Some friends of ours just moved to a house a few blocks away.
After lunch, we went to visit and point out the highlights of the neighborhood.
One of those highlights is a large wooded area ideal for hiking, biking, and snowshoeing. It’s also a shortcut to the school their pre-teen daughter attends, and our friends were eager to take a look.
The five of us set out toward the woods, with Pythagoras leading the way down the dirt trail. “It’s really peaceful,” he explained. “We rarely run into anyone else out here.”
“Lots of great trails, too,” I agreed.
That’s when we all noticed the red pickup truck at the trailhead. It was unremarkable except that we rarely see vehicles there. As I continued to prattle on about wildlife and foliage, Pythagoras got a funny look on his face.
“What?” I asked.
He nodded toward the truck. “I just saw a butt.”
I squinted through the windshield. “A butt like someone’s throwing cigarettes during fire season or a butt like – oh my God, my eyes!”
And there it was, a big, white, hairy butt, appearing in the window briefly and then disappearing, then reappearing again, then disappearing in a rhythm that left little question what was transpiring in the cab of that truck. We had stumbled upon someone’s romantic interlude.
Well, as romantic as you can be in the cab of a dusty truck on a sweltering afternoon with the windows cracked and five strangers standing outside discussing methods for removing cheat-grass from a cat’s ear.
Not wanting her pre-teen daughter scarred for life by the sight of the butt pressed against the window, mom quickly herded her away while our friend stayed behind and Pythagoras and I continued chatting.
“Right up here is where the dog found the dead squirrel last week,” Pythagoras announced as the truck swayed gently.
“Couldn’t believe how fast he ate that squirrel,” I agreed, trying not to notice the butt was picking up speed. “Ate the fur and bones and maggots and everything.”
Several minutes passed and the truck stopped rocking. The butt vanished, and the windows rolled up.
We were all relieved.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not one to judge those who enjoy an amorous moment in a motor vehicle. I’m also not one of those romance authors who’ll tell you everything should be beautiful and tender and choreographed like a naked ballet.
But seriously? Must the thrusting continue with five strangers discussing carrion three feet away?
Eventually, our friend trudged back to his house while Pythagoras and I headed the other way toward ours.
“Think it was a couple teenagers, or an older guy having an affair?” I asked.
Pythagoras considered that. “Teenagers. There was a dirt bike in back.”
“I might've seen some gray butt hair,” I countered. “Maybe it's an older guy. Maybe the dirt bike belongs to his kid. He’s sneaking around on his wife and his marriage is already strained because he lost his job at the lumber mill and he’s pawning the bike so he can spring for a cheap motel room the next time he wants to bump uglies with his mistress.”
Pythagoras looked at me. “Please tell me the love scenes in your books are more romantic than that.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
So what do you think? Teenagers or frisky adults? And where is the line between a fun afternoon romp and a disgusting image that shouldn’t be inflicted on the eyeballs of others?
Speaking of which, anyone know where I can get my retinas bleached?