For thousands of years mankind lived in caves and mud huts. They hated it so much that they spent their time inventing bricks and mortar and running water and electricity. So every summer my parents dragged us off to spend a week in a rain soaked mud field for what they called a ‘holiday’.
For craft folk, camping is a necessary evil. Anywhere that is far enough from prying eyes is even further from running water, electricity and sewers.
By the time we arrived it was late afternoon. The cycle ride from the station had left me sweaty irritated and tired. The other women went in the car with the tents. I had to be reading Simonne de blasted Beauvoir and volunteered to be the one who cycled with the men. What had been exhausting work on the paved road became worse when we dived off into the forest. As I peddle the boneshaker along the track I remind myself that Sartre got the better of their open marriage as he bedded an unending succession of young females while she waited for him in her empty bed.
When we arrived there were tents to erect and food to prepare. Fortunately the men were eager to play boy scout and were only too glad to be left to it while I went to ‘commune with the mother goddess’ in the woods.
As my need for communion is urgent, I take a length of bog roll and soap.
The house we left this morning has a perfectly good lavatory. Did I mention that I hate camping?
Brambles and nettles make it a long walk to find a suitable spot. Eventually I find a fallen tree where I can squat. I try hitching up the skirt of my craft dress, but I need both hands to brace myself.
I decide to take the dress off. Once it is gone I realize I can piss standing up. I prop one leg against the tree trunk to spread my legs as wide as possible pull my labia apart with my fingers and squirt. A golden yellow stream of liquid pours out in front of me.
Just as I am congratulating myself on my success in managing to piss in the forrest without soiling myself or my clothes, I notice the pair of eyes watching me.
He starts to run, he is taller and quicker but I cut him off. I catch him by the wrist and he trips and falls.
“How old are you”, I demand.
“Sixteen”, he replies.
“Don’t you know not to spy on women?”
“I wanted to watch.”
At least he was honest.
I tell him to get on his feet and drop his trousers. He looks scared.
“Why?”
“I want to watch you. If you don’t I’ll tell people what you were doing.”
He looks nervous but complies. He starts to unzip his fly. I glare at him and he unbuttons his shorts and removes them completely. Another glare is required to make him remove his shirt.
His body is thin, like a sapling that has grown upwards but not outwards. His arms and legs look to long, too thin for his body. As I am watching him I realize that if he chose to he could pin me to the ground in an instant and I would be utterly powerless to stop him.