Have you ever been camping? Not with the kids; just with an overly sexed lover. The kind that you know you will just surrender to in the sanctity of a thinly veiled canvas tent. Wouldn’t do anything to protect you from hungry bears, but just enough to separate you from the chilly night, only illuminated by the azure sky backlit by a full, red moon.
I’ve camped many times, but I never camped with a lover. You just draw me to the depths of my imagination when I think what could happen within the comfort of a snug sleeping bag with you. You are the best lover I’ve ever had. You’ve challenged my imagination then comforted me as you cradled my head in your arms.
What I love about camping is the smell of everything; the outdoors, the trees, the pine cones, the cedars. The bug repellents, sprayed on the tent over the years leave my olfactory senses dented with the mere thought of being naked with you, carrying the waft of it in your hair.
Though you smell perfect, you carry the scent of Deep Woods, or deet, or whatever nature’s man-made perfume permeates. You still smell super clean with the scent of Lush you used in the morning, but now we’re roughing it. This arouses my animalistic desires.
Once we’re in the sleeping bag, I take you in my arms and you smell the Dior on my neck that still lingers from earlier this morning. The combination of Dior and smoke from the campfire makes you let go of all inhibitions. You just want to be taken. You feel awkward about it, but I know you deserve it and I will so make you deserve it.
I unzip the sleeping bag (two singles opened and zipped together to make a double, cozy sleeping bag) and let you in first. I strip naked and take my time to let you revel my hard, slim body (I’ve been jogging and doing weights) though the dimly lit tent.
You are cozying up still dressed in the sleeping bag zipped for two and I stand over you, erect, and bulging in the right places like an Egyptian God. The lantern produces an orange glow in the tent that makes me look bronze, again, resembling an Egyptian Pharoah. You feel in the presence of greatness and you are utterly dumbfounded. No words come to your lips, which are now quivering.
Beyond my head are the shadows of moths flying overhead outside the tent, their impatient wings flapping innocently but annoyingly on the outer shroud of our abode, a simple Coleman tent.
You open the sleeping bag open to invite me in. I kneel on my knees, now with a full circumcised erection, and you take it in your cold hands eagerly.
I feel goose bumps and a chill setting in and I move into the sleeping bag. My hardness, still between your hands, finds itself between your thighs.