Communing with the Moon: first weekend away
From an evening sky just turned dark, the moon rises. Bare branches reach, striving – for what? The moon seems to ask, “What time is it?” And replying silently, she said, “Time stops, there is no time, it stops here.”
Salt spray drifted on breezes straight from the tops of high-surf-warning waves. At 2 pm on a sunny (for now) afternoon, foggy mist and clouds promised arrival along with a very high tide.
She looked north along the desolate and brutal beach to where the man had disappeared. She saw his barefoot tracks in wet sand. “This is a never-turn-you-back-on-the-sea kind of day,” she thought. Tide brought one wave closer, too close.
Out of the mist from the north the man came. She wrapped her scarf tighter, like she’d wrapped him the night before, in the field with the moon, under the moon, the moon rising above branches, softness underfoot releasing its earthy smells, his pleasing and slightly sweaty fragrance rising with his heat.
She watched him run past her on the empty beach, as he’d planned, now heading south into the wind. A growing wind, obscured landscape, air heavy with salt and moisture. The cadence of bare feet falling on sand, rhythmic like a metronome as he shrank smaller and smaller into the the distance. She didn’t care that temperatures were falling, that the sun had disappeared. She’d come all this way to feel cold, to listen to crashing waves. She’d come all this way to feel.
Again, the man came north, running through waves shallow upon the shore. He was a man built to move; move on a bike, up hills, move through water, down rivers, and move into her.
Her mind wandered again to the night before, to the field behind his house where a tractor stood waiting for morning workers. She’d leaned up again a solid tire, felt the immense treads beneath her ass, leaned back and breathed in the moon, the night, the soils and sounds. Threw her head back to look at the vastness of stars.
He’d moved in against her, pressing her hips into the tire. “The moon is watching me,” she thought, pushed up against the massive tire of a yellow Caterpillar backhoe, a machine waiting to plant a new almond orchard in straight rows north to south. “Why is this so exciting?” Up against the tractor, earth caked into treads, his face pressed into her breasts. Her hand dug into dirt behind her – the tire – while the other pulled the hair on the back of his head. A moan escaped her lips, almost as deep and guttural as the tractor’s motor on ignition.
The man ran by again, in the waves, watching the sea. “It’s winter,” she thought. “Who is this crazy man running back and forth because it makes him happy?” Who is this crazy guy coming back to me, now totally wet and shirtless and shivering?
This coast, this part of California, a fragile part that she’d been coming to for 50 years, a coast of exposed cliffs, barren beaches, wind swept highlands of cattle and scrubby land. This coast of high surf. “Is this why I’ve always loved this place, that I knew someday that I’d bring this man here?”
“Loins,” she suddenly thought. It’s not a word that she used often, except recently, when she could barely prevent her attention from drifting to her loins, or his. She couldn’t remember ever having felt like this, an arousal in her loins that seemed to last for hours, to recede and then return. It was a hot, almost burning sensation, the female equivalent of a teenaged boy’s perennial erection perhaps, sometimes welcome, sometimes mortifying. Only she wasn’t embarrassed because no one could see. Even he couldn’t tell how much he aroused her. How could she tell him this? Words wouldn’t come, but she could take him to places with her, to her fantasies, her dreams, and out into the landscape she so far shared with no one. She could wrap her legs around him as snugly as he held her, more closely and passionately than she’d ever been held. She could feel hard thighs, grip the slightly soft padding around a lean waist, run her hands down over his perfectly shaped ass, hard yet soft and so round.
He said, “Roll over onto me,” so she did, lay with her full weight pressing him down, feeling his hardness against her stomach, between her legs, inside her and out. With her hands, she pulled his arms over his head and moved deeply into and onto him, feeling a tiny thrill of power, a tiny bit of momentary domination as if it was fun to trade those feelings so that in the end there was a balance. She asked him if she wasn’t too heavy and he murmured no, and buried his face and mouth between her breasts, breathing deeply as if he might suffocate.
And outside above the surf, birds on wind, lifting and floating on thermals. Not gulls but crows. Immense, healthy very black crows celebrating a sunny day, their poetic dance climbing and diving, playing and sparring, a trio of crows advancing, retreating. Waves, curvy and sensual, twisting, rolling, undulating.
About the author: Daphne Devina is an essayist and artist with an irrepressible curiosity about life, adventure, and especially men. Join her as she explores a new world of irresponsibility after many years of juggling career, kids and marriage. Can she finally “have it all?” Can she reawaken passion in a body long dormant?