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It's okay if he sees me like this, isn't it?

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Neither of us had slept on the ground for a while, so both of us flipped and flopped some during the night. I recall getting up to empty my bladder—probably an hour or so after midnight. The moon, a little past first quarter, had already set, and the stars shone brightly in the clear, dark sky. The Milky Way formed a broad highway across the sky. I also recall pulling the top zipper all the way up as I climbed back into the bag. Nevertheless, we slept reasonably well.

When I awoke again, the sky was blue, though the sun had not yet risen. We had rolled so that Mindy had her back to me. She was sleeping on her left side, with her knees together and drawn slightly upward. I was also on my left side, my legs drawn up against the backs of hers, one arm under her pillow (which we'd fashioned from a stuff-sack and sweater), and my other arm draped around her. We were in the classic spoon position. We'd shared this position, too, as children sleeping in the same bed.

During our sleep, she had clasped my hand to herself, so that it cupped one of her breasts through her shirt.

The firm rounded flesh felt wonderful.

And, as happens almost every morning with a young man, I had a raging erection. My hiking shorts confined it, but it pressed nonetheless into the cleft between her buttocks.

Groggily, I considered: If I moved, she would wake and catch me feeling her up; if I didn't move, she would soon wake naturally and catch me feeling her up.

I had just about decided to remain in place, sleepily enjoying her body, when she did wake up.

"Are you awake, Big Brother?" she whispered.

Still half asleep, I mumbled assent. In response, she clasped my hand more tightly to her breast, causing me to give it a little squeeze. That caused a throb in my pants—which in its turn caused her to wiggle her rear end against me. I felt her nipple stiffen in my hand; almost automatically, my thumb brushed it. She wiggled again; I throbbed again.

Embarrassed at my seeming forwardness, I started to mumble something—anything—in an effort to excuse it. Even as I began, I realized that my bladder was full—really full; it was a ready-made escape from my predicament. I turned my incoherent mumbles into a fuzzy "I really have to pee," rolled away from Mindy, unzipped the bag, and stumbled 10 or 15 yards into the woods.

But upon unzipping my pants and pulling my penis out, I encountered another difficulty: It isn't possible to urinate through an erection. But this difficulty usually resolves itself; once you recognize the urgent need and concentrate on satisfying it, your erection softens quickly and flow begins. Thus, after 45 seconds or so, I urinated merrily away.

As my flow ended, I belatedly saw that Mindy had stumbled into the woods a little behind me and was several feet off to my left, facing back the way we had come. She had dropped her britches and, having gathered them at her knees and squatted, was finishing her chore as I finished mine. I had never seen a woman urinate in the woods before, and I'd wondered how they did it without getting their clothes wet. I'd just found out.

She looked at me as we buckled our belts. "Is something wrong, Charlie?" she asked. "It took you quite a while to start peeing."

I hemmed and hawed for a moment and finally blurted out, "Well, Mindy, men can't urinate through an erection."

There was a significant pause.

"Who can't what through which?" she asked, giving me a look I knew and dreaded. "You big jerk! Who do you think you're talking to? This is me! Mindy! Your little sister! The only person in the world who knows your body almost as well as you do. The only person in the world whose body you know almost as well as she does. Do you mean that you can't pee through a hard-on? Then say so, dammit!"

I mumbled something, trying not to shrivel up and die of shame, while shriveling up and dying of shame—not just because she mig
