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The lake spreads quietly from the shore into the distance, reflecting the slanting rays of the afternoon sun bathing the couple in its golden glow. They are lying in the warm grass, fondling each other, the slowly moving air brushing lightly over their bodies. A narrow path leads across the meadow, going from somewhere to somewhere in a lazily meandering line. Green and yellow snakes slither harmlessly through the grass. A pair of herons out in the water, catching fish. A praying mantis on a blade of grass. From somewhere, the call of a loon. The afternoon is quiet, peaceful, enveloping them in a cocoon of serenity.
This is the tableau for the lovers, a solid wooden frame keeping everything together, in place. We all need frames to know who we are, where we are, narrow paths leading from one place to another, meadows for bathing in the light of the brilliant sun, signposts in a directionless world. The frame is hand-carved from rich exotic wood by a skilled craftsman, lightly oiled to preserve its natural beauty, polished to a soft sheen, the way things are. Sometimes the landscape spills out over the frame, providing them with new vistas, expanding their views, their opinions of themselves.
Most of the time, they are quite content in the frame, as they are on this particular sunny afternoon. They are content to fondle each other, running their hands over their bodies, over breasts, penis, pussy. Their lips are fused, their tongues titillating each other, tasting, sucking, teeth nibbling the lips. He is lying half on top of her, she half underneath him. His one arm is wrapped around her, his other hand fondling her breast, straying to her pussy, being drawn back to her breasts.
She moans deeply, throatily. Sometimes she rolls him on his back and lies half on top of him, he half underneath her, a luxurious variation. Her arm is wrapped around him, her hand stroking at his penis, rubbing his balls. She always knows when she is in control, always is. He cherishes what they do, lives in his penis, saturates his body with the sensations, the stimulations, the ecstasy of their sexual interaction.
We all need breasts and penises and pussies to fondle; we all need to be in control, else what are meadows for. And frames. They keep us from straying from the path, from taxing ourselves needlessly, from erring. And yet we still do all that, and more, despite the frame. Or perhaps because of the frame, because of the path. The flaws in our progression keep us focused, keep us going regardless of anything else, help us grow and evolve. The path will eventually lead us in the right direction, the frame defining the parameters of our quest.
More often than not, we identify ourselves by the kinds of breasts we squeeze and the nipples we suck, by the pussies we lick and taste, by the penises we grasp and suck. Yet they are only the bases, the peripherals. It’s the nerve endings in our fingers, in our lips and tongues that thrive on the sensual contacts, provide us with the sexual arousal, the fiery excitement. They carry the intense messages to our brains, fill our bodies with exhilaration, swaddle our souls in the diaphanous veils of rebirth and rejuvenation. They help us to function purposely, meaningfully, minding the path, respecting the frame.
Outside of the frame, a field of lilies, their blossoms wide open, overtly receptive, pomegranate trees with ripe fruit dripping blood. The lake and the meadow are mirrored on the other side of the frame, the path continuing through the extended countryside. A naked couple wanders around the meadow, gathering lilies into a bouquet, tasting the rich deep-red blood. They don’t see the frame or the path. They only see themselves, the lilies, the luscious fruit. They don’t define themselves by what they do, only by the externalities that formulate their reality. Nothing else exists, not even the synapses, not even the nipple shadows on her breasts. The sun is nearing the horizon. There are no snakes slithering around in the grass.
Satiated from their meandering, they sink into the gradually cooling grass, become a mirror image of the couple in the frame, a mirage illuminated by the slanting rays of the setting sun. They put their arms around each other, fondle and stroke each other, run their fingers, their lips over their soft sun-warmed skin. The man climbs on top of the woman, penetrates her vagina with his penis, the way things go, and thrusts a few times. The woman climbs on top of the man, impales herself on his penis, thrusts a few times. She knows when she is in control.
On the opposite side of the landscape in the frame, two pillars thrust into the slowly deepening evening, piercing the sky, the sky impaling itself. The pillars are decorated with lilies and pomegranates. The path runs across the landscape in front of the pillars, loses itself in the distance. A woman rubs her breasts and her pussy against one of the pillars, moaning and sighing to herself. A man comes walking out of the lake, carrying his engorged penis in front of him. They come together in the meadow to become a mirror image of the couple in the frame, of the couple on the other side of the frame. They run their hands over their bodies, caressing the breasts and the pussy and the penis for each other, for themselves.
When the sun disappears behind the horizon and the full moon rises above the opposite horizon, the three couples bring themselves and each other to extended orgasms in their meadows. Their bodies shudder in unison, saturating precious moments with the culminations of their luxurious afternoons. The moans and groans and sighs and screams rise up in the evening air, intermingle somewhere between the hands and the breasts, between the penises and the vaginas, between the Earth and the sky, the rising moon and the sinking sun. The wooden frame shivers, trying to be all, contain all, preserve all. This is for posterity, for the next time they will find themselves in a mystical meadow on the shore of a silent lake.
The full moon climbs higher in the darkening sky, illuminating the path, tinting the polished frame with its golden sheen, bathing the lovers in its soft light, in the magic of night, the fullness of its enchantment. Moments of intimate mystique hover over the meadows, accumulate along the path, saturate the parameters of the frame. The lovers sleep in the cooling grass, entwined. Some other day, they will all have to find their ways through the labyrinths of existence, come to terms with the path and the frame, whether to be or not, become or stay in the meadow. Perhaps there will be a moment when they will come to the realization that there aren’t always other meadows, other frames.