Salon Urge | Enchanted forest

T H E_.H O T_.S P O T
Erotic wasteland
By Susie Bright
With bad sex at home and pseudosex on TV, America is one frustrated nation
(03/05/99)

___________________
Want to read more about the big island? Search BarnesandNoble.com for hawaii
___________________

R E C E N T L Y
Rub me tender
By Jon Bowen
A reformed frotteurist explores the roots of his long-lost fetish
(03/04/99)
Doctor's orders
By Janelle Brown
In the wake of a new Alabama law declaring vibrators illegal, a provocative new book, "The Technology of Orgasm," sheds light on the perversely puritanical evolution of the feminine joystick
(02/25/99)
Dr. Block's little house of sexual horrors
By Carol Lloyd
A grotesque L.A. event proves that when it comes to being unsexy, it's really hard to beat sex
(02/18/99)
Decade of the dick
By Deanne Stillman
Bobbing from one scandal to the next, the male member has seized center stage at the close of the millennium
(02/11/99)
Boogie bites
By Jenn Shreve
Porn star activists want to pave the way for a new era of enlightened porn ... but isn't this an oxymoron?
(02/04/99)

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Browse the
Urge archives
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ENCHANTED FOREST | PAGE 1, 2
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When I romped as a visitor on Maui, I too partook of the forest's delights. Adventure runs reckless through veins on vacation. Gay men from far corners let fly their inhibitions, as mandatory in some quarters as snorkeling or bodysurfing in crystal blue waters, whale watching or making the waterfall-riven drive to Hana. Deep in mesquite thickets, "snorkeling," "bodysurfing" and "whale watching" take on entirely new dimensions. But when I moved here, I told myself that as a new resident, eager to shed the haole (outsider) stigma, my former gay abandon would have to cease. Surely small-island locals must exercise more discretion than tourists who will never see their fellow bushwhackers again.
Then, as always, it begins with a beachside seduction. Loitering eye contact over the top of designer shades. Nonchalant poses and gestures six towels away that just happen to flatter his best features. He gets up and walks to the edge of the green maze. A fatal glance over the shoulder before he saunters in seals it. The little head has assumed control.
Time to take a walk and see what's up. There are feral tomcats stalking prey and spiders the size of nickels waiting patiently in webs spun across the trails. What harm can there be in observing nature? Many of the players in this ritual are amazingly self-deluded. They pretend to sight sea mammals on the open sea vistas while slyly monitoring for errant hillside "whales" that brazenly dare to cruise too close.
One such man who tracked my heels through a considerable labyrinth of lava and thorns (planted by missionaries to keep natives from going barefoot) stutteringly told me he was writing poetry when I asked him what he was doing. I felt bad but I knew it would cut him loose.
The whole gig is unspoken rules and silent conventions. Conversation is for getting to know people, finding a boyfriend, relationships. Out in the bushes it's Cowboys and Indians, Hide and Go Seek, Hunters and Gatherers. It's pure animal brain, adolescent, boy's play, recreational, safe sex (unless you're crazy).
There is no gay single's scene on Maui so most gay visitors arrive with a boyfriend or lover. Some pretend to hide their "adventures" from their partners. The accepted convention is to leave hubby on the beach while "taking a walk." Everyone knows the score, but they choose not to discuss it, at least in detail. It's silly because the alliance of the forest exists on a different plane.
Then again, feigned shame and naughtiness supply the erotic charge.
Naturally, I had no intention of doing anything (yeah right), then suddenly (after an hour of stalking) the incredible guy from the beach appeared behind a tree. The coded combination of looks and gestures is unmistakable and certain. His eyes say he sees himself with your eyes, knows exactly how you deify his floppy lock of hair (he flips it), his powerful haunches (he flexes), square jaw (he smiles). He shows you with his hands where your hands could be and what they could be doing. You respond in kind, the parts entwine, distinctions blur or, depending on your bent, become hyper-magnified. What's left are the things you can do for each other that can't be done alone. When it all flows, it's a slow and delicious dance into a zone of intimacy that is powerful exactly because it is strictly physical. He is, after all, a complete stranger.
It wasn't until I was walking back to the beach, thinking so much more clearly (funny how that works), that I realized I had seen him before. I scanned mental files of all the new people I had met, in local shops, through friends of friends. What if he was a resident? What if I saw him again in a social setting?
Two days later I walked into a job interview and there he was on the other side of a desk. He stood (how different he looked in clothes), shook my hand and gave me the same look I had seen behind the tree. I know that in that brief flash of recognition we both saw the same mental picture of each other with our mouths full. He smiled with the tiniest little smirk attached that managed to bullhorn volumes. It said, "Relax! We've already met in a parallel universe with its own measures of status (read: physical virtues), reality and rules very different from this one. Our secret society isn't compelled to reconcile incompatible worlds, the way others too often try with tragic results."
He was professional, charming, still attractive even. We flirted in a frivolous way through the interview, never acknowledging what we both remembered all too vividly. Surprisingly, I was no more nervous than I would have been at any job interview. The dreaded moment had arrived and I lived through it effortlessly. I discovered erotic shame is a powerful aphrodisiac, a low common denominator among foragers of enchanted forests.
In the light of polite society, when civilization or conversation intervenes, the animal level of male bonding evaporates, taking shame along with it as surely as a dream upon waking. He was a nice guy, no one I would ever pursue in a relationship, but then that would be cheating on my lover, something I don't do. Worlds that can't occupy the same space are guaranteed never to compete or collide. I can hear a women say she's heard this old rationalization since the beginning of time. Male couples get balled up when they forget that one of them isn't that woman. Oh, by the way, I didn't get the job. I like to think neither of us wanted to sully a pristine memory by getting to know each other.
SALON | March 11, 1999
Reed Hearne is a writer living in San Francisco.


T H E_.H O T_.S P O T Erotic wasteland By Susie Bright With bad sex at home and pseudosex on TV, America is one frustrated nation (03/05/99) ___________________ Want to read more about the big island? Search BarnesandNoble.com for hawaii ___________________ R E C E N T L Y Rub me tender By Jon Bowen A reformed frotteurist explores the roots of his long-lost fetish (03/04/99) Doctor's orders By Janelle Brown In the wake of a new Alabama law declaring vibrators illegal, a provocative new book, "The Technology of Orgasm," sheds light on the perversely puritanical evolution of the feminine joystick (02/25/99) Dr. Block's little house of sexual horrors By Carol Lloyd A grotesque L.A. event proves that when it comes to being unsexy, it's really hard to beat sex (02/18/99) Decade of the dick By Deanne Stillman Bobbing from one scandal to the next, the male member has seized center stage at the close of the millennium (02/11/99) Boogie bites By Jenn Shreve Porn star activists want to pave the way for a new era of enlightened porn ... but isn't this an oxymoron? (02/04/99) - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Urge archives - - - - - - - - - -		ENCHANTED FOREST \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - When I romped as a visitor on Maui, I too partook of the forest's delights. Adventure runs reckless through veins on vacation. Gay men from far corners let fly their inhibitions, as mandatory in some quarters as snorkeling or bodysurfing in crystal blue waters, whale watching or making the waterfall-riven drive to Hana. Deep in mesquite thickets, "snorkeling," "bodysurfing" and "whale watching" take on entirely new dimensions. But when I moved here, I told myself that as a new resident, eager to shed the haole (outsider) stigma, my former gay abandon would have to cease. Surely small-island locals must exercise more discretion than tourists who will never see their fellow bushwhackers again. Then, as always, it begins with a beachside seduction. Loitering eye contact over the top of designer shades. Nonchalant poses and gestures six towels away that just happen to flatter his best features. He gets up and walks to the edge of the green maze. A fatal glance over the shoulder before he saunters in seals it. The little head has assumed control. Time to take a walk and see what's up. There are feral tomcats stalking prey and spiders the size of nickels waiting patiently in webs spun across the trails. What harm can there be in observing nature? Many of the players in this ritual are amazingly self-deluded. They pretend to sight sea mammals on the open sea vistas while slyly monitoring for errant hillside "whales" that brazenly dare to cruise too close. One such man who tracked my heels through a considerable labyrinth of lava and thorns (planted by missionaries to keep natives from going barefoot) stutteringly told me he was writing poetry when I asked him what he was doing. I felt bad but I knew it would cut him loose. The whole gig is unspoken rules and silent conventions. Conversation is for getting to know people, finding a boyfriend, relationships. Out in the bushes it's Cowboys and Indians, Hide and Go Seek, Hunters and Gatherers. It's pure animal brain, adolescent, boy's play, recreational, safe sex (unless you're crazy). There is no gay single's scene on Maui so most gay visitors arrive with a boyfriend or lover. Some pretend to hide their "adventures" from their partners. The accepted convention is to leave hubby on the beach while "taking a walk." Everyone knows the score, but they choose not to discuss it, at least in detail. It's silly because the alliance of the forest exists on a different plane. Then again, feigned shame and naughtiness supply the erotic charge. Naturally, I had no intention of doing anything (yeah right), then suddenly (after an hour of stalking) the incredible guy from the beach appeared behind a tree. The coded combination of looks and gestures is unmistakable and certain. His eyes say he sees himself with your eyes, knows exactly how you deify his floppy lock of hair (he flips it), his powerful haunches (he flexes), square jaw (he smiles). He shows you with his hands where your hands could be and what they could be doing. You respond in kind, the parts entwine, distinctions blur or, depending on your bent, become hyper-magnified. What's left are the things you can do for each other that can't be done alone. When it all flows, it's a slow and delicious dance into a zone of intimacy that is powerful exactly because it is strictly physical. He is, after all, a complete stranger. It wasn't until I was walking back to the beach, thinking so much more clearly (funny how that works), that I realized I had seen him before. I scanned mental files of all the new people I had met, in local shops, through friends of friends. What if he was a resident? What if I saw him again in a social setting? Two days later I walked into a job interview and there he was on the other side of a desk. He stood (how different he looked in clothes), shook my hand and gave me the same look I had seen behind the tree. I know that in that brief flash of recognition we both saw the same mental picture of each other with our mouths full. He smiled with the tiniest little smirk attached that managed to bullhorn volumes. It said, "Relax! We've already met in a parallel universe with its own measures of status (read: physical virtues), reality and rules very different from this one. Our secret society isn't compelled to reconcile incompatible worlds, the way others too often try with tragic results." He was professional, charming, still attractive even. We flirted in a frivolous way through the interview, never acknowledging what we both remembered all too vividly. Surprisingly, I was no more nervous than I would have been at any job interview. The dreaded moment had arrived and I lived through it effortlessly. I discovered erotic shame is a powerful aphrodisiac, a low common denominator among foragers of enchanted forests. In the light of polite society, when civilization or conversation intervenes, the animal level of male bonding evaporates, taking shame along with it as surely as a dream upon waking. He was a nice guy, no one I would ever pursue in a relationship, but then that would be cheating on my lover, something I don't do. Worlds that can't occupy the same space are guaranteed never to compete or collide. I can hear a women say she's heard this old rationalization since the beginning of time. Male couples get balled up when they forget that one of them isn't that woman. Oh, by the way, I didn't get the job. I like to think neither of us wanted to sully a pristine memory by getting to know each other. SALON \| March 11, 1999 Reed Hearne is a writer living in San Francisco.