Vivid memories, solo vacation edition

Leaning against sun-warmed rocks at the last switchback below the highest alpine pass, far above the tree line, just before Labor Day, the only registered hiker on that remote side of that remote wilderness area. So high up that the surrounding mountain peaks, many still capped with snow, spread out around me as if mere wave crests in a colossal, static sea.

And resting after lunch I got out pen and paper to write the partner I had neither seen nor spoken to all summer. So far separated we were by time zones, mountain ranges, wilderness area trail assignments... and not even phone lines to our respective base camps that letters were the only way we could believe we still existed.

And the more I thought of her the warmer I felt, and as my heart grew fonder my mind wandered and my pen ambled further and further from fevered words towards lines, curves, and more and more lifelike representations of her body, her face, her breasts and ass...

... and I have to say that for all the pixellated abundance of erotic photography there's something far more fundamentally real about limning from memory the lines of your partner's arches and creases with all the heat and passion longing can bring, wishing, wondering, if she could feel whisperings of your caresses and know how much you thought, cared, knew...

And during a break in my reverie, taken when I had to rub away some of the ache in my cock, I realized she already knew *her* body and so I started to draw mine, and so for reference I undressed with the world spread out below, and as I drew and reminisced and wrote and stroked my passion grew such that I rushed to close with my fondest wishes...

...and then leaned back against the rocks, cock in hand, eyes slipping closed with lust, then open to look at her curves as I'd drawn them then rolling up and closed again, the warm, dry wind tickling the hair of my belly and thighs, the scent of heathers and mountain berry leaves full in my nose, and my gripped hand shuttling to and fro so that when I finally came my legs gave way and the lichen-rough stone stroked rough against my back as I slid to my knees, and the last, smallest droplet of semen pattered on paper, surprisingly close to my losing words.

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I'll be up in the mountains again this weekend, this time with friends and family, in a cabin with beds and books, showers and stoves, games, and even a phone. I *don't* know, however, if there will be internet. If not then till Tuesday morning have a great weekend.