(Inspired by the glorious Chelsea Girl’s fucking al fresco.)
Please note: yes, this post is about my dear and departed sex life. It’s naughty, and if you don’t want to know me this well, skip it.
I am an inveterate city girl; I was horrified when my parents fled to the outer suburbs immediately following my high school graduation. I do not camp and consider staying in a hotel without HBO and room service ‘roughing it.’ I start this piece with these two sentences not to set myself up as a prissy pink princess but to underline that my experience with outdoor sex is primarily an urban story. Unlike Chelsea Girl, I don’t have memories, fond or foul, of reclining in flowering fields; in fact, reading about it kind of made my back itch at the same time the rest of me flushed warm.
Not counting car sex as an outdoor fuck is, I suppose, correct–although I was in a vehicle the only time local authorities arrived on-scene (thankfully, the nice officer only suggested it was time to button up and head home–and that I dispose of the open Budweiser can in the drink holder before we did). I think you have to count the uncovered bed of a pickup truck, though, and especially if it is parked significantly below occupied buildings on a hill. More on this situation later.
I loved my favorite apartment for a lot of reasons: its layout was comfortable, it was five minutes from work, it had a fireplace and big closets and a balcony that looked down on a pond. Primarily, though, because I had more sex in and around that building than anywhere else I ever lived. That fact alone, I think, accounts for most of my warm memories of the place. I’ve been bent forward at the waist on the balcony, bracing my elbows on the railing and looking down at the ripples in the dark pond, with M’s fingers dug into my hips as he pumped into me from behind; late on another night I tweezered a splinter from his knee that had been driven in as he knelt on the cedar decking, driving into me as I lay on my back and looked up at a full Summer moon. Months later, with my favorite (alleged) felon, I stood topless on that balcony in the Autumn chill, my back against the patio doors for support while he sat fully clothed in a chair with my skirt over his head, working patiently until I came first in his hand, then in his mouth. Tonight, years in time and a lifetime in experience later, I not only remember every detail of these nights–I swear I can feel them, the cold glass against my back, the frosty breeze biting at my burning face and puckered nipples, and see things like the pots of white impatiens I kept or the look of absolute concentration on M’s baby-smooth face…heaven. And I swear, the smell of cedar still turns me on.
The pond behind that apartment is part of those al fresco experiences, too. As I write, I feel my face break into the same grin it had on the early November night when I led my new fella (who would in time become known as the World’s Worst Boyfriend, but at that point was just hawt) by the hand up the front stairs to my apartment, inside just long enough to grab a blanket, then down the back stairs to the water and around to the far side of the little pond. Still grinning, I spread the blanket on the grass, kicked off my shoes, stripped off my jeans and flopped down in tank top and thong, all while he silently stood by; whether he was clueless or speechless I don’t know, but I actually had to ask “are you going to fuck me, or what?” to stir him to action. In retrospect, I should have known at that moment, as well as the interminable next moments when he insisted on taking off his Docs, then removing and carefully folding his jeans because he didn’t want to risk grass stains (yes, really), that this guy wasn’t for me. Unfortunately, blinded by hormones and exhibitionist lust, I overlooked it and the rest was lovely enough. It was better, though, when I did it with the Favorite.
My last opportunity for sex would have been an outdoor fuck, had I accepted. We were staying at my family’s one-room weekend home, sharing a sofa bed because we had a full house, and as soon as everyone else was asleep on Friday night our silent gropings began with his hand snaking up my back. We kissed and touched and I may have ground my crotch on his knee through my shorty pajamas, amping up the intensity until we could take no more and crept outside to cool off. As we sat in the dark with cigarettes, though, furtively whispering what we so desperately wanted to do, his clear blue eyes blazed into mine and my bare foot kept finding its way into his lap and cooling off just wasn’t happening. He would make a suggestion–go into the woods, in my car, back inside and fuck quietly–and I’d shoot them down (in order: ticks, hatchback, and Ican’twhenI’mthishorny). Eventually we gave up, went back to bed, and didn’t discuss it again. Until the next night. The cabin got dark, people started to snore, and we started to dry-hump. Back outside, sitting in the same chairs, having the same conversation but more intense, more profane with the pent-up frustration, and dismissing the same options until he suggested a new one: the bed of a pickup truck parked below. I considered it, I really did, to the extent of eyeing chair cushions to use for padding my knees, but my mind somehow got through the lusty fog–created by his fingertips tracing tiny patterns high on my inner thighs–with the all-time ice water image to end them all: my father getting up to pee, looking out the bathroom window and down at his little girl bare-assed and fucking a boy he’d been welcoming into his house since middle school. I always imagined we’d find a better time and a more appropriate place, but a scant two months later I broke my neck. And so it never happened. If he would happen to read this–and if he remembers, even a little–he should know this: it would have been amazing. And thinking about it still makes me hot.
