AUGUST 17, Mirmande:

I wake early, mouth parched, bladder full. Tromp to the bathroom, lift the toilet seat to pee.

You, surprising me from behind, bringing your hand around my cock: Now watch that aim. Want to keep this place clean!

I grunt in affirmation, relax, start to urinate.

You, directing my stream in wide arcs around the edge of the bowl: Woah. Woah. Pay attention. Pay attention.

Suddenly, you’ve got me peeing on the floor.

Me, clenching my bladder: Stop!

You, grinning: Ok. Ok. Let’s try again.

This time you let me finish in peace, give me a little shake at the end, push me out of the way.

You, bringing down the toilet seat: So what’s the plan?

Me: I was thinking we could sit in a very hot car and reread ‘Against the Grain’.

You: Quite the inventive thinker, aren’t you?

Me, ripping you a piece of toilet paper: Without parallel.

Me: How about a swim?

You: Oh, now that I like.

Me, pointing at the ground then turning to the door: I leave you to clean up—the pee—k?


We walk barefooted down to the river. Delicate movement across rough edges of chalk pebbles, underbrush scratching at our calves.

We lay a blanket on a limestone shelf in the sun. The river is drawn into a channel and runs fast and deep.

Me: Going in?

You, reclining: Not yet.

I sit with my feet submerged, and skip stones downstream. A catfish’s whiskers poke out from below a rock on the river bottom.

I holler and slip in. The current draws me downstream. I release myself to buoyancy and momentum.

You are lying on your back. I stand dripping above your legs and shake like a dog.

You, pulling up your knees: Hey, you’re getting me wet.

Me, working the bad pun: That’s not something you usually complain about.

Your leg comes up to kick me, but I grab it at your calf and drop on top.

You, hitting at me but pinned: Asshole! Botanist!

Wrestling, I pull you off the blanket and roll you into the water.  You let out a gasp and attempt to pull away, but I draw you in close.

Submerged rumble of water punctuated by a mutual breath as we rise to the surface.

You, smiling, not resisting anymore but just because: Fucker!

I draw you across me and we float downstream on our backs. My hand slips beneath your bathing suit.

Me, marveling at the change in surface tension as I bring a finger inside you: My lovely, your wetness is not that of the river.

You: Poetic. Then, closing your eyes: Just don’t stop.

My feet find purchase on the river bottom, and I hold you suspended in the liquid flow.

Your arms above your head bend with the current.

There is no effort. This is a gift that you are giving me, that I am giving you.

You arch your head back, submerge your face as you come. Then reemerge, gasping for air.

You, reaching: Hold me.

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