Quicksand

That time, that afternoon, that storm was more than the tropics, more than mere accident, more than desire.  Twenty five years on, the memory of that feverish, spontaneous encounter was more than mere memory.  The images retained, sharp as photographs, indelible, permanent.  There were the shapes and contours that our bodies made pressed into the sandy floor of the cave.  There was the semen, spilled pearls, balling up as it absorbed the sand.  There was the opalescent last drop that pushed its way through the black Lycra of my swimsuit, hurriedly pulled on by shame.   No matter, the rain still held us captive.  And we waited while the cum dried, while the shame dissipated.  

Just as there is nothing that will ever compare to the unsustainable heat of being one of two fourteen-year-old boys with limbs entangled, laughing, pretending not to notice each others erection pressing against the bum, the back, the forearm as it bends gracelessly through the gap between his scissored thighs, this was a sexual rite of passage that I (that we, as a couple) would keep with us always, close to the surface.  And just as the teenage self could easily justify the physical engagement and the proximity of our turgid cocks trapped in their button-fly vaults, our adult selves could make sense of our sexuality by waiting out the rain and then wandering just a little further to the muddy pool, strangely blue, and sinking into it, the quicksand of our desire.