My teenage brain said I was ready to do the dirty but my draconian step-mother and her busybody friends said otherwise.
So I began exploring my sexuality in the only safe place I could find: the great outdoors.
My theme song that summer was “Rebel Yell” by Billy Idol. My sexual adventures were as much an expression of my need for liberty as they were an expression of my budding erotic desires.
At that moment, the hunky cabana boy at the beach club was as wild a thing as the tiny island of Bermuda had to offer. He also was my source of hard-to-come-by weed, so double the allure. I’d flirt with him in the beach hut as he hefted stacks of lounge chairs, muscles rippling. Building the anticipation.
By the time it finally happened, I was primed. He came prepared with a bottle of Cockspur rum and a fat spliff. The delicious burn of the rum and tobacco in my throat made it feel all the more dangerous. Here I was, exploring my sexuality in a forbidden locale with an island bad boy and I very much liked it. He pounded me as the waves lapped rhythmically against the soft, pink sand. Our bodies writhed together under the brilliant sub-tropical moon.
“In the midnight hour she cried more, more, more…”
Billy Idol wasn’t wrong. We blared the song during the day, then acted out the chorus under cover of night.
My second stop in the great outdoors sex circuit was the 14th hole at the Mid-Ocean Golf Club. This time with a different dude and stronger, more delicious rum — the famous Black Seal, made right there on Bermuda. Swigging it back in between puffs of the omnipresent spliff, I could feel the cool midnight breeze tickling my bare skin. The shrill sound of tree frogs added to the buzzing in my head, unleashing a driving force that had us swarming all over each other in no time.
Ah, the frenzied, breathless sex of youth. All vigor and enthusiasm but lacking a certain grace. Not that I knew it at the time — I was still learning. The second my ass hit the scratchy Bermuda grass and his powerful thrusts began planting me in the ground, I learned that you should always bring a protective towel to your rendezvous in the great outdoors!
Billy Idol sung about sex at midnight, the sex I was having. I was escaping the house, escaping the reach of my step-mother, and discovering what my body liked and needed. But was it enough? I yearned to explore even riskier scenarios, to do it out in the open, with the warmth of soothing sunshine on my bare buttocks.
An adventurous boyfriend introduced me to the beauty of the Deschutes National Forest with its majestic mountains, thundering waterfalls and rivers, and tranquil lakes.
When I moved to Oregon many moons later as a single, middle-aged woman, I stepped up my game. An adventurous boyfriend introduced me to the beauty of the Deschutes National Forest with its majestic mountains, thundering waterfalls and rivers, and tranquil lakes. We let our love shine through at a new spot every weekend, armed with the usual flask of rum and bowls of Oregon Sativa. We both had so much to give. Nowhere was off limits.
The rum was now mixed with Kahlua, the weed was far superior, and the sex had added depth. I had learned that preparation was sexy — there’s nothing unromantic about having everything you need within arm’s reach. Especially when you’re next to a waterfall. There is something about the sound of rushing water and the feel of the cool spray as it cascades off the rocks that gets those juices flowing freely.
There is something about the sound of rushing water and the feel of the cool spray as it cascades off the rocks.
It wasn’t just the rum and marijuana that improved with age. It was the music too. “Rebel Yell” might have been perfect for hasty teenage sex on a golf course, but there’s nothing like some groovin’ funk and soul when you really know what you’re doing. Marvin Gaye was a master of sensuality and “Let’s Get it On” was my new theme song.
I knew the lay of the land in Central Oregon, I knew the appropriate party favors, and by that time, I knew how to get what I wanted. I was being courted by a delightful young man about half my age. A student of the sexual arts, he was up for anything. Giving himself to me could never be wrong.
He drove down from Portland one day, motivated by the promise of hot action in the cool High Desert. Package in hand, I led him into an ancient rock formation in a glorious canyon frequented primarily by locals and their pooches. The canyon river bed had long since run dry, but not us. The fountain of youth flowed not once, not twice, but three times… a testament to the outstanding resilience of twenty-somethings when inspired by fresh air, good pot, and an enthusiastic mentor.
I cherish those memories, just as I cherish the magnificence of the great outdoors.
Later that day, we made our way to the well-traveled trail around a popular lake. We took Marvin’s advice and “just let ourselves go,” shunning the cover of foliage or the privacy provided by the many giant rocks. I lay back, shorts around my ankles, and buried a hand into his thick head of hair. The sunshine and the breeze lifted me up as I rode the rhythm of his pulsing, talented tongue.
Just as I was reaching my peak, Tilly and Tommy Tourist rounded a corner of the trail, and came upon what must have been quite a sight. Shorts yanked up and angel wings switched on high, we flew out of there, laughing uproariously as the tsk, tsk, tsk-ing of the disapproving tourists rang in our ears.
Frankly, I didn’t give a shit. We are blessed with these bodies that are capable of feeling a huge array of amazing feelings. Over and over and over again. For free. I’m just so glad that I am a woman who understands and appreciates her capabilities without hang-ups or imposed moral judgments.
I cherish those memories, just as I cherish the magnificence of the great outdoors. When the environment is just right and you’re in full control of a perfectly tailored sexual experience, what could be better?
It’s great being an adult.