There’s a grassy overlook I like to visit. The back is half-shaded by birch and pine. Scrubby blackberry thickets grow between outcroppings of lichen-mottled granite. The path to the overlook is a mile under hemlock, through fern-soaked soil and spindly stands of poplar. On the day I’m telling you about, I wore canvass dungarees and a long sleeve button-down—cooler than a t-shirt. The air cools the skin just above the belt when the shirt’s unbuttoned. Sometimes you’ve slipped the belt and let the crotch slip down the flat plane of my abdomen—waiting. But you weren’t with me. There’s a nook between the tumbled granite boulders. I sat comfortably in the divot of grass and stone. I watched the sun-dabbled mountains. I slipped the belt through the clasp. I unbuttoned and pushed my hand under. The crotch of the dungarees unzipped over my wrist. I was already hard. I was imagining you, the smell of your cunt, so much like the smell of soil, like an irresistible tug. I was remembering the nub of your tits in my mouth and my cock in the heat of your abdomen. I just wanted you to know. You made a man come—the need to taste you, to feel you, to leave the liquor of my groin in yours. I only had to imagine you. And you? Can you imagine my hand sliding on the skin of my cock? Can you see, as though from above, my shirt unbuttoned—bare from the neck down to the V of the canvass crotch. A man masturbates. My stomach rises and falls in the sun’s heat. My cock rises from the dark nest below. I grip the curved stalk. I imagine it’s you when the tingling heat descends, draws my balls tight and laces my chest and abdomen with my rapture. I shout. I heave with each burst as if you were there, as if I buried the semen in your beautiful stink, as if your straddling thighs were wide with acceptance. My skin, nerves and muscles yearn for yours. Forgive me. I can’t move. My muscles hold me inside you. Then my familiar exhausted shudder. Consummation. I don’t hide the mark you make on me. I return from the overlook with chest and abdomen matted. I imagine meeting you—in your white, ribbed, tank-top. I imagine embracing you, kissing you, pressing my ecstasy into your hips and breasts. I imagine your revealed purple nipples. I imagine the fabric stippled by my skin, semen and sweat. I can’t help masturbating like a boy when I think about you. I crave you. Forgive me.
William Crimson | September 13 2015