Let it Flow
A Sexual Fantasy
My boyfriend and I live in the Pacific Northwest and love to spend time in our woods, the temperate rainforest. What starts off as a trail run or innocent reading in the sunshine ends in dappled light and moss and skin, moans offered up to the forest canopy but drowned by the sound of water rushing to its ocean. The river is always near. I love how it feels to be bent over an ancient toppled douglas fir, its bark marking my belly, shorts tangled at my feet, the potential for discovery. When we come I relax against the tree and feel its pulse, my pulse, his pulse and drink in the textures of fern and stone, the breeze. Then we pull up the shorts, tie the laces, and carry on our run, fueled by the thrill of getting away with it. Later I smile when I find a leaf tangled in my hair.