We ambled aimlessly through the soft, crystalline blanket of white. The dreamy shroud of night obscured our visual perception, nevertheless, heightening our hearing. The rhythmic whoosh of water crashing against rocks soothed us. Brandon had finally shown me his secret place--the kind of place where people searched their souls, heightened their perceptions, and were reborn. No doubt, DaVinci had known about it, as well as Shakespeare, E.E Cummings, and so forth. There was a sense of sobriety and simplicity; we were unadulterated bodies listing towards self-comprehension, never taking form, yet always retaining form; here, we never were creations, though the concept of demolition still wavered over--in order to assure that we still knew to appreciate. It was the most beautiful place on earth, and we were the only two people on earth.
The place we were defied all logic. The skies glittered with unmatchable glory. There were other celestial bodies intermingling with obvious stars. Shooting stars raced silently across the sky, planets were in full view, plain sight all at once, and they wavered over us eerily like giant, intricate marbles, playthings of children. The clouds billowed sluggishly across the dreamscape, taking the shapes of flowers, shimmering bubbles, dolphins and other seaborne creatures transparently overlaying tints of soothing oranges, dreamy, star-riddled violets, and blushing pinks. The ocean was alive with blues and greens, ectoplasmic fluid replacing water. It sloshed against the land, sounding like busy hands slapping and tamping sloppy sand into potential castles. The atmosphere of this world was warm and tickly like the mild film of static on a playground slide in the summertime--as if it had a life all its own.
The world had a mind, it had a spiritual connection to those who dwelled there. The sky, which seemed like it could bare no more beauty than it had already shown, reflected onto the living entity of the ocean; the replica had a resolution far more breathtaking than the original image. The sand was like no other. It mounded under the arches of our feet and was so silky, with close comparability to powdered sugar, it seemed to be shuffling us forward. Rays of life affirming light from the sky shone onto it and made every granule twinkle independently like the scales of some exotic fish.
There were intricate, monstrous sandcastles whose creators remain unknown: soft, near-perfect likenesses of the Taj Mahal, Giza pyramids, the Sistine Chapel; they all had a soft glow around them, an enticing aura-- red, hot pink, gold, pale electric blues, soft pale yellows, or just hot white. We staggered down a hill, working as one to try to promote the likelihood of the other to make it down safely. "Nuh, put your foot there!" Brandon scolded jokingly. "What 'there'?" I hollered as I slipped down the silty decline. "Never mind," he said smoothly. We came to a rest under an enormous, old tree.
He plucked a fruit from one of the branches. "It looks kinda dry, you intend to eat that?" I asked curiously. He put the fruit to his mouth, as if to take a bite, but instead held it by the stem with clenched teeth. He pulled out some small white papers he kept in his tee pocket. He straightened out the papers, all the while his eyes flashed mischief up to me. Then, it came to me. He chiseled some of the fruit off into each individual paper, licked the edges, and rolled them up tightly. Then, he produced a lighter from his jean pocket.
The shroud holding the spark wheel was polished gold, and the wheel was that of a miniature ship. The top, visible only as a band and part of the fuel lever between the shroud and body, was ancient bog oak--a type of wood only produced by natural forces burying the wood in a peat bog for hundreds of years. The body was brilliant emerald cut diamond and, within the sparkling gas reservoir, you could see a small simulation of the lost city of Atlantis. Tiny merfolk wagged their tails and rose from the luxurious, shrunken city along with luminous jellyfish, small dolphins, and other striking seabound creatures that had already,in the real world, succumb to extinction. They rushed to produce a flame. The flame wavered in the wind, but had the lively resilience of the Greek fire that lights the Olympic torch. The container was afire with an inner glow, a calming, tantalizing pale electric blue that manifested inside.
"Everything's got an Inner Light that's just longing to make it's debut," he said, "after a while, after prolonged suppression, it becomes an unbearably discernible... burning (he waved his other hand over and through the flame,unharmed)." I looked into his eyes wonderingly the way inquisitive youths look to their idols. "Soon, your burdens will have burdens," he teased. Then his smirk half-faded, his gaze became distant. He clasped his hands together, accommodating the joint. He mused out loud,"then even that place of a thousand glows can't match that of your own."
He held the flame to the tip of the joint and let it catch, then brought it to his lips and sucked in the fruity fog. He exhaled and beamed a boyish grin and passed it to me. He sputtered, "gets you, like, a thousand times higher." I pushed it away, weakly. "C'mon!" ,he pressed, "Humor me!" I smiled, took the joint between trembling fingers, and sucked in the silly smoke. It took awhile to feel the affect. I spaced out. "It's good, right?" he asked, beaming.
"Brandon...?" I clutched for him desperately. He took me by surprise. He leaned in, maneuvered me towards him with one splayed hand ahold of my neck, and kissed me sloppily. He scooted back towards the big tree and sat against it, one leg bent toward his chest, the other lengthened; he had pulled me onto his accommodating lap by the arm--what a strong specimen, he was. I pressed tight against him, I could feel the lean, moist definition of muscle underneath his shirt.
Orgasmic heat circulated between us as we sat for a moment in an embrace. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he unzipped my fly and undid the button of my skimpy cutoffs which bunched up to reveal the cheeks of my thick ass. "Take me," I whispered meekly. He drew me into him as I let myself go languid. He had me pushed up against him so that I somewhat overlooked him, my chest meeting his gaze instead. Still under the haze of the warmth and mellowness of the meadowland, I began to untie the thin strings of my halter-top. I flipped down the top of the garment, strings dangling uselessly. The fabric gave into gravity and slunk down around my waist, freeing my dark brown almost black nipples from threatening to cut through the top they stood so erect.