for a photo to commemorate the beginning of things. Then I turned back to my car where miles away semi-trucks barreled along the interstate.
