The Stream

He was awakened by the early morning sun. The desert grows cold at night without the asphalt and concrete of the city to hold in the heat. He wondered how early it was. It always amazed him how, without the shelter of walls and a roof, the sun seemed to rise so much earlier in the morning.

He could feel the remainder of the late night still in his head. He knew he hadn't slept as long as he would have liked. He was up early enough that the hangover was still a few hours away. He still felt good and he might as well enjoy it while he could.

His face felt warm and his body was comfortable under the blanket. The ground was firm but didn't yet feel hard. How perfect a spot it had been for them? Totally alone, the warm fire keeping them warm as they slowly intoxicated themselves on the cold beer, smooth pot, and each other. He thought what a perfect getaway it had become and how they really had to find a way to do it more often.

He could hear the cicadas buzzing. Somewhere in the distance he heard the different birds of the Sonoran desert. Funny, he thought, how these weren't the sounds of the desert to him. These were the sounds of the golf course. Three cheers for suburban development. There was a steady sound in the background. It was the stream they couldn't find the night before. They had to just miss it.

He stood and felt the cool air on his naked body. He loved being able to stand in the glory of god with nothing but what he'd given you. He remembered, before they had come up with the idea of zero lot line homes, how he would emerge from his shower on summer mornings, out the back door, and let the sun dry his body. Now the two-story home built right behind theirs pretty much prevented him from the joys of being nude. (Something entirely different from being an exhibitionist, he thought to himself, proud of the significance of his insight.)

She had to be close by. He saw her boots lying beside the blankets. Her jeans were still on the folding chair next to the last few dying embers of the fire. Her shirt was there too, his flannel was gone. He heard a slight change in the steady babble of the stream followed by the feminine "whhhooop" of a woman who had just discovered how cold water can be without being frozen. He pulled on jeans, commando style, and his boots. The only food to be found, he was extremely hungry, were marshmallows. He filled his mouth and his hands and went looking for her.

She wasn't far. How did they miss the stream? He came up behind some brush. The desert turned green when it found water. The mesquite grew tall and lush. Even the little bit of altitude they had gained driving up from the city was enough to sprout a thin line of Cottonwood trees on each bank. The sun was low and came through the trees in horizontal rays of light and shadow. The stream sparkled orange and yellow. Stones and rocks, worn smooth as marbles, glowed as if chromed in the morning sun. Standing amid this glorious wash of light and color was a goddess, his very own angel. She was his, and in that moment, he knew both true love and ecstatic joy.

He knelt down in the stand of trees. He wanted to watch her, had to watch her. He was not a letch perched under a sorority window. It was deeper, more intense. Like the early Greeks turned to stone for watching the rituals of their gods. It was stronger, more primitive, like a cougar studying the movements of his prey. He was paralyzed with the look of her in the gold, crimson, and silver morning.

She lowered herself into the water. He watched her shiver as she sunk slowly into the one pool deep enough to take all of her into its cold swirling water. For a moment she was gone. Her head dipped into the crystal water. In the daylight he could have seen her clearly, holding herself under the water. Now, with the sun at its sharpest angle, she was gone, hidden beneath black and silver ripples.

Slowly, she rose into the day. Like the sun behind her, she moved so slowly you couldn't see the movement, only the progress of her rise into the warm light. Small trails of water rolled from her shoulders. She was in silhouette against the backdrop of white and black trees. Green, gold, yellow, and orange, traces of blue sky surrounded her. She was a dark and glorious cut out on a radiant and moving backdrop.

Her hair lay smooth and wet along her shoulders and back. He remembered the night before, her lying atop him. Her weight on his body, her hair thick, soft and blond, surrounding his face. He could breathe nothing but the sweet scent that to him would always be exclusively hers. He thought about it now, dripping and cold. He thought about holding her, how it would feel against his chest if he came up behind her and pulled her to him.

She stood erect, turning to the sun for warmth. Small beads of glistening water rolled down her body. Her muscular legs were a crisp outline against the far bank. He followed the curve of her thigh with his eyes, much as he had done the night before with the back of his hand. Stretching in the golden glow of the morning she arched her back. She was a Roman statue guarding a sacred shrine dedicated to the gods of beauty and lust.

He remembered the first time he had had her. It had been so awkward. Only lovers in the midst of a rage of lust could have so completely become one in a cold night on hard pavement. But it hadn't mattered. Like last night. Their lovemaking was so perfect, such a total combination of love and lust that passion overcame heat, cold, time, surroundings, everything. When they were together, locked together in embrace, it was all that mattered.

She turned. Her hands slid over the curves of her breasts and the rise of her hips. The beads of water rolled down her, glowing silver, as if lit from within against her dark skin. They moved with her hand, dancing like fireflies in the night. They collected along her arms and the curve of her ass, pooling for a second, and then plummeting to the surface of the stream rejoining the water swirling at her feet.

He wanted to move on her. He wanted to spring from his cover and move to her swallowing her form when he was upon her, taking her, as he had done last night.

Silently they'd made love atop the blankets by the fire. He remembered lying beneath her. He could listen to her breathing, the pace quickening and slowing with the tide of passion. They did not need to make sound. They expressed everything in a touch. As it became more intense he had rolled atop her. He took her again in the night. The glow of the full moon lighted her face. He remembered locking eyes with her. She was the only one ever to hold his eyes at climax. It was as if they could move from one body to the other when their eyes were locked. She did not grimace, she did not cry out. She simply held his soul in the reflection of the moon. He did not see simply her eyes, but her soul, so complete was their connection.

He wanted her now, just as it had been. He felt himself pressed hard against the rocky soil. He had to go to her. He stepped loose of his few clothes and moved stealthily along the rocks of the creek bed. He had seemed so far from her, now he realized he was merely a few steps from her. Carefully and silently he moved in behind her. The bubbling sound of running water over stones covering his approach. He thought of all the years he'd know her. With each step he remembered another encounter; another night spent in each others arms. All of the events of his life measured by the distance between their interludes. He sank into the water behind her. It came to their waists. Her muscular back and shoulders now inches from his chin. Soon he would press his lips to them.

She was aware of him now. She did not move. She stayed turned from him. The water was cold, very cold. He did not notice. He moved in behind her. He inched closer to her. Neither of them moved. The let the space between them slowly deteriorate till they could feel the water go warm between them, pressed between the heat of their bodies. He ran his hand over her arm. She was cool to the touch and smooth. Her hand met his and he felt the bar of soap slide from her hand to his. Mixed now with the fertile aroma of the forest was the slight lavender smell of her skin. It was the smell of her. The smell of her hair, the smell that came from her skin when he pressed his lips and face to her. He still couldn't pass a boutique without slipping in to smell the different soaps and scents, always biding his time till he came across the light purple bottles and oils that would remind him of she that held his heart.

He ran it over her back. Her arms relaxed at her sides. He held the muscles of her shoulders in each hand, listening to her breath. The same sounds he heard last night under the blankets when he moved slowly atop her. He felt himself growing hard despite the bitterly cold water running around them. The sky had turned from auburn, past gold, to the clear blue it would remain for the rest of the day. The sun was warm on his chest and the flesh of her neck was now warm to the touch. The soap did not lather, but added to the glistening of morning light upon her. She was slick now, and his hands slid across her. He pulled her to him, sharing their warmth, feeling her slide across his chest.

His hands moved around her. Lathering her hips, and slowly rising to move over the curve of her breasts. He slowly searched out her nipples erect and firm between his fingers. She held her breath now. All seemed silent as she did and he moved his hands further, arousing her. He pressed his lips to her neck. He tasted the clear mountain water on her. It had been snow six months ago and now had the rich mineral taste of water that had traveled for miles along a rocky riverbed.

She turned to him. His lips stayed pressed to her neck and she laid her head back. Her eyes closed as he tasted her. Caressing her with lips tongue and teeth, she sighed. His hand explored her body. He knew every curve, every subtle freckle and mole. He knew them better than his own, and after all he should, for she was his, and he had given himself to her entirely. He followed the curves of her waist and up along her back. She was nearly limp in his grasp. Her arms lay listless along the sides of her body. His fingers slipped along her lathered back tracing her spine and massaging the muscles along it. Below her ribs, down the small of her back, his fingers broke the surface of the water and slid further, the oils of the rich soap kept her skin soft and moist, even beneath the cold water. She flexed as his hands moved over her ass. He felt the muscles in his fingers.

He was always amazed how he could feel so totally a part of her when he held her in his arms, and at the same time feel such a total need to have her. He released her neck and pressed his lips to hers. Deeply they kissed. He felt her muscles coming alive as the passion built up between them. The sun came down on them from above the trees now. The desert heat built quickly around them. Her arms rose up around him and wrapped around his shoulders. He felt her weight being transferred from her feet to his strong back. Smoothly his arms took her up. Her legs were wrapped about his waist. He held her now and she held herself to him.

In the night they had laid upon the blankets, she atop him, him atop her. Gravity had held them together. Now it was their own strength that kept them together. She moved against his chest. Raising and lowering herself with her thighs. He loved the muscular feel of them against his sides. Any moment now she would take him in.

They became stone. He was in her and she wrapped around him. They did not move. The water held them in its movement and swayed them about. Their hearts quickened as they embraced. They grew warmer. They did not need to move. It built up inside them as stood silent, still. The water was the only movement. Their lips were locked together and their tongues met and entwined in passion. He wanted her, he had her. This was the moment he lived for, the moment just before. They had loved each other so completely, this was their goal. Not the final outcome, but the moments they were together. They drug it out as long as they could. He could feel her giving in. He felt her tense that was all it took. In the flash of a moment it washed over them. It drained them and filled them at the same time. Their kiss released and they held each other close.

The moment it had ended they were as close as they had been before. They felt the warm sun now. Sweat had formed between them and he tasted it on her neck. Slowly he allowed his legs to collapse and they folded into the brisk water. It surrounded them. They held their embrace and pressed their lips closer, deeper. Beneath the cold water their bodies moved against one another. It was perfect joy.

They would make love once again by the stream. Later they would cook breakfast to replenish their energies. In the afternoon they would hike. He would take pictures, some of landscapes and trees, a couple of birds, but mostly of her. He couldn't make a picture more beautiful.

In the heat of the afternoon they would swim again. Playfully they would splash in the cool water. Washing themselves of the heat. They would make love in the stand of trees and be seen by a group of hikers who would smile and laugh at the playful lovers, caught naked near the water.

Another camp fire would put them to sleep, staring up at the stars. They talked each other to sleep. He was soothed by the sound of her voice. Whatever she said was beautiful to him just to hear, just to have her beside him.

His sleep could be described only as "blissful." He would awaken to her gentle touch and easily give in to her desire for a last chance before packing their things and returning to the city.

Returning tired, returning happy.