WILDWOOD RANCH

AN APPRECIATION

28 VECTOR

Now is not the time to write about Wildwood Ranch, It's Monday morning, and the workload is fantastic, and I'm just not into it-and my temptation is to gaze back at two of the finest days I've had in years and rhapsodize. My body is a copper/bronze ad for a tanning lotion, my head is swimming in fantasies of beautiful men, and my cock has a most pleasant ache/twinge from memories even I can't face yet. But deadlines and promises must be met so here goes.

Wildwood is a very, very pleasant 11⁄2 hour drive from the Golden Gate Bridge. (or the San Rafael Bridge) up into Sonoma County and that incredible Russian River territory. If you're lucky enough to find it upon the first try, you enter a paradise that can only exist in California. Processing in was the epitome of simplicity. A naked god said, “If you're looking for Gerry, he's the one in the kitchen with the cast on his leg."

I wandered through the main building noting the red wood appointments, fish pond through the glass double doors, fireplace, game area, etc, and found him.

“Oh, hi," he said, “right out this door and downstairs is one of the bunk houses. There's four beds. Just drop your gear on one that's not messed up."

So I was on my own with creepy firstday-at-camp feelings. All four beds were made up so I chose one from the end, dropped my flight bag, undressed, pulled out a towel (you must bring your own) and aimed for the pool trying to keep an open/journalist's eye but very much tight and defensive. On the way up to the pool a very Berkeleyish man smiled a warm hello.

I reached the pool (it was 10:45 am) in time to hear the crisis of someone's coconut oil, which had turned solid in the night. Scattered on the deck were