When you invite me on a hike, I know roughly what is likely to happen. We are not together, but usually, when we meet up, we get together in the carnal sense, because we enjoy it. Friends with benefits, as people call it. You are a horny bastard, and see no reason to keep your hands off me, since I grant you permissive access rights. It's one of the things I like about you. Another thing I like, or perhaps admire, is your knowledge of the hills. Let's just say you know your way around a landscape, whether it be the wide open spaces of the uplands, or more intimate territory.
We set off in the morning from a small car parking area, heading northeast up a trackway through the woods. You have all the right gear—expensive hiking boots and technical moisture-wicking clothing. I am making do with a pair of military-surplus boots, a bit heavy, but comfy enough for a few miles, and an old rain jacket that I hope is still waterproof. Not that it looks like I'm going to need it to stay dry; it's a perfect day in mid-May, already starting to get warm, with a few fluffy white clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. In my little rucksack is one of those fold-up tartan picnic blankets with a waterproof backing, that I fondly imagine you will pin me down on later, in some secluded spot. A flask of water, and a big bar of chocolate for emergencies (there's always an emergency that requires chocolate, I find). I seem to have forgotten my moral compass, but have no intention of using it, anyway.
We hike up the track for half a mile or so, talking about the wildflowers that we spot, sharing what we know of their ecology, medicinal uses, and significance in folklore. At the top of the hill, where the trees become sparse and we can see the next valley spread out before us for the first time, we pause to admire the view, and you pull me to you for a kiss. I wonder what your plan is, and how long it will be before I am the next view to be admired and traversed.
The next couple of miles are through more open country, as we work our way along the sunlit flank that rises on the west side of the valley, on a grassy path that follows the top edges of a series of sheep-grazed fields that stretch down the hill to our right. To our left is a wall marking the boundary between the agricultural land and the bottom of the steeper, wilder slope that rises to the ridge above us. A few cars meander along the unclassified road on the valley floor, and farm buildings are dotted here and there below us.
We cross several stiles between fields. Each time you go first, then turn to me to take me in your arms and kiss me as I climb over, and we run our hands over one another on top of our clothes to map out the familiar contours and landmarks that we will soon rediscover. The anticipation of sensuous, sweet delight to come sits heavy in my mind, nagging at my attention like a tempting bar of chocolate in a hiking pack.
The path starts to drop again, into recently verdant deciduous woodland, and splits into three. You indicate the smallest, roughest track as our route. It is quite overgrown in places, and we have to negotiate overhanging branches and tree roots, and pick our way through patches of low-growing wild brambles and bracken. Not a popular footpath, you tell me, with most ramblers choosing the better-maintained and more clearly signposted bridleway that heads to the same destination. We move through the trees and woodland understory in the dappled sunlight, making our way slowly upwards as the ground rises.
Eventually, we come to the edge of the wood, and arrive at a field boundary, with a stile set in a gap in the wall and a long view over the next valley and distant hills.
"Here," you say.
I spread out the picnic rug, and we sit down. You unlace my boots, and pull them off my feet in turn. It is a thing with us that I always get naked first, either by undressing myself while you watch, or, as now, by having you undress me. It is a big turn-on for me to be naked while you are still clothed, and you don't seem to complain about the arrangement.