I rolled out of bed to pee. I shuffled past the roaring wood stove, into my snow boots and towards our one and only bathroom—the outdoors. After leaving New York City, my fiancé and I moved to Montana and built a traditional yurt from scratch. It was a bitch of a task, but the outcome was a nomadic home surrounded by five mountain ranges. And this was our inaugural night of official yurt slumber. Yanking the door open, I stepped into what felt like a meat locker: pitch dark, minus 20 degrees, tree shadows, the hush of night. Bare-assed, bare everywhere, I squatted in the snow.
Letting my eyes adjust, I dripped dry. Wind blew itself in from somewhere—first small wisps, then full-blown gusts. It whipped around me, moving between my legs and up my back, alerting every pore, shivering my elbows and loosing my hair to a wild mess. As the wind continued, my whole self began to vibrate. Whoa. I clutched myself, trying to not fall backwards.
I felt aroused. Keep reading »
