march

The short month has ended, the snow of winter arriving just at the end of it, melted now, spring soon, spring lingering here so close all year.

I left my bedroom for some time, feeling a great need to wander, to explore the wide wonder, in search of beauty, in search of ideas, in search of new ways and new faces, new tastes, new amid the old, in search of perspective, sunrises on empty roads, the cold, the sting, courage.

Adventure, even here, the hidden, the forbidden, the jeans unsnapped quickly, fingers slipping briefly into my heat, your cock plunging deeper to replace them, my face pressed up against cold tile as you fill me, your finger tracing my ass, more, more, my thoughts so lewd to think of the moment, stolen, the Vermeer, my lust multiplied, a kaleidoscope of possibilities.

tube

The inner tubes were there in the barn and stacked, and this time it was winter, not fall, and you were standing there at the bottom of the hill holding one and grinning at me. “Let’s go!” you said, and I went, carrying my tube up the hill beside you, both of us laughing as we slipped on the half-melted snow over ice and a weekday, and no one else near.

It was foolish, I know, foolish to be there in the cold, in the late afternoon, dark ready approaching even as we started our descent into that fearful night, the wonder and the improvisation. They are tubes, inner tubes, and not skis, not sleds, not snowboards, no canvas covers or lifts to drag our butts up the steep hill, no one watching out even as we sail down dangerously near the river where we rode on these tubes in the cold autumn water such a short time ago.

Your bare hands are red, now, raw, you damn you, always ready even when you’re not, always wanting to take me on these adventures. And I go all too willing. You remind me, it was my idea.

The heat of night awaits us, somewhere, in the glow of a fire, in the glow of love suspected. Your hands will still be red then, but warm as your fingers unfasten, trace temptation.

The thrill of it, the cold, the stunning slide, clouds dark along the horizon that is visible from up high, yellow lingering low in the sky as the brilliant blue turns pale, then nearly dark when we both lie laughing, soaking wet at the bottom. Only one ride today, a sudden urge, a moment stolen from no time, from the precious bite we take from it, from thoughts, from dreams, from the promise, from life.

bicycle race

I like to ride my bicycle. I like to ride in the cold December morning, to ride until my ears turn red and I am sweating, pedaling pedaling in the snow (flurries) that fall if only for one moment. I pedal pedal, then coast, and pedal hard faster faster when I know the coast is clear. It is clear, and I soar down the big hill. Nothing can touch me now.

There is a certain thrill, then, as I feel needles on my legs, as I pray that the light will be green–or alternatively, that there will be no cars at the busy intersection. And this time of day, on a Sunday morning, there very nearly never are. Yes, good thing. It is possible at this point to speed through two more intersections and ride up a much larger hill, look around the downtown from a parking lot, then race back down. But I don’t. Not this time. Today, I turn, wind through the streets that lead from semi-urban chaos to woods, pastures, narrow roads where cars pass speedily, where the horses and alpacas look up as I ride by. I nod to them in some anthropomorphic effort at fellowship on this morning, on this day when all paths lead to adventure, when all paths must lead to the sublime.