White Night

White Night

Take control immediately!

A loud beep came from the car speakers, demanding attention to the screen message. Morgen's attention jerked from a road reverie, his hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes jumped to the highway ahead, scanning for danger. The car slowed. Bridge ahead, a white lump in the breakdown lane. A bag of trash? Maybe an animal, doubtless deceased. A bird ... big ... a swan? goose? Past it, not sure. Odd. But why the warning -- a bridge shadow? What neural network nervousness saw danger in a shadow? He glanced over at his wife; Stevie's face showed surprise.

"What was that?" She turned around. "It looked like ... can't see it anymore."

"Probably Elon fucking with us again," he said, shaking his head and pressing the accelerator to resume highway speed.

"No, that white thing. Poor creature!"

"Just some trash, I think. People do litter." His thoughts returned to the road, reminded that driving a Tesla was an exercise in relinquishing and regaining control, sometimes at short notice. Elon boasted of FSD: Full Self Driving -- or Frequently Shitty Driving. Morgen was not tempted even to try the full FSD package, though the speed and lane control features were useful.

The landscape became less civilized as the Model 3 drove north through New Hampshire's White Mountains, headed for Vermont. Hills grew into mountains; trees displaced houses and stores. The couple had cleared their schedules for a week of camping.

Camping: the act of staying and sleeping in an outside area for one or more days and nights, usually in a tent.

Actually more of a process than an act, though acting may be required. Stevie and Morgen came to it with divergent approaches. Over the years they had jostled, debated, tolerated and converged to an amiable compromise.

A die-hard minimalist, Morgen considered camping an opportunity to practice selective privation. In younger years his gear was limited by bicycle and backpack constraints. Every pound hauled uphill under his own power weighed heavy. So, check and update the list of tested, high-quality equipment. Choose multipurpose tools, some redundancy. Consult the weather oracles. Evaluate a site carefully to take advantage of its features: sun, wind, trees, ground slope and condition ... Field of fire, cover and escape routes? Perhaps not the last few, though Morgen's outdoor experience was informed by a brief military stint. He made the most of what he found, creating temporary but secure shelter.

By contrast, Stevie camped with comfort as a priority. The absence of solid roof and walls imposed challenges that could be met with appropriate equipment carried inside or on the roof of a car. A spacious tent, folding chairs & table, several large tarps, a broad selection of cooking tools, a large cooler, variety of clothing -- all to make a campsite more homelike.

One of the clearest distinctions between camping approaches was the matter of overnight cushioning. As a hardy youth camping solo, Morgen did without a pad (local vegetation might substitute), but he had advanced to using a thin sleeping pad. Stevie originally liked a pump-inflated mattress half a foot thick. At bedtime it entertained as a moon bounce but by morning usually had lost much mojo and its sleepers were near grounded. Their preferences had converged on Thermarest pads more substantial than those of Morgen's earlier practice. They slept well together.

Sustenance was another matter of difference. Morgen's habit had been to keep it simple, often eating sandwiches and cooking infrequently. Stevie preferred more elaborate meals prepared from a cooler full of fresh ingredients and a variety of condiments. Morgen usually did cleanup.

But enough about divergences -- both Morgen and Stevie greatly enjoyed camping. In early afternoon they reached the Crystal Spring Lake State Park campground, checked in and wound their way to site F-39. Though work obligations prevented her joining, Stevie's daughter Mona had made the reservation after careful study and evaluation; she had a gift for selecting prime sites. As did the others, F-39 offered a picnic table, fire pit and parking for two cars. In addition there was a solid log lean-to -- not big enough for tents, but shelter against September rain. Most attractive, the site boasted several hundred feet of shoreline on Crystal Spring Lake.

They parked the Tesla and unloaded. Well-practiced, they set up and provisioned the tent in short order. Morgen made a trip back to the welcome station, returning with a bundle of firewood. Can one call it camping without fire? Stevie organized the food and lit the stove, then prepared macaroni & cheese as darkness fell. Pinot Grigio further relaxed them. Embers glowed in the fire pit.

"Marshmallows? S'mores?" asked Morgen.

"I'm sleepy. How about tomorrow?" Stevie yawned and touched his shoulder. "I'm off to the restroom."

"So you're privy to the restroom?" he murmured. "Don't get ahead of yourself." She repressed a groan and ruffled his hair.

"Terrible ... coming with me?" she asked.

"Not yet. I'll take advantage of my male privilege -- water this here pine tree. Looks a bit dry." Morgen had the gall to empty his bladder al fresco then listened to the night noises. Numerous birds sounded unusually worked up; their calls were loud and urgent. Wish I understood Bird. What stories, messages, warnings were being exchanged?

Stevie's headlamp bobbed as she returned and unzipped the tent door.

"Right or left?" Morgen asked. Either side's okay for my midnight exit."

"Left, as usual," she responded. "You're the damn libertarian right winger."

They maneuvered through the tent flap and arranged for bedtime. Headlamp, phone, watch, handkerchief, Glock 9 mm ... No, firearms should hardly be necessary to dissuade a curious critter. They slid into the sleeping bags -- two zipped together -- Stevie in a flannel nightgown, Morgen sans vêtements.

"Shall we do a puzzle or read? asked Stevie. The sleeping bags rustled.

"I want to read your puzzle," he answered. More rustling.

"Yow, cold!" Stevie squealed.

"Sorry, sorry ..."

He withdrew his hand from her breast and put it between his own thighs, then squirmed closer. He removed and switched off her headlamp. It was dark but other senses came into play. Their mouths found each other; the kiss was soft. She pulled her nightgown up over her shoulders; his hands held her arms while he kissed her again through the cloth. He lowered his hips. He'd recently had surgery for a long-term pained back. Recovery had been rapid and now he was able to move with only occasional discomfort. Actually, he was still working with a physical trainer, with specialized exercises to ...

[tangent warning -- take control immediately!]

... lowered his hips. His penis brushed her thighs. She sighed, then felt for him with her knees, but he had moved up; his erect organ brushing through her pubic hair, his testes nestled into her crotch.

"I got some purple stuff," she whispered. He released her arms and she fumbled for the tube. In a moment she brought her hand to his erection and began smearing the gel. He jerked back as he felt the cold but soon he welcomed his wife's warm hand as she stroked and teased. Time takes its toll but a pill promotes the penis, she thought, squeezing his hardness.

"Daddy's little helper?" she whispered.

"Yep, seemed like tonight would be eye-deal."

He shifted his body to the side so she could continue her exquisite massage and brought his mouth to her breast. He found a nipple stiffened by cold and further aroused it with his tongue. She pressed her breast up against his mouth and slowed her hand's up and down travel. She twisted further, took his testes in her slick hand and further spread goo over them. Morgen pulled Stevie's breast into his mouth like an ice cream cone and sucked, then took a breath, feeling his testes massaged.

"I don't expect to get that deep," he laughed. "Could be major pain. For you."

"That deep? You mean ball-deep. But I want you in all the way. I want to feel that purple penis tip tapping on my heart."

"Ah, that would be anatomically ... difficult. Downright uncomfortable, I'd say. But every inch of me is yours."

He quickly kissed her unsucked breast, then began the "round peg seeking the round hole" dance. The search was brief as she raised her hips. Her hand guiding, they slid together. Though they knew each other very well by this time. Morgen still -- again -- felt a unity, cohabitation, insertion and envelopment, tidal filling and emptying, yinning and yanking. Speed was not of the essence. Better to measure, vary on a whim, sometimes holding still, just breathing while deeply interpenetrated. She wrapped her arms--and her aromas--around him; he pushed her pubis so hard she slid on the smooth nylon. With a deep breath, he increased ...

[Now wait! Hold on! Is this a camping trip or a pornerotic bagatelle? What else was going on? Who's in the next campsite playing the banjo badly? What about those noisy birds?]

The sunrise foretold a clear and bright day. An ambitious early exerciser trotted by, logging a few wake-up miles. Smoke from the fire pit curled around a giant blue RV squeezed into site R-3, its expandable sides assertively cranked out. In bold script it announced itself as a Falcon 37 Deluxe. Each flank of the fuselage featured a fierce white bird of prey. A sign with the motto Pride In The Past, Faith In The Future covered most of the rear bumper. The New Hampshire plate said FLYNFYT; its frame added USAF Retired. From a gleaming pole, Old Glory waved in dawn's early light.

Inside, a heavy man with a graying short haircut lay on the couch. One hand had pulled down his faded blue gym shorts. The other ringed and slowly pumped his erect organ. That girl at the beach -- lifeguard. Red suit, blonde, nice boobs. I'd like to invite her over to this crankable double-wide. Wonder what it'd be like to bone her with the walls going in & out... Maybe weird, but could I wire it so that ... Roddy returned his attention to the big screen in the big living room in his big RV, on which women blessed with big boobs got fucked for a long time by guys with big cocks and seemed to enjoy it. He sighed, then resumed stroking.

Stevie and Morgen slept well and late, wrapped in each other. He had taken his usual 4 AM urinary respite, shivering as his stream steamed in the faint light. Now just shake, rattle... A rustle nearby. Penis in hand, Morgen froze, then looked toward the sound. A branch cracked. He switched on his headlight. The white beam caught the furry tail of a creature as it loped into the bushes. Whoa, pretty big -- maybe a coyote? What the hell -- don't they avoid people? But I am the biggest creature in these woods -- fear me! He raised his arms in mock triumph, then switched off the headlight.

Fuck! Having tripped over a tent stake, he felt his way back into the tent and slid next to Stevie's warm body. She snored lightly then turned away. He arranged a pillow under both of their heads, curled his body around hers, nestled his still-sticky penis near its recent nest, cupped his hand around her breast, kissed her hair and was soon asleep.

[As you were saying, the sunrise foretold a clear and bright day ...]

They broke their fast with tea for her and coffee for him, scrambled eggs and bagels toasted on the camp stove. Morgen washed the dishes. He paged through a magazine while Stevie brought her attention to a crossword puzzle. The weather people promised temps in the seventies, cooling after noon, chance of rain after dark. By mid-morning the sun had warmed the air, sparkling from ripples on the lake. A loon's call echoed.

"Shall we take a dip? Maybe swim to the other side?" Stevie asked. They changed into swimsuits and found towels. He took his goggles and they followed the path to the lake. He stepped in, the water cool at his ankles.

"It'll warm up after a bit," he assured his wife. She shook her head and waded slowly in, advancing until waist-deep, arms raised and face in a grimace.

Morgen had a sudden idea. "Hey, nobody around. Let's get back to au naturel -- shed the suits." He pulled off his trunks and hung them from an overhanging tree, then waded out to her.

"I dunno. In the light of day, not sure I want to," Stevie protested.

"Hey, pretend we're twenty-somethings. Live on the edge!" He slid the straps off her shoulders. She looked around and seeing no other humans, removed her suit. Morgen hung it next to his. The breeze on cold water shrank his organ to vestigial size; his testes seemed to crawl up into his body. Her skin was goose-bumped and nipples prominent.

"Let's go, babe!" Morgen dived in, telling himself, Pay no attention to the cold, it's only skin-deep!

Once a good swimmer, Morgen's stroke was now inelegant due to Parkinson's Disease, but he managed to stay afloat and make progress. He surfaced and turned back, treading water while waiting for Stevie. She ducked down to her shoulders. Stevie was a practiced sidestroke swimmer but never submerged her head. Otherwise, she tended to commit fully to a person, idea or course of action.

Stevie swam steadily to the opposite shore, Morgen trailing behind. He experimented with a variety of strokes to find the least awkward. Raising his head to check his course, he saw a white bird on the water ahead of them. Maybe a gull? No, long neck ... a swan? He submerged his head again and splashed his way forward. Ten minutes later their feet touched down on the sandy bottom, where pencil-thin reeds poked up from the lake's edge. The white bird had disappeared. Morgen sat behind Stevie in the shallows, his arms wrapped around her.

"Might be fun to ..." She cut him off.

"No way. Too public."

"For pubic," he added. "And maybe chilly. But keep it in mind."

Stevie watched pairs of damselflies, coupled in sexual congress, flit from reed to reed. Did the gossamer insects love each other? Would she bite his head off after sex? Or was that tarantulas? Did it matter if she came first? Do damselflies even experience orgasm? What would it feel like to bite off a man's head? The small one, of course. Some men sure would get what coming to them. From them? Out of them?

[Hey, no need to belabor insex!]

A few minutes later they swam back across the lake, both tired and refreshed. They wrapped themselves in towels, grabbed their suits from the branches and hurried back to their campsite.

"Up here!" called Morgen from the shadows in the back of the lean-to. Stevie followed. He glanced around, saw that adjacent campsites were occluded by the lean-to walls. Pulling her into the corner, he yanked off her towel and furiously rubbed her body with it. "Towels van Zandt!"

"That's stupid," she replied, laughing. Stevie joined her hands over her head and slowly rotated so he could dry all sides. He finished with an energetic head rub, her blonde hair damp, tangled and flying. She hugged him, glanced out to check for observers then pulled his towel off.

"Hands up -- turn around!" she commanded in a quiet voice. Stevie rubbed him up and down, also finishing with vigorous hair drying. But not quite finished. She pushed him gently back against the log wall, stood on tiptoes to kiss him, then brought her hands to his waist. She squatted, squeezing his penis between her breasts for a moment, then knelt, looked up and smiled. Morgen put his hand gently on her head. She extended her tongue to just touch the end of his glans. Though unaided by Big Pharma he was a growing man, nerves ready and reporting. Her hand encircling his girth, she raised it and sucked one ball ...

[All right, we get the idea ...]

Later, fully dressed against the now-chilly afternoon breeze, Morgen and Stevie walked the campground road, noting the variety of vehicles, shelters and gear with which people confronted camping. As they passed site R-3 they heard music from inside the big Falcon 37.

Wild thing

You make my heart sing

You make everything groovy

Wild thing

A grunt ... then female laughter ... another grunt.

Wild thing, I think I love you

But I wanna know for sure

Come on, hold me tight!

I love you

After a lunch of tuna fish sandwiches, Morgen stretched out for a nap while Stevie attacked another crossword puzzle. Shadows advanced across the ground as the sun descended. Supper was a spicy ratatouille, followed by brownies. When they turned in, she checked the weather on her phone.

"Wow, this is weird. This morning the forecast was slight chance of rain, cooler tomorrow. Now, a Special Weather Statement: Rain by midnight, turning heavy. Temperatures dropping rapidly into the thirties. Winds picking up to the teens, gusts to 30 miles an hour. This was supposed to be a nice September weekend, with trees turning color. But now they say cold; my jacket won't be warm enough."

"Gonna have to hunker down," said Morgen, surprised but trying to sound confident. "Just a sudden weather change -- New England, right?"

The wind strengthened after they turned in, leaves fluttering then growing to a continuous roar. Not a night for connubial pleasure. An hour later rain started, announced by lightning and thunder. Soon it was pouring, beating on the tent. Sleep was forgotten; they pulled another blanket over them and huddled, hoping for respite. Eventually pelting rain quieted but the wind continued. The campers gradually drifted off.

When his bladder woke Morgen, the horizon was light. The tent sagged alarmingly. Shit, it's cold! He pushed up on the fabric. What the hell? Snow? It slid down as he raised the tent roof, piling against the tent sides. He struggled into pants, jacket, boots and unzipped the tent door. Must be a fucking half a foot of white stuff! In September? The wind still blew hard but the snow had eased. The white Tesla was now a larger white mound of snow. Morgen's headlight revealed animal tracks through the campsite. Deer? No, indistinct, wider ... floundering. On a whim he followed them, heading toward the lake. Stepping carefully, he made his way to the shore. The trail went directly to the water's edge and disappeared. He relieved himself, shivering. When he swept the lake with his headlight beam there was only dark water, silently swallowing swirling snowflakes.

The white bird

Dreams of the aspen tree

With the dying leaves

Turning gold

But the white bird

Just sits in her cage

Growing old

White bird must fly

Or she will die

White bird must fly

Or she will die

-- White Bird, It's a Beautiful Day

Wild thing

You make my heart sing

You make everything groovy

Wild thing

Wild thing, I think I love you

But I wanna know for sure

Come on, hold me tight!

I love you

- Wild Thing, The Troggs

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