Summer night; still, damp.

Frogs in trees: breeee, breeee, breeee, breeee!

Autumn morn sleeping.


Let’s just snuggle closer together and listen to the chucklingmusic of our empty bellies while we hold each other and doze.


Please keep The Kick Inside.

The second I opened your message with the jacket picture I heard Wuthering Heights. Our slick bellies and taught thighs boiling together 37 years ago— awash on my waterbed in the surf. Lips ziplocking tongues hot & fresh, teeth ticking clicking, hands teasing kneading.


Your freshening sweat runs in a rivulet over the delicate cusp of your collar bone, trills a swelling Spring-melt brook through the still valley between your breasts, bounds across the nascent meadow of your belly, an eddy swirls a whirlpool in your inviting navel, the stream leaps and gambols out again forming rapids over your mons pubis, before the river loses itself in your luxurious southern delta amongst the mysterious, musky mangroves in which I wander; dreaming of love and eternity.

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