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Peter Baltensperger

July 22, 2013

The Call of the Loon

 

Four o’clock. All is well. Four o’clock does that to the world, even though time doesn’t exist, dripping from nothingness into nothingness as it does, puddles at the bottom of a bottomless abyss. It’s a lazy afternoon, a hot summer afternoon in July, the fourteenth of July, perhaps, or the twenty-second, depending on the circumstances. Dates always depend on circumstances, hence the dripping of the droplets of time. The afternoon is hot enough for swimming, hot enough for the skin to roast.

The lake, for instance, surrounded by ancient forests, expanses of grass here and there reaching in among the trees, like tongues, like snakes. A light breeze ruffles the surface of the lake. The late afternoon sun burns down on the water at an angle, slanting off the ripples, transforming the surface of the lake into a spectacular explosion of shimmering light.

A man and a woman stand in the water, their bodies glistening, melting into the brilliance. There should always be a man and a woman in the water, their skin glistening in the sun, to complete the tableau, maintain the equilibrium between what is and what is, between what has been and what still could become. Forest sounds surround the man and the woman at the centre of the panorama: the twittering of birds, the croaking of frogs, the chirping of cicadas, the haunting call of a loon.

The man has his feet anchored firmly in the soft bottom of the lake, maintaining the balance among the sounds and the glittering water, juggling a pair of luscious breasts in his hands. He lifts the breasts out of the water to let the sun slant on the droplets running down over the smooth slopes, their soft curves sparkling in the heat, blending into the tableau. He knows the importance of breasts gleaming, silvery fireworks dancing all around them, the loon calling plaintively in the distance.

The woman loves having her gleaming breasts lifted out of the water. It makes her feel proud, seeing them in his hands. She is balancing herself against the man, leaning back to leave him room for fondling her breasts. Her arms are wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist, a vise holding them together, holding everything in place in the greater scheme of things, in the primordial depth of the lake.

She has impaled herself on the man’s penis, her flexible muscles sucking at his erection, rocking slowly, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of her soul. She knows how to complete herself in a panorama, how to become herself, how to meld into a universe where only she and the man exist, where only his penis in her grip and her breasts in his hands are of any immediate consequence.

As the afternoon progresses in its own mysterious ways, she starts to bob up and down more forcefully, with increasing determination. The man starts to thrust against her, squeezing her glittering breasts, squeezing her nipples strutting proudly from the surface of her globes. The lake shudders as they thrust against each other more and more frantically, churning the water into waves, drowning out the forest sounds with their moans and groans, their cries of excitement, their lust.

The man lets go of her breasts, flings his arms around her in frenzied excitation, their bodies a single mold in the lake, their pelvises pounding against each other, the sun already moving closer to the tops of the trees. They push each other up the ultimate climb, mountaineers rushing to claim the apex of their quest, then shiver and tremble in the churned-up water as their orgasms pulsate rhythmically through the fulfillment of their desperate selves.

Currents of satisfaction saturate their minds, flood their souls as they rock together through the culmination of their orchestration, kettledrums rolling, cymbals crashing, the director frenetic on his dais, his arms a flurry of final directions. Their end of the lake turns into a confusion of glittering waves, their orgasmic screams saturating the late afternoon, the panorama completing itself in the throes of their passion. They finally separate and stagger through the water hand in hand to collapse in one of the tongues of grass. The sun disappears behind the trees. The lake returns to its quiet self and the initial balance is restored, the afternoon complete.

Later, the breast of a half moon drifts over the treetops into the darkening sky, bathing their landscape in a quietly soft sheen. The woman is sprawled out in the grass, her arms flung wide, her fingers digging into the earth for support, her eyes drinking the moon. The man has his head buried between her splayed thighs, sucking her abundant juices from her luxurious well. She tastes of the lake and the grass, her plentiful emanations intermingling with the droplets of water running down over her lake-wet sex, his tongue darting in and out of her luscious folds, his mind drowning in the richness of her sensuous femininity.

She moans jubilantly in rhythm with his lingual exploration, her body a luscious conglomeration of bristling desires, her mind floating somewhere in the moonlit landscape of her dreams, her fingers clawing at the earth. She knows all about excitement and arousal, wallowing in the snaking of his tongue at the entrance to her cave as he drinks from her cornucopia of delights, stills his hunger at the smorgasbord of her delicious pleasures.

The moon is climbing higher in the sky, and the night darkens around them as the man bears down on her swollen lips, focuses on her protruding clit, licks her to euphoric distraction between groans of excitement and utter satisfaction. He grabs the inside of her thighs, presses her legs further apart, and dives into her delectable landscape with all the eagerness and enthusiasm of a determined seeker on his quest for selfhood and complete fulfillment.

The woman bucks against him, grabs at the dew-wet grass with her hands, and lets the currents of excitement build up at the core of her being, at the centre of her soul. Before long, he sucks her over the top and she cries out with the exuberance of her orgasm, her voice gritty from saturating their tableau with her screams. She rocks against him to let her orgasms rush through her body, fill every cell of her being. Her breasts, her pussy are on fire, her world an immense expanse of total satisfaction.

When her body relaxes from the intensity of her release, the man climbs on top of her, grabs her moist breasts, and plunges into her with his own passion, his own desperate need to climb the final peak and bring relief for his pent-up arousal. She moans gratefully when he squeezes her breasts and rubs her nipples and gushes into her with forceful determination, completing his own part in the panorama, finding his own destination to his quest.

The lake has long restored its smooth surface, the noises in the forest around them have changed to night voices moving in and out among the trees, and the tableau is complete, saturated with the power and the jubilation of their fusions. The after images of their presence will linger at the secluded lake long after they leave, the impressions of their bodies imprinted on the water and on the grass.

High above them, the stars are breaking through the darkness to populate the sky. The loon adds a final plaintiff cry to the nocturnal chorus, and the night folds in upon itself.

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His short stories, poems, essays, and articles have appeared in print and on-line in several hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their three cats.

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