Dear Penthouse:
I have always loved the great outdoors. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved hiking, canoeing, fishing, hunting—anything that got me away from the city and out into the fresh air. My first sexual experience happened at a church picnic when I was twelve. I still remember the look in Mrs. Fletcher's face as I shot my hot load all over her beautiful tits. In fact, all of my most memorable sexual encounters have occurred outdoors. When I was fourteen, me and my best friend had a threesome with one of our instructors at Camp Hayawatha. When I was twenty-one, I fucked the head of my college’s cheerleading squad as we road a raft down the rapids on the Colorado.
Last spring, I turned thirty-eight, and I had pretty much accepted the fact that my best sexual encounters were behind me. Then I went on a one-man hiking trip to the Alaskan Interior.
Even now, six months later, I’m not sure if what I remember actually happened. It doesn’t seem like it could be real. It’s so fucked-up, like a dream—with people and events thrown together that have no right being in the same place at the same time. A kinky menagerie of circus animals, preachers, porn stars and pilots. But somehow it almost made sense at the time. Somehow, it was beautiful. Every time I jerk off, I think back to the things I saw that day. Every time I fuck my wife, I beg her to growl like a grizzly.
I had been hiking for two weeks, working my way deeper and deeper into the Alaskan Wilderness. It had been eight days since I had seen a human face, or indeed any human sign that would indicate that I was not alone on this planet. For me, this was paradise. I remember thinking that I didn’t care if I ever looked upon another person again. That’s why I had come to Alaska: to get away from it all. To commune with nature to hear my own thoughts. I’d seen caribou and coyotes, moose and mule dear, wildflowers and wolverines—things that I couldn’t even dream of seeing in my native Chicago. But none of these sights could prepare me for what I came upon next.
I had heard the women’s screams from almost a quarter of a mile away. I dropped my pack and hustled up the to the top of a ridge, not knowing what I would find. Perhaps I’d see another hiker being mauled by a grizzly. Maybe a female adventurer had wandered too close to a wolf’s den. After running for what seemed like hours, I reached the top of the ridge, which leveled off into a flat peak. I dropped down on my belly and crawled the last few feet to the top. I wanted to gauge what I had to deal with before I took action.
The woman I saw did not need rescuing.
She looked to be about nineteen, and had one of the tightest bodies I’d ever seen. She was wearing nothing but a baseball jersey, which was opened to reveal a pair of the perkiest set of tits I’d seen since my college days. She had a beautiful ass, which was easy to judge since she was on all fours, and taking it from behind from a man who looked like a cross between Gomer Pyle and Richie Cunningham.
I’m not sure if it’s possible to feel sorry for a man who’s fucking a beautiful nineteen-year-old, but I kind of felt sorry for this guy. He looked bewildered and scared, and something more. The guy looked horrified!
But that didn’t stop him from fucking. He was pounding into that luscious pussy with shallow thrusts. It really didn’t look like he had much of a cock to work with, but you couldn’t tell that by her reaction. She was screaming like she was trying to shatter a wineglass. Now that I was closer, I could hear the man yelling too: “a kill, a kill, a kill, a kill,” he kept repeating with each thrust of his little sausage.
I felt a bulge growing between my legs, so I unzipped my pants to let my now-throbbing nine-incher breathe. I couldn’t believe my luck. Here I was, hundreds of miles from the nearest human habitation; and I was being treated to a free peepshow.
“Cut, cut, cut! What the fuck is he babbling about?” It was only then that I noticed the couple wasn’t alone. A thick growth of bushes to my right had concealed an entire movie production crew. Looking through the leaves, I could see two cameramen, a boom guy and what looked to be a movie director, complete with a black beret and a blow horn. Holy fuck! I had wandered into the middle of a porn shoot!
“Don’t say anything, just fuck her!” The porn director shouted in Gomer Cunningham’s ear. “This isn’t a goddamned slaughter house, you twisted fuck!”
“And you, bitch!” He turned his attention to the girl. “Scream like you mean it!”
I know you probably don’t believe a word I’m saying. I mean, we all know that the letters sent into these magazines aren’t real. But could I make this shit up? Most of the letters you read here are about husbands walking in on wives being banged by best friends, or women waking up one day and discovering just how good pussy tastes. But coming across a porn shoot in Alaska? That’s too weird not to be true. If you still don’t believe me, keep reading. Nobody could make this shit up.