One and Two and Three and...

Benjamin's On Parade

Sophie Tucker is often quoted, "I've been rich and I've been poor. Rich is better."

I quite agree. I grew up securely in the middle class. There was usually enough, though at times I knew we were living paycheck to paycheck. It was only in high school and then college that I realized how much in the middle of the great bell curve of financial well-being that I had grown up in - a solid "C".

College was as close to poverty and the very real experience of being a starving student, without a car, working evenings to minimize taking the bait of student loans that I ever cared to encounter. Yes, there was a family sized safety net. I was certainly not alone.

At the time this story begins I was doing alright. The only loan I carried was a mortgage, fixed rate at just under 4%. I had credit cards but paid them down to zero every month, or as soon as reasonably possible. Divorced just over a year, but no alimony (no kids, so no child support.)

I was politically pragmatic, i.e., somebody pays and somebody benefits - be kind, be helpful. Trust but verify.

My mom's dad (don't call me grandpa or pops or any of that shit, "Bill, just Bill.") was a recovering alcoholic and from the time I was eight, summer meant four to seven weeks of camping and adventuring throughout the Sierra Nevada and/or the Southwest. We would drive to a location he had chosen then spend a week or more fishing, panning for gold(seriously!), or collecting fossils. Then we'd drive to a new spot and repeat. We caught some fish, found a little bit of gold, did more than good with fossils. I miss Bill.

You can ask my mom - hell, you can ask my ex-wife, they'll both tell you(and Bill would have agreed); I sleep the sleep of the dead. Nine times out of ten, if something happens, I'm sleeping right through it.

One of the downsides of this is a frantic need to pee when I do wake up. So this particular morning, which is day one in the story of my change in finances. This is how it happened.

I woke up with that fierce need to pee requiring me to get out of my sleeping bag, safely cross the floor of the tent in the pre-dawn dimness, unzip the rain flap, grab my cock and aim for a spot I did not intend to walk thru or stand in once I was up and about.

Oh, sweet relief.

Glancing out through the tent window as dawn came to my campsite, it was obvious that last nights rain had left a lot of mud behind. Coffee preceded any continuing observation or hard decision making. I mean seriously not much was likely to change in the next fifteen minutes.

Coffee was simple enough; open a gas valve on the fuel canister, light the Jet-Boil, get the Aeropress set up, filter in place, coffee measured, pour in not quite boiling water, stir, and let sit for a couple of minutes. While the coffee was getting ready to do it's magic I had a bit of a mess to clean up from last night. Somewhere in my sleeping bag was a cum-soaked wad of toilet paper.

Yeah I know, but this is an important part of the story. I woke up during the storm with a throbbing hard on, one of those 'your dick is so freakin' hard it hurts' erections. When I was married, wow, there's a statement - when I was married.

Ok, so when I was married these epic throbbing hard-on events would occur every month or so. It was always preceded by a rather intense and very much guilt-ridden dream. I say guilt-ridden because the dream was a very vivid replaying of the one and only time I cheated on my wife - I'll explain in a moment.

My wife and I were both side sleepers and she liked to sleep with me behind her. Needless to say, I'd poke her awake with my dream inspired beast. Now here's the strange part. We may have gone to bed that night with Amy (my ex) turning down sex. "Not tonight honey, I'm too ______" and feel free to just fill in the blank with any bullshit excuse.

But wake her up by poking her butt with a throbbing erection and she wouldn't hesitate to roll me onto my back, mount me, and ride me hard until we both came (for me, usually just the one orgasm - for her; often two or more.) I would just lay there passively as she did all the work. She didn't want me touching or fondling her in any way. Any offer of oral sex was ignored, my only job was to provide one very stiff dick. Once I came and my dick began to soften she would roll off of me and slide towards her side of the bed. We would both quickly fall back into deep, dreamless sleep.

In the morning she'd awaken feeling great; give my dick an affectionate tug, whisper me a "thank you for last night, you naughty boy", peck a kiss on my cheek, and then go smiling into her day. Every single time - it was a helluva thing.

I, on the other hand, would receive the tug, the comment, and the kiss, all the while trying mightily to maintain a calm and loving facade as guilt ate me up on inside and then deal with it for most of the rest of my day.

The guilt was the well deserved cost for the cause of the erection dream. Which as I said was the one and only time I was ever unfaithful to my wife. Even this morning, divorced for over a year, that damn dream left me feeling guilty.

And I am absolutely sure Amy never knew about my indiscretion. Our divorce was centered around issues of ambition and money (or more specifically her opinion of my lack of ambition and the corresponding paucity of my contribution to our financial situation.)

I was a high school teacher, and had been one for thirteen years. Amy knew the entirety of my career path well enough because at the time we met she was a teacher too (middle school, in her case.) At least that was until about four years ago when she got lured into the private sector (by an educational software and computer-aided learning company) and began making bucketfuls of money. As the years rolled on we had many an argument about our diverging life goals and then one day - totally out of the blue - she told me she'd been head-hunted by an executive search company and was moving to New York.

I was not invited to accompany her on her new direction in life.

Not quite a year after her moving to the Big Apple, unsurprisingly, I received divorce papers. She included a quit claim for the house we'd co-owned, along with offering me a "you keep yours and I'll keep mine" financial split. And just like that, we were divorced. There was no mention of my marital transgression and I had no intention of mucking up the waters.

My one-time cheat involved a fellow teacher, Sonya (last name withheld for privacy), who coincidentally had been a sophomore at the high school when I started teaching. She was a brilliant student with a deep drive to become a teacher, which I supported and encouraged wholeheartedly. Nothing sexual or inappropriate ever happened between us - NOTHING!

She graduated, went off to University and I did not see her for years. Then I was invited to attend a week-long teacher training conference. I went and that is where I ran into Sonya, a recently minted and state-certified STEM teacher working at a swanky charter school. I didn't even recognize her at first; she was literally half the size of her former self, her thick lens glasses had been swapped for contacts, and her skin had finally cleared up. We had a delightful time re-connecting and everything was fine and aboveboard until the last night of the conference. There was a dinner and awards ceremony which quickly devolved into a drunken party. I was one of those decidedly drunk by the end of dinner so I said my good-byes and made ready for bed. I was just getting beneath the covers when someone knocked loudly and persistently on the door to my room. Upon my opening the door Sonya pushed pass me begging for sanctuary.

Sonya was fleeing a very uncomfortable roommate problem. Evidently hers was intent on fucking as many attendees as possible (men and women welcomed.) Sonya ended her plea stating, "Please let me stay, I know I can trust you Daniel."

In some ways this was a situation of my own making, earlier at dinner I had mentioned that my roommate had packed up and checked out. So I commiserated with Sonya and allowed her to stay, stating that 'I hoped she didn't snore too loudly.' I should have paid more attention to her response - 'that won't be a problem.'

Sonya had good cause to trust me. Her experience while my student as well as my behavior this week demonstrated my every intention of being and remaining the perfect gentleman. Sonya, however, had no intention of being a perfect lady. I was nearly asleep when she climbed into my bed, undeniably naked, rubbing her body against mine.

I could state in my behalf that this chaste week at the conference had followed and just overlapped a two week business trip my wife had been on. The sensation of a naked female body pressed against mine had an immediate and obvious effect - I popped an immediate and truly fierce erection.

My back had been to Sonya and as I turned to push her out of bed she sprang over me, pivoting, and engulfed my cock in her mouth as she straddled my head pushing her fragrant pussy into my face.

I never had a chance.

My gentlemanly intention while easily stated, floated away on a sea of alcohol induced passivity. I was overwhelmed by a vigorous blowjob, and a very wet pussy made appealingly available.

I kept telling myself "l'll be able to stop this as soon as she comes." Then I convinced myself I'd stop her as soon as I come, or, as soon as...that point was never reached.

I realized I was no going back the moment she sat up, turned around, and impaled herself on my steel hard, throbbing cock. My passivity dissolved into active participation- we fucked with abandon.

Between the time she crawled into my bed and the 11 AM check out time the next morning, we fucked and slept and fucked and slept and on and on. She even gave me a final round in the shower, relishing my cum splattering her face before rinsing it off. That was in response to her question, "What won't your wife let you do to her?" On that admittedly short list was "a facial."

Like many husbands, I'm believer by way of experience in the trope, "Men marry women wanting them never to change, women marry men expecting them to change." In my case, blowjobs to completion had gone from 'of course' to 'what's the special occasion?' But they never ever had any manner of 'facial' involved.

There was one time - many years ago - when Amy and I had watched a soft-porn movie with a number of references to tittie-fucking. You never saw a cock sliding between two gorgeous boobs, but you sure saw the positioning a few the motion. We were both slightly drunk and Amy really wanted to try it, like I was going to deny her the experience. She was actually getting kind of into it when I told her I was getting close. She encouraged me to "Let fly, babe." A oft repeated line in the movie. I took her at her word, so I didn't even bother uttering a "here it comes."

It was magnificent, an absolutely exuberant ejaculation. You want to know the one thing you never see in a soft porn movie - clean up. Amy has given me countless handjobs, she knows I'm not one of those couple of drips guys. My guess is Amy was looking down at my dick as I spurted. She got the full effect; a facial, an eyeful, and most unfortunately, a hair full of my cum.

She had been to the hairdresser's that very day. That she was on the receiving end of her very own 'There's Something About Mary' moment was not appreciated. Tittie-fucks were never repeated, facials were definitely off the menu, and now that I think about oral sex began a clear decline, at least when I was on the receiving end.

So when Sonya offered, I happily participated. That the was finale of our assignation. We dried, dressed and said our good-byes.

The coup de grace was her putting on her rings after we checked out.

"You're, you're married...seriously?" Fucking A, the hits just keep on coming. Now I felt twice as bad.

"I'm sorry Daniel, but as soon as I saw you I took them off. I had the biggest crush on you when I was your student. My husband has been talking about starting our family. So I was kind of looking at this conference as a possible last hurrah before committing to the house with a yard, the mom utility vehicle and everything else. When I saw you here, my decision was easy. And just for your own information, you were definitely worth the risk."

I went home riddled with guilt and made a solemn promise to myself that my wife's satisfaction was my number one goal. That first night back we engaged in a marathon sex session, that left my wife very, very satisfied. It left me utterly exhausted.

The next night was a repeat as I made every effort to ensure I had a very satisfied wife. Unfortunately, having more sex over a three day period than we'd had in the three months previous tapped me out. I was standing next to the bed pounding into Amy for all I was worth when she lifted up and smiled at me. That slight change of position caught me by surprise and I came immediately. I wasn't done spurting before I felt my dick go completely soft I was done for the night.

"No, Danny please, I'm so close. Do something!"

Guilt overrode any hesitation and I knelt down between her thighs at ate her out, and kept eating her out until she screamed and pushed my head away.

"Oh baby, that was the best." She pulled me beside her and wrapped herself in my arms, "God I love you."

She complained good-naturedly about the pounding she endured. I felt ever so slightly less shitty.

It was about a month later, by which time we had returned to our twice, maybe three times a week rhythm, that I had the dream, which entailed a near-perfect recollection of sex with Sonya. I woke up from that dream to my steel hard cock poking my wife's butt. She woke up, rolled me onto my back, mounted me, and fucked me until we both came and then back to sleep we went. Thus was set the pattern for many a dream induced session for years to come.

So last night, inspired by that vivid memory dream of my one act of infidelity, I grabbed a handful of toilet paper and did the deed to a happy ending of prodigious proportion. The endorphins from the orgasm knocked me right out.

Yet, the more things change the more they stay the same.

Having fallen asleep so quickly. The wad of slimy tp was neglected and had become displaced somewhere in my sleeping bag. Once awake I felt the need to remove it from my sleeping bag as soon as possible. The only reason I mention the jerk off session was that midway to completion I was pretty sure I'd heard the sound of an airplane flying north to south and fairly low, which considering the intensity of the storm meant too damn low for safety.

Yeah, complete non sequitur, but that's how all of this started. If the hard on hadn't wakened me, I doubt I'd have heard anything. Anyway, I've never heard aircraft in this part of the desert, not that it wasn't possible, just never heard one. Seen 'em, sure - high contrails and all, just never heard one. This aircraft had been flying very low. And the audio memory of that too loud Doppler effect would not leave me alone.

Properly caffeinated, I unzipped the bug screen and stepped out into the post storm morning. That the air was razor sharp and clear was not a surprise, that my truck was so clean was pleasantly enjoyable - at least it would be until it was time to pack up and leave. No, the surprise was the deliciousness of the abundant silence. If you haven't experienced real silence, you have no idea what your missing.

The arroyo was obviously wider, but not that much deeper. It showed no other evidence of last night's flash flood. I'd come out here to camp knowing a storm was forecast for the middle portion of my vacation. Last nights rager had not even been hinted at, being out of range of a cell tower did have its disadvantages.

The road I'd driven in on did not cross the arroyo so I likely had a safe and reasonable way out after a couple of days of drying. But that didn't stop me from looking south and wondering about that aircraft.

I made myself a couple of breakfast burritos, eating one immediately and prepping the other for lunch. While I was eating I kept looking south, curiosity was tickling my attention.

Curiosity won. This particular trip had been intended to be focused on collecting fossils, about which I'll say no more. My endeavors while not illegal are not enough the I live a life of luxury but it's a wonderful way to supplement one's income.

I prepped my bike, a not to oldvHonda XR 250 with some simple modifications including an oversized gas tank and some tool and storage racks. I could squeeze almost 200 miles of range in most off-road conditions. I decided a conservative 75 miles outward bound would have to suffice. That decided, I kicked it over and rode south.

At about the 37 mile mark I had to choose between two canyons, the main one angled slightly southwest, the other jogged just east of due south. I knew the main canyon began to open up in another 20 miles so I stayed with it but slowly climbed toward the ridge line hoping that it might give me a view of both routes, thereby eliminating the need to go to the end of the main canyon which would save me range and time.

The view from the ridge was spectacular, but uneventful. I could have backtracked to the mouth of the second canyon but it looked like there was a workable path down into it from the ridge. I recalculated my range and headed down.

Down was challenging, going slower than I'd planned. Once I was in the easier riding bottom of the canyon I stopped for a quick lunch. I pulled out a USGS map of the area and studied the terrain ahead of me which unfortunately didn't tell me much at all. Rested, refreshed, and ready I mounted up and motored on.

For reasons unknown (I've spent years in this general area but never any time in this particular canyon) the terrain I was riding became fairly open with better visibility. There were sections where I could let the bike go a little faster. The bike handled the challenge excellently.

I was having so much fun I almost missed the crash site.

Oh shit - would you look at that.

I was experiencing multiple levels of shock, I mean, I was actually shaking. I was also having a hard time processing the scene in front of me.

I think Hollywood has messed up our expectation of crashes. In the movies there is hardly the crash of a car, truck, airplane, or anything big that isn't accompanied by a huge fireball and a tremendous cloud of dark, roiling smoke.

Real crashes are completely different. Lots of crumpled metal, fluids dripping or pooling, and surprisingly, after the fact of the act, uneasy quiet. It simply is what you are seeing.

I'd never seen a real airplane crash site. What I was seeing was way beyond crumpled metal - it was more brutal. First, this wasn't some little two seater aircraft, this appeared to be some kind of commercial aircraft, an older twin engine cargo plane, type unknown. The front third of the aircraft was gone, squashed flat and pulverized all the way back to the leading edge of the wing. From that point to the tail the metal of the fuselage was rippled and bent. One engine was just gone, the other hung at a strange angle, but curiously the majority of the wings were relatively intact. You could look up the cliff side and see the actual point of impact. There was not the slightest sign of fire, though the odor of fuel was still present.

I got off my bike and worked my way up toward the plane. There was no visible access door on my approach side, so I ducked underneath the tail to the other side. Above me and clearly out of reach was a large cargo door - still secure.

I moved forward until I reached the trailing edge of the wing where it intersected the fuselage. I was just able to scramble up onto it. I moved along the fuselage until I reached a window that allowed me to look inside.