The moon is full. Lightening up the sky like a lighthouse lantern. The frogs are chirping an ancient and temporary song. They are guests because of our winter squall- welcome but temporary. It’s 70 degrees at 10 o’clock at night. California- once almost dust from drought, is now saturated. I’m on my front porch wearing a sundress with Led Zeppelin turned up on Alexis to drown out the thousand frogs. I’m drinking cheap red wine. I’m attempting to calm my pubescent state. It’s barely working.

My soul screams for recognition. My artist heart wants to run naked on the grass and fuck a willing cowboy. My brain needs to be heard. My body wants to be hurt. Sexually damaged. The kind that makes us blush the next day over orange juice.

I smell the jasmine blooming. The bud bursts on the apple tree. It’s sweet. Like the sweat on his neck. The precum dripping to the thought of us. His chest heaving in raw need. The two off us under the light of the moon.

@Merging. Pleasuring. My tongue discovering every scent his body makes, I’m storing it to memory. My fingers map and drive him. His breath quickens. He whispers begging. I’m not sure if it’s a request to stop or do more. I don’t care. This is my show. I’m driving. I will extract from him every essence, fluid and pleasure I can. In this short time — I plan to imprint on him. So that the memory lasts. Tugs at us. Drives us to merge and repeat.

It’s the moons fault. Like the waves it drives me to pound and roar and reclaim my beach with waves of passion.

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