hot action

The Salmon River runs through my backyard. There's a long, narrow island that's considered part of the property. It's name, appropriately enough, is Long Island. I've never been on it.

I'm waiting for you to show up.

On a blazing hot summer afternoon. We'll roll around in the daisies and the buttercups in the backyard, assuming I haven't mowed them all into oblivion, and get ourselves good and horned-up.

It's way too hot to be wearing clothes. Time to find some sexy shade.

We strip down naked and swim out to Long Island. We carry nothing but a couple of condoms and a water bottle.

There's a little clearing in the middle of the island. I can see myself shoving you down on all fours in front of me. You like sticking your ass out for me, don't you?

Stick your ass up. Stick it up higher. The sun might burn your ass red, or a few good slaps might beat it to the punch.

I have to fuck you. The heat drives me into a fucking frenzy. I want to drive it into you, give it to you hard and deep while blue dragonflies carry your cries away down the river.

My hands grip your waist. I shake my head from the fury of exertion, shake the hot sweat in a spray off my forehead.

A little later in the afternoon. Dark thunderclouds are rolling in.

Distant rumbling suggests a storm up towards Grand Lake. We can still see blue sky through cracks in the clouds as a few raindrops cool the heavy air. The temperature drops five degrees in five minutes.

A big old oak tree gives us all the shelter we need on our island. You rest your head on my stomach and toy with my penis. Lightning flashes on the horizon.

The sound of thunder rumbles up the river as you slide your head forward to take me in your mouth.

Posted by philip at 11:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Posted by philip at 06:00 PM | Permalink

I had Leonard Cohen's apartment pointed out to me last night. Hey Lenny, what's up. We're keeping it real in Montreal.

I'd like to thank the city of Montreal and the gods of Internet technology for giving me last night's beautiful blind date. We made out on the 19th floor for a while, and then the 18th floor and the 17th and the 16th and got busted buttoning up our pants when the elevator door sprang open.

We stopped just short of skinny-dipping in a park with a giant pond. Later on it was the sheets that would be soaked with spring sweat.

From my point of view, I got to watch as her face turned red from her forehead down to her chin, and her neck, and then her arms from her wrists up to her shoulders. A blaze of colour that will suffice in place of a sunrise in a rainy city.

Posted by philip at 12:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I was sitting in the parlour when I heard the siren.

I shut off the movie I was watching on my iBook (The Godfather). The siren had been muted by its journey through the country night, but I guessed it was coming from somewhere on Route 123.

It was a sound I hadn't heard in three months, since I left Halifax. The siren's wail seemed implausible above the chirping sounds of the fields and forest.

It occurred to me that it was probably one of the trucks from the village fire department. I was galvanized by the thought that something halfway exciting might be happening out there. So I grabbed my video camera and ran out into the darkness to hop into my car.

By the time I reached the end of the dirt road, the siren's volume had faded in intensity. The direction was difficult to pinpoint.

Somewhere off to the east, maybe? I took a chance and turned left onto the highway.

My car isn't exactly the quietest, and for all I knew I was going in the wrong direction anyway. Before long I had lost all audible contact with the siren. I tried slowing down and rolling down the window, but it was no help.

I continued driving for a while with the thought that I might catch up to the action. But it was feeling like a pretty quiet night in that neck of the woods.

I realized then that I almost never leave the house after dark. It's not like there's anywhere to go, really. Quite a contrast from my old life in Halifax when I worked in a bar and I was out pretty much every night.

I wound up going for a little nighttime drive, up and down the backroads of Queens County. Slow and stealthy through the darkness.

On an empty stretch of two-lane highway I reached down and flicked off the car's lights. I couldn't see the moon anywhere but it wasn't quite pitch-black out. I could just make out the edges of the road as I cruised up the centre line.

I had an urge to jump out of the moving vehicle with the lights off while heading straight up the middle of the highway. But instead, I stuck my head out the window, I listened to the car and to the forest.

All of the car's interior lights were out as well. I couldn't see any of the controls.

I listened and drove, slow. One hand on the steering wheel.

Four tires crackled in perfect clarity against the worn pavement.

Since Robin died I feel lonely all the time. But that's not what people mean when they ask me if I ever get lonely living all by myself in the country.

Now I know how to answer those people. Yes, I get lonely. Once every three months, for half-an-hour at a time.

Posted by philip at 11:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)