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Maybe it was the wine talking; perhaps it was the way the shadows fell. But, from where I was lying, watching, it was the sort of prick you only read about in the most literary erotic anthologies... you know, the ones where the writer is so concerned with convincing the world that she's a poet ("on that dark and stormy night, his penis arose like a rosebud breaking forth, its unblinking eye proudly pledging to flood my sex with foamy lust") that the only person who could get truly turned on would be her English professor. The rest of us simply look on in abject horror. Read too many stories like that, and it could put you off sex for life. And reading.

But Peter had one of those cocks that could make you go all poetic; that really did leave you rummaging in the back of your mind for something to say that was not a mere gasp, followed by an intake of breath and a "mmmmmm" of approval. Something that wasn't "yummy." Except it was yummy and the only problem was, it was over there, I was over here, and there was 20 years of non-romantic, non-sexual, and not even mildly flirtatious friendship standing between us.

Peter's one of those guys that every girl knows. He's been around forever, but never as more than a face in the pack. He's usually somebody's brother (Rosemary's, in this case), and he's always there if you need a chaperone. You've never slept with him; in fact, you don't know anybody who has, although there's usually some girl hanging adoringly off his arm, and you never catch her name.

Good, solid, reliable Peter. He'll make somebody a wonderful husband one day, although that probably doesn't explain what I'm doing in a tent (a tent! I hate camping!), in a forest (I hate forests!), halfway up an upstate mountain (guess what I think about mountains), admiring - yes, well you know what I'm admiring. Maybe I should tell you why.

It was Rosemary who suggested we come here. She'd lend me the tent, lend me the sleeping bag, and even lend me her brother so we'd both have a man within reach while we slept... meaning (in case you get the wrong idea) that there'd always be someone else in the tent in the event of wild bears attacking, psycho killers emerging from the darkness, or any of the other horrors with which a city girl automatically associates the wilderness. Her boyfriend Kevin had his own camping gear, so she'd be sharing with him; I could have hers'... and, when she showed me some photos from her last expedition, and I realized that tents have come on quite a way from the days when I was Girl Scouting... you can actually stand up in them now!... "okay, I'll give it a go."

We got here last night, Rosemary and Kevin in his cute little Volkswagon Bug, Peter and I in style aboard his SUV, and it's been a non-stop laugh; indeed, by the time he and I actually turned in for the night, with our sleeping bags resolutely lined up against opposite walls of the tent, I was asleep before Peter even put the light out. Tonight, on the other hand... I was still drifting when I heard a movement; and opened my eyes to catch him swinging his bare legs out of his bedding, reach for his trousers and then stand up butt naked. Except it wasn't his butt that was facing me.

I was lying on my side, my face squashed in the pillow, and hidden within enough shadow that he'd never have known my eyes were open. It was the sound of me catching my breath that he heard, and one hand shot down to cover his modesty, even as he breathed an apology. The maneuver didn't work; at least an inch of his cock was still tantalizingly visible, peeping out from behind his hand.

"Sorry Chrissie, I thought you were sleeping."

"Yummy." Oh God, I can't believe I said that. Fortunately, neither can he.

"Sorry? What did you say?"

"Uh... I said ‘not yet.'"

"Okay..."; he zipped up his jeans. "I'm just running to the bathroom. Is it alright if I leave the light on till I get back?"

"Sure." I watched him leave, feeling my heart pounding in my chest, and

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