After the Pool

Do you remember? We were eighteen. We had broken into Lem Birdon's garden and were swimming into his pool, me you and your sister. Naked, we were marking cool lengths in the dark of a summer evening. We'd been there about twenty minutes, and old Lem came out of his house, waving a shotgun and shouting that we was trespassin' and we had no right to be there.

I think it was the shotgun that scared us, so we slipped out of the pool and fled. We ran, nude as gods, leaving our clothes in heaps on the old wooden sun-loungers. We followed our old paths through backyards and down alleyways, barefoot across the dusty tarmac between the garages, through the parking lot at the back of the church, and down through the haymeadow to the back of your house.

When we got to your house, we could see your parents were still awake. The lights were on, and we could see them through the window, watching TV. We couldn't go back in without our clothes, so we climbed back over the fence, and went to the old haybarn where we used to play. Together, naked in the hay, we found ways to pass the time.

At first, your sister said it was disgusting, but she soon joined in, making her own animal grunts as we experimented with how to make our bodies connect. I remember the feel of your wet hair on my chest, the long white coolness of your sister's legs on my face, and the way the sweat and water beaded on your nipples when you straddled me. I remember the slight chlorine taste when I kissed your thighs, my untrained tongue unsure of what to do until you guided me, pressed my mouth to the spot. The smell of chlorine still reminds me of that heaven.

I remember the jealousy in your eyes when your sister's fumbling produced those first pearly beads into her soft fist, the look on your face as she touched them to her ripe lips, tasting what was not hers to taste. I remember too, your pleasure when you mounted me for the first time, nervous, the gentle moan as you lowered your featherlight body onto me, and the shock and disbelief in your sister's eyes when she realised that I was actually inside you. I remember the way your body bounced to quiet orgasm, the way you grasped your breasts to you as if to hold them on, and the way you coiled backward when you came.

I remember your sister's breasts, different in shape from yours. I know she had hurt them when we ran away from the pool, and was looking for ways to soothe them, hugging her arm beneath to cradle and support them. She started talking about going back to the pool, taking our chances that Old Lem and his shotgun had gone to bed, and we'd be able to retrieve our clothes. But it did not seem work risking it, and you and I were quite enjoying the hay. I remember the feel of your fingertips on my arm, your hair in my face, your fingernails digging into me. I remember that first feel of your lips on my neck, and later, the soft soft kisses.

Your body was built for nights like that -- fit and lithe, strong and untiring. Even now, when I see you stretch before the mirror I can still feel that same energy, the same passion and strength coursing through you after all these years. I know your sister probably remembers too, but it is one of those unmentioned things, now she has a husband and a reputation to live up to. But we can whisper to each other, and I can write to you when you are far away.

The night began to grow colder. We nestled like rats in the hay, rustling and squeaking as our movements together realised new sensations, new experiences. We were learning each others bodies, where to touch, where to press, where to hold. Every half-hour your sister would go to the door and look down the field, to check whether the lights were still on at the house. But for every hour they stayed awake, we had another hour to play and learn.

I think we got home alright. I remember seeing our clothes dressing a scarecrow in Lem Birdon's bean field, but we were too nervous of the shotgun to go and retrieve them. I wonder if that old haybarn is still there. You've been saying you want a holiday.