Raquel was a funny, smart, passionate young woman five years my junior. She had huge blue eyes and a thick mane of wavy chestnut hair. Freckles sprinkled over her ski-jump nose. She had the smoky voice of a blues singer and her laugh, which she let loose loudly and liberally, lit up any room. Pillowed lips contributed to her hall of fame kisser status. She had the body of a five-foot-nine model compressed onto a five-foot-three frame. She was, inexplicably to me, self-conscious about her full-figure body, but, I assure you, that woman, naked, would have made Paris dump Helen of Troy.

I’ve never known anyone with the sheer capacity to take joy in all things sensual more than Raquel. To simply be in her presence as she reveled in her love of food, music, art, nature, and yes, sex, was to receive a powerful surge of dopamine by a vicarious syringe. And if any two or more of her passions were combined at any one time, well, the effect was compounded to the point of ecstasy. 

So it was with sex and the outdoors, and this sensual nexus made for many a wondrous al fresco experience between the two of us: On a black granite rock on the Maine coast on a brilliant sunny afternoon. Eating her out on a picnic table in the Berkshires as she described the Milky Way… until my ministrations forced her to clench her eyes with the same intensity as her thighs clenched my head. On the terrace of a New York hotel room watching the moon sneak past the Chrysler Building. In a Montreal alley with snow on the ground as we took a break from dancing. In the woods of Walden Pond. In Walden Pond. On a rowboat in Connecticut. On a beach in Florida. On several beaches in several states, come to think of it. Standing in a public park at dusk as fireflies flew past. Any one of these could be a story, but I will share one now that encapsulates Raquel’s passion, humor and spontaneity best.  

Raquel taught me to camp. That’s right. Not my father. Not my Scoutmaster. A beautiful college girl with a lust for the outdoors tutored me in everything from fire building to trucker’s hitches. She knew all the spots and had all the gear. One such spot was on Cape Cod. Private, large, wooded campsites, walking distance through trees and pasture to the National Seashore, with clean hot showers. It was the unicorn of campgrounds. And if you timed it right — and Raquel always did — you could have the place pretty much to yourself. 

Possessing one of the more active libidos I have ever had the pleasure of being around, Raquel,  in the outdoors, sent her sexual motor into a whole new gear. To this day, I get an erotic charge whenever I crawl into a tent, simply because of the volume, variety and ferocity of our carnal unions under nylon. And this trip had been no different: the proverbial morning, noon and night. That is, until one evening. 

 We’d driven into Provincetown and met friends of hers for drinks. We all had at least one too many. At some point a boisterous discussion evolved into an argument, hastening the end of the night. Somehow, this turned into a fight between Raquel and myself as we walked back to the car. I have no idea what it was about. But hindsight tells me that whatever it was, it was likely my fault. Raquel announced that I was an asshole, and despite the chilly temperature, unzipped our sleeping bags and curled up by herself. In the morning, she was still pissed. At lunch, she was still pissed. In the afternoon she reluctantly allowed me to swim with her in the cold Atlantic waves. The fresh, frigid water reawakened her lighter spirit, and with a kiss, she forgave me for whatever my mortal sin had been. 

To celebrate our emotional reunion, and to avoid the last of our Vienna sausages, we went into town to one of her favorite restaurants. Though most of the summer crowds were gone, we still faced a forty-minute wait. We both felt great. A day of sun and swimming, capped with a hot shower, getting into clean clothes for the first time in a couple days, and most of all, being on the other side of an argument, made everything alright. Raquel wore a long peasant skirt that rode just shy of her back dimples, and a sheer midriff blouse that showed off both her cute belly button as well as her enticing cleavage. I was in khaki shorts and deck shoes, but a fresh button-front shirt somehow made me feel dressed up. Raquel got looks. I did not.  

To kill time while waiting for our table, we made the same loop around the small Cape village a half dozen times, passing cute old cottages, and vacant wooded lots awaiting cute new cottages, and vistas of the Harbor in between. We held hands and stopped to kiss from time to time. We were not alone, as other hopeful diners awaiting admittance to the restaurant circled with us. We hadn’t had sex in over twenty-four hours, an astounding mark for this trip. I was already plotting the make-up sex in my mind as we sauntered in pre-coital bliss. 

But as I should have known, Raquel was well ahead of me. As we entered the stretch of vacant wooded lots, Raquel turned to look behind her, then tugged me by the hand into a thicket of young pines and scrub oaks. “What are you up to?” I asked, but Rachel just pulled harder. We bent, pushed and scratched our way some thirty or forty feet from the village lane until we found a small open spot, whereupon Raquel attacked me. 

I hesitated for a nanosecond, perhaps, as I heard the voices of passers-by, and then returned her advances. In just a few more moments, her blouse hung precariously on a twig and one of her stiffened nipples was in my mouth. Not long after, my shorts were around one ankle and Raquel’s skirt was hiked above her waist as I thrust into her from behind. This position quickly transitioned to Raquel on all fours and me kneeling. The skirt was now wrapped about her middle, giving my hands easy access to her round bottom, narrow waist, rocking breasts and thick long hair. Despite the discomfort of the sandy soil and small pine cones against her knees, Raquel’s lust permitted no distraction, and she pushed back against me with uninhibited pleasure. She was always a delightfully vocal partner, and despite the limited cover and short distance from the road, this encounter was no exception.  

“Fuck, yes! Baby, I missed your cock!” she groaned between grunts and moans.

I grew both self-conscious and turned on by our semi-public demonstration. The whole thing was all too exciting for me and I felt the glorious burn of my impending orgasm build within me.  

I did not want to finish without her, so I braced myself with one hand against the rough ground, while at the same time reaching under Raquel to finger her clit. She moaned appreciatively, but then with a growl, pushed my hand away. 

“No. Not now. Just fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

I did as I was told, but was more intimidated by our location than she. As much as I wanted to grab Raquel by the hair and pound my way to a firm, fast finish, as I surely would have done if we were back in our tent, I held back, and Raquel could tell. 

“I’ve got an idea,” she said as she pulled herself away from me. She shed her skirt and then knelt upon it, facing me. She was naked completely, now, except for her leather sandals and hoop earrings and she looked up at me with those spectacular lavender eyes and I knew what she had in mind. 

I offered her my cock, wet and warm with her own juice and she swallowed me nearly whole. She pulled at my hamstrings for purchase as she forced her mouth over my length with a lingering pace. It was not long before she sensed me tightening and held just the last third in her mouth, sucking me faster. I groaned, more loudly than I intended, and shot twenty-four hours' worth of denial onto the back of her tongue.  

“Mmmmm,” Raquel moaned. Among Raquel’s many sexy qualities was that she sucked a cock not just for my pleasure, but truly for her own. She told me more than once how she enjoyed the feel of the hard, smooth thing in her mouth, and that sometimes she literally craved spunk. She didn’t specify that it had to be mine. I thought of this as I shuddered through the last of my contractions and then pulled her up to me for a long French kiss. I loved her so.  

With a giggle or two, we found our way back into our clothes and waited until there was a fair distance between us and the closest voices and then popped out of the wood. Our timing proved excellent as the host sat us immediately upon checking on our status. The server brought us a bottle of cold white wine and walked us through the specials, finally offering, “Would you like to start with fresh oysters?”

Raquel flashed me a smile, her eyes sparkling with a mix of lust and mischief, and with a half-laugh said in her smoky voice, ”That’s OK, I think I’ve already had my oyster for today.”

I am in touch with most of my past loves. Sadly, Raquel is not among them. I think of her, fondly, often. But especially when I am in the great outdoors.