Down the Tourist Hill

It was a gentle slope, not a strenuous hike, but it went on for quite a bit, maybe a half-mile. It was some kind of national monument, maybe a memorial. Maybe it was a battlefield site, something from the Revolutionary or maybe Civil War. The ground and the environment was like upstate New York, the Northeast, something like that. I didn't really care.

I was at the top, and ready to head down. All by myself, the wife off doing something else, shopping I think (how cliche' is that?), and the kids off exploring on their own as well. I was in a small souvenir store, and I'd struck up a conversation with the owner, a surprisingly attractive older lady who I found to be more and more beautiful as we stood and chatted.

She was a sort of Twin Peaks Peggy Lipton, tall and blond. Erect posture, with just magnificently formed arms and legs. She was no stick, but just a tall, maybe 6'1" stunning blonde. She was captivating, smart, and as we talked I was more and more attracted.

Just a normal store owner, selling local crafts, things folks brought to her on consignment, along with the usual tourist trinkets. She won me over early when she said she refused to sell the rattlesnakes in clear resin, the stretched rubber Indian (feather, not dot) drums made in Bangladesh, the lame, cheap kiddie muskets. There were plenty of places selling that carp--her word--so there was no need for her to degrade herself of her business by offering the same. Yeah, she was losing traffic and some profit in that, but it was a decision of principle. Man, I thought she was the greatest.

And so it was time for me to walk on down to the car. I guess it was a rendezvous time or something. She asked if I'd like her to walk along with me, and I quickly agreed. She left the store with a clerk and we headed down the meandering paved path, beautiful grass and trees all around, the occasional souvenir joint along the way. It was a beautiful day, spring I believe, and I couldn't be happier than to be walking with her.

I wanted so badly to take her hand. Not a move, not a precursor of something to come, just because I liked her and found her interesting, and wanted to let her know that in a deeper way. As I mulled this, she took mine.

Now it was clear, as usual the lady taking the lead for me. That's the way I work, and it's worked out okay so far. She was soft and warm, just perfect as we walked.

Everything was just great, perfect. I was a perfectly happy guy. No thoughts of the wife or the kids (this is a dream, after all). She would ask me about my car, where it was parked, how big it was, etc. She was not being crude, but her line of inquiry was clearly geared to what two consenting adults might be able to do in such a space.

And we were well in luck, as I just happened to have a converted dually pickup that had a sort of cabin in the back. It was a camper shell, nothing pre-fab or store-bought, but instead was an all-wood cabin that I'd made myself and put into the back of the truck. It was a neat thing, an eye-catcher, and I'd done it all myself. I was pretty proud of it, and wanted to show it to her. She was interested in seeing it, and she wanted to climb inside.

Yeah, my arousal was building, but more than anything I just wanted to lay with her. She was so perfect that I just wanted to hold her, feel her warmth, be with her, make her feel good. The raw physical pull of the promise of soon-to-be sex with a beautiful and energetic woman was there, sure, but I was actually more interested in a deeper connection rather than a quickie in a rocking pickup box in a tourist parking lot.

We got to the bottom of the hill and arrived at the truck just as both my wife and kids came up. She dropped my hand smoothly and quietly, and was so cool with everyone, she was instantly friends with them as well. She was a perfect person. As the wife and kids compared adventures and purchases, she gave me a slight shrug and a wink, and unspoken, "Well, we tried." She wanted to, and so did I, but it just wouldn't work out. And that was that, no huge disappointment, no feelings of anguish or anger; it just didn't happen, that's all.

So we all piled into the truck, which now had a glass hatchback, the wooden cabin gone. I offered my blond tourist lady a ride back up to her place, and she accepted, sitting in the back with the kids. They thought she was great, and they'd only known her for five minutes.

We took the meandering road to the top, and I opened the the hatchback and pulled her out the back. She gave me the slightest touch on the chest as I did, and she whispered, "Come on back sometime." I smiled and nodded, and she was off through the manicured paths back to her shop.

I crested the hill, and there was a creek. (A creek running along the crest of a big hill? Whatever.) But not deep, and across was where we wanted to go. Why go all the way back down and around, when we could ford on the gravel bottom? I eased the truck into the creek, and as the kids and wife screamed like the idiots they were being, we sloshed right on across the creek, maybe 40 feet all together. Up and out, but not onto a street. It was more like a river walk path, narrow concrete, for pedestrians, not large trucks. I turned right, down another hill. The wife and kids were screaming about cops and walkers and all kinds of stupid crap. I eased it down, nice and slow, and we pulled out onto a suburban street with the slightest bump as we drove off the curb. No problem.

And we were only blocks from the turn to our way home. Right on Route 1.2, and off we went. It hadn't been a bad trip.