My excitement wouldn't quit until I came, to the climax bolts.  Clip, clip, the orgasms . . . "Rocky mountain high in California . . .  Sky rockets in flight . . ."  We had intercourse the whole way up — me talking to her like she was Mel. We were one and the same. Sensate motion. I would never be tame.
 
My compadre down below had no idea of my game. But he saw my shit eating grin. When I yelled, "OFF!" I really got off. I felt the earth tremble. I slipped out, off, once, got her pink point, G Spot, hairy arm pits, and all places in between. My afterglow met her alpinglow. Cumulus clouds danced overhead.  The taste of pomegranate ran through my head.  She had no crux, she was a hard on from the getty up. I renamed the route, Mel. 
 
(As a sidebar, from a physiologic point of view, when a guy has an eruption, that tablespoon full of ough syrup, fifty times more viscus than water, give or take, coming down (or up) the straw-size (at that time) urethra at a hundred miles an hour, plus or minus, is a sensation rarely equaled on the biosphere (I think a silver back gorilla could argue this). But guys, remember, our joy is no more exciting than a gal's whizzbang, she should come first, and she can perform over and over. And to give birth, we boys are such wimps. Every delivery is a 5.15 first descent.)
 
Back to my story. I had the courage that day. Thanks, mom. Climbing is such a passonate sport, we get the opportunity to be plugged into the cosmic vagina
 
My best girl friend relationships (when I got older, more experienced, and confident), always began slow, with observations beforehand.  Fly fishing is the same way — observe the beautiful female creek, let her know you're there, introduce yourself quietly, open up your fly and cast it out decisively. Make a good presentation. Let the trout make her nude reply.
 
Trout for dinner, heap on the sage and sour dough bread dressing, and give me a Guinness.  Add some Swiss Cheese as whore's ovaries (how my dad would say hors'd deurves)
 
What attracts you to the crags?
 
Go knock up a Rock, Climb a Rock. 
 
I feel younger, but I still have a bad elbow. Could I still mount her rump? I sent her nearly 30 years ago! I wonder what Lance's sister is up to.  I bet she hasn't aged, either. Does she she like Irish beer? I think I could handle this dear, in this year, I no longer have any fear. I'd draw her near, show her my gear.  Still faire dinkum I suppose. I wager Lance is a fat, testy, Area 51 — UFO — CIA conspiracy freak (he was always attracted to this stuff), looking into the dark sky believing he has an implant in his ear, listening to Art Bell AM talk radio in the middle of the night, skate boarding his half pipes, drinking Rainier Ale (like we did one night at the Rocky Horror Picture Show).
 
P.S.  For the gals who read this and are offended for such open minded sexual (stupid humor?)  indiscretion, I apologize.  On the other soft hand, like cragging, being in the alpine is all about free speech,having fun with words, and free ascents.  Gaia is a women, and nature is naked rocks, fir trees, bushes, water falls, volcanic eruptions, explorations, and well, . . . au naturale.

Warren Harding would like this story. In fact he'd buy the St. Pauli Girl pint and say, "Drink!"