The River 9

She was with me this morning, from both sides, the small mound of her bottom pressed against me like a ball of white dough, the front of her bent and smiling into the trousers of something, or someone, I suppose. The dizzy, heavy feeling won't just rub off on the blanket like the rest. It's a thick ghost, the only witness thus far, to these dreams. No one else to see the images flickering on the inside of my eyes like blue, late-night TV, or to watch me tense and shiver as the imaginary ball of dough rolls and squishes, pinches and shrinks in my fingers, sticks to my belly like a warm lump of rising, unbaked sex. Her sex.

She brought me here, to this place, the buzzed and unreal river where I'm high with her, half nude, half awake . It floods and rushes like the water under the bridge, like the air in the trees blown by the flushing chill of the stream. The rocks bounce audibly in the current and I can't tell whether someone is watching us from the trees, the deliberations of my hands operating in the crook of her open legs, her dead panties blowing like salmon skin on a nearby twig. Matches, paper, scissors, and a small canister of grass laid on the folded shirt where I work carefully, clipping the long strands of blonde hair, watching it cling to my fingers, lift, drift, and blow into the rocks and into the stream.

A clear dribble rolls down the red line, evidence of her intensity and flexed legs, supine arch of her whiteness stretched on the wet rocks. Trimmed hairs half and inch long adhere to the vertical line, stitching the broken wound as if they might shield her still from the cold river panting up the crab stalks of her legs. Her toes wiggle white in the gravel, her body is warm at the joint where the hairs grow near her wet sex overflowing and coating the yellow forest in clear slime. The red line is slowly opening, dilating like a heat valve as I trim, blow, and pick away the cut pieces, as I clear a path to her pounding heart with shaking hands.

The next moment the sounds are stronger, the river is blowing colder near my toes. I can feel her writhing warmly on my fingers like a small, wet mouth tensing in rhythm with the water. I strain to retain the sensation of my detached hand – her long, pale legs wound on the trunk of my arm like vines. I watch her face twisting and changing, the trees swaying; I listen to her sounds as if my arm inside her is tugging and squeezing the controls to make her move, hold still, cry out or be silent according to the wishes of the place.

She has an obvious, audible orgasm and I stiffen, feeling the vibration of her frozen legs, the pulsed suckling of her vagina on my fingers. There is white and then I'm on top of her, frantic. Only the dough is left in my hands, two white halves and the red peach torn to the pit. I'm sunk by my naked torso pumping the long spine stretched to the shoulders, head of a giant sperm slowly suckling the groin, intensity building in the belly as a deep, guttural buzzing. I long to spray the inside of the bun with white, the filling leaked and rubbed in wet circles by palm on her pale skin; to shower her in liquid much hotter, much whiter than the river; to tear the flag of her dead panties from the stick. I want to get it all over with and let the dough sleep with it's mouth full, let the river rest, and let her sink into the rocks and be gone for a while. I can wash the blanket in the morning.