We were hiking trail up by Miller's Peak, the one with the towering redwoods and the silence so deep you can hear your own blood humming. We hiked for about an hour, hand in hand, breathing in that clean, piney air. It was perfect. Idyllic. And I was getting that familiar itch.
I squeezed her hand. She knew the signal instantly. We veered off the main path, following a barely-there deer trail up a small, mossy incline. We found our spot: a flat, sun-warmed granite slab, surrounded by ferns and hidden from the trail by a thicket of manzanita.
There's a ritual to it. We lay down our bandanas, not for propriety, but because pine needles are a bitch to get out of your clothes. We don't look at each other, not at first. We find our own trees to focus on. I found a gnarled old cedar, its bark like a wizened, ancient face. She found a younger, smoother-barked maple.
We leaned back against our respective trees, about ten feet apart, and just started. The sounds are the best part. It's not the sound of sex, not the grunting or the dirty talk. It's the sound of the forest. The rustle of a squirrel in the underbrush, the distant call of a hawk, the whisper of the wind through the redwood needles, all layered with the soft, rhythmic sound of two people breathing heavily, trying to be quiet.
It feels ancient, almost pagan. Like we're tapping into some primal energy, offering up our own little moment of life force to the woods. We're not just in nature; we're a part of it. A couple of bipedal animals, seeking release under the watchful gaze of thousand-year-old trees.
When we finish, it's always in near-silence. A sharp intake of breath, a muffled gasp. Then, the quiet settles back in, deeper and more satisfied than before. We clean up with wet wipes, pack out our trash like responsible hikers, and share a chaste, post-coitus kiss.
Then we hike back down the trail, holding hands, feeling that peaceful, post-orgasmic glow mixed with the exhilaration of the exercise. We'll pass other hikers, families with kids, old couples with walking sticks, and they'll smile at us, two happy people enjoying a day in the woods. They have no idea that we just christened their favorite hiking trail. If only those redwoods could talk.
I squeezed her hand. She knew the signal instantly. We veered off the main path, following a barely-there deer trail up a small, mossy incline. We found our spot: a flat, sun-warmed granite slab, surrounded by ferns and hidden from the trail by a thicket of manzanita.
There's a ritual to it. We lay down our bandanas, not for propriety, but because pine needles are a bitch to get out of your clothes. We don't look at each other, not at first. We find our own trees to focus on. I found a gnarled old cedar, its bark like a wizened, ancient face. She found a younger, smoother-barked maple.
We leaned back against our respective trees, about ten feet apart, and just started. The sounds are the best part. It's not the sound of sex, not the grunting or the dirty talk. It's the sound of the forest. The rustle of a squirrel in the underbrush, the distant call of a hawk, the whisper of the wind through the redwood needles, all layered with the soft, rhythmic sound of two people breathing heavily, trying to be quiet.
It feels ancient, almost pagan. Like we're tapping into some primal energy, offering up our own little moment of life force to the woods. We're not just in nature; we're a part of it. A couple of bipedal animals, seeking release under the watchful gaze of thousand-year-old trees.
When we finish, it's always in near-silence. A sharp intake of breath, a muffled gasp. Then, the quiet settles back in, deeper and more satisfied than before. We clean up with wet wipes, pack out our trash like responsible hikers, and share a chaste, post-coitus kiss.
Then we hike back down the trail, holding hands, feeling that peaceful, post-orgasmic glow mixed with the exhilaration of the exercise. We'll pass other hikers, families with kids, old couples with walking sticks, and they'll smile at us, two happy people enjoying a day in the woods. They have no idea that we just christened their favorite hiking trail. If only those redwoods could talk.
→
SinParty
Comments
No comments yet. Be the first.