A Bird in the Bush

A Bird in the Bush  

     Marsha and I lay on the yellow sandy creek beach looking at the pink glow of sunrise in the eastern sky.  She reclines on her side facing me. I am supine in the sublimity of spring. We are both twenty and too old for wading in the creek. But spring has sprung and the desire to get more than our feet wet is strong.  
     Marsha’s irises are like oven baked chestnuts. Her complexion is that of French vanilla. Her hair is black as the ace of spades. Her hair giggles when she walks. At St. Catherine Creek the water appears on fire and sparkles in the early morning sunlight. The red clay bluffs, which tower over the opposite bank, are suffused with rosy pastel dawn light.  
     Puffs of mist slowly roll across the water which trickles over pebbles. The forest around the creek is alive with the chirping of crickets and tree frogs.        
     Marsha breaks the silence. “You know, I think you were my brother in a former lifetime.”  
     I reply, “So you’re telling me that I’m in love with my sister?”  
     She replies, “In a manner of speaking yes. Our Mom and Pop were olive growers in the Basque country of Spain. We grew up as natural as the lilies of the field. Then the Spanish civil war brought about the burning of our crops. We migrated to the Costa del Sol and Dad bought a trawler with his life savings. We lived hand to mouth from his fishing income. But you and I had lost our secret places in the woods where we shared our love of nature.”  
     “Does this make ours an unnatural love?”  
     “Of course not. We have new bodies. But our history is what brought us together.”  
     As the sun turns from scarlet to yellow, Marsha asks me, “Have you ever been skinny dipping?”  
     I reply, “Nope. I’m not that daring.”  
     “John, you don’t know what you’re missing.”  
     Marsha strips down to her bikini bottoms. My striptease is interrupted by my blush of boyhood. She tugs my shirt over my shoulders giggling. Then she unzips my pants. My resistance is quickly overcome. I stand up as she slips my shorts and underwear to my ankles. I clumsily step out of them. I have goosebumps from the early morning cool.  
     Now the sky is bright blue with wispy cirrus clouds.  Marsha slips her jeans off along with her panties. Then she dashes into the creek with a splash. I follow her. She says, “Take a load off your feet. Have a seat.” Cool water flows over my bottom. Marsha kicks the water splashing me.  
     I push myself upright, onto my feet, and crouch down gazing at her. She looks giddy from the excitement.  She squats like a frog, faces me, and wrestles me until we both fall laughing into the water. She grabs my shoulders and pushes me under her.  
     I look up at her. She is dappled with beads of water and her skin glistens like jewels in the sunshine. She leans down and brushes my lips lightly with hers.  
     She asks, “Did you like going nekkid with me?”  
     I say, “It was better than a pizza.”  
     She closes her eyes laughing. “You’re crazy. You know that don’t you?” I pat Marsha on the derriere, with her weight on my manhood.  
     I splash her. She says, “You’re going to get it!”  
     I shove her off with my hips. She screams and laughs, as with a steady tug on her bottom, I pull her back into the water. I look at her crouched with her bottom immersed in the water leaving a wake.  
     We wade barefoot through the cool water. Our frolic finds its completion when we sit in the water. Marsha’s legs are parted in a weir to let the eddies swirl in the space between. The gentle cycling of water makes her Venus-plats flutter like the windblown mane of a black mare.  
     She laughs and says, “Don’t look.” But her deep breathing indicates that she is so close that she cannot for the life of her turn back now. The water cartwheels onto her sex. She presses into her valley of secrets. While immersed in her sensual aura my hand finds its home.  
     “Hey, don’t jack your beanstalk in front of me. My virgin eyes aren’t ready to see that, yet. But the day is dawning when something as natural as a man pleasuring himself will bring me joy. John, just sit back and enjoy the show for now.”  
     Her body wrestles with an imaginary anaconda. Her hands press into her pubis like a maiden frantically tucking in her dress out of modesty.        
     “Remember to wait until you are alone to finish what I started,” she says.  
     Her beseeching expression is one of a desperate need for me to lead by example. Her eyes stare at my serpent which beguiles her into sin. Its ruddy head reared, with the one eye, hypnotizes her into carnality. Her lips part, “It pleases me to see you join me in revelry.”  
     Her muscles ripple in sweet undulation on the creek bed and our eyes lock. My body tenses like a bungee cord with my hand the chasm into which I plunge. My body feels fluid as I witness her act of self-love. Rivers of corpuscles throb through my web of arteries. The coronae of her opened eyes glow upon completion of her rites of spring. She sits back and pants in spent exhaustion. My lightning rod is unstruck. She decrees, “Please, unhand yourself. Let me take you where you need to go.” I smile knowingly.      
     “Sorry if I’m intruding Marsha.”  
     “Of course not!” she giggles.  
     “You look like the girl who got the golden egg.”  
     “I feel like the kid who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar,” she says.  
     She says, “Mister I’ve been a naughty girl.” She looks at me with puppy eyes. She pouts and says, “Sir, do I get the ruler this time?”  
     I say, “Now Marsha, you’re a good girl. I won’t tell your Mama what you just did.”  
     “Oh, you are so bad, John. Please don’t tell my mother. She thinks I grew out of it. Mom would have sent me to the pastoral counselor long ago if she caught me red-handed. Can you imagine me having to confess my urges to that old man? He’d take more than a professional interest in my fantasies if I know men.”  
     “Sounds like my kind of profession,” I reply.  
     “Did you hear the song of the mockingbird from the shrubbery as he celebrated my joy with me?”  
     “Pray tell, how did you know it was a male?”  
     “You silly man. Males sing more frequently and a much wider variety of vocals. In fact, this one mimicked my very own moans. Maybe he was courting me?”  
    “I watched a bird in another bush.”  
    “I am flattered that the flutter of my hands held your attention more than the flitter of the serenader’s wings. But tell me plainly do you think the mimicker’s purpose was to mock me or woo me?”  
    “If I were he my intentions would be the latter, but enough of this avian chatter.”  
    “Your eyes are turning green with envy. I enjoyed the sight of your bird in the hand. Do you ever fantasize about a threesome? Of course, you do, just follow my lead.” Marsha answers her own question.
     She lays me face down in my aquamarine blanket. Marsha sits beside me in the cool stream. She kneads my derriere with her loving hands.  
     “The results of your electrifying feminine touch are becoming readily apparent.”  
     “Were your arousal not buried in the sand it would be quite visible and subject to indecent exposure laws. Yet to me there is nothing obscene about your woody. It is an unmistakable sign of your love for the female energy in nature and me.”  
     “The female sensual response isn’t like a Cyclops rearing his one-eyed head for all the world to see,” I say.      
     My beloved’s touch sparks a tiny star which ignites into a stellar furnace of carnal bloom with my bare body soaked in the creek water. She spanks and rocks my supple buttocks in a ménage à trios with the earth Goddess whose wet sand is a cocoon of liquid that nurtures the woody I pop.  
     “John, how did it feel to make love to a creek bed?”  
     “Superb. But hey I’m stuck in quicksand.”  
     Marsha calls 911. “Help! My brother is stuck in quicksand!”  
     “Calm down Ma’am. Firemen are on their way.”  
     “Oh, I’m so embarrassed. Ma’am he is butt nekkid.”  
     “What is he doing nude in the creek with his sister?”  
     “Oh Ma’am I meant to say he was my brother from another lifetime. We aren’t related by blood for this go around. But to answer your question, we were cooling off after sunbathing naked for an even tan. Here I’ll let him speak for himself. John, take the phone and talk to this lady.”  
     I can hardly form a word due to my panting. Marsha takes the phone back. The emergency lady says, “He sounds like he just had sex. Were you giving him oral or manual stimulation?”  
     Marsha says, “What kind of woman do you take me for? To tell you the truth he was making love to  
the creek bed.”  
     “Is he erect?”  
     “She wants to know if you have got a hardon?”  
     I respond, “Yes, I still have a woody.”  
     Marsha tells the lady, “John said he is still hard. I’m so sorry Ma’am; it was my idea; please forgive me.”  
     She replies, “That’s all right hun. We won’t send our ladies down there to spare their eyes.”  
     Marsha covers the mic with her hand. “John, try to go soft. Think of being immersed in ice water, Arctic ice.”  
     Marsha tells the 911 lady, “Ma’am, could his penis get injured from the suction of the quicksand?”  
     “Ma’am, his penis is in good hands.”  
     “Ma’am, is this going to be on the news? My Mom would be mortified. John, they will be here any minute. What do we do now?”  
     I instruct, “Well, let me do the talking when they arrive. You seem kind of hysterical which is typical of women in these situations.”  
     “I don’t know if you are being chivalrous or misogynist. I’m not sure if I should spank you or hug you. But going with my first instinct has proven best. Though you’ll like it, I’ll spank you anyway. It is my primal urge which pent up could make me bite you.”  
     “Well, hickey my dickey.”  
     “Even I am not that cruel.”  
     By the time I am extracted from the muck my cock is flaccid to both Marsha’s and my relief.    
     “Your biscuits do need warming,” she asserts.  
     I turn my back to her while washing off the sand. “Man, if I don’t rinse off this creek gunk it will ruin my brand new designer jeans.”  
     Then she slaps me across my buns. The report echoes from the bluffs. Marsha accents her point. “Don’t you dare change the subject on me. You thought you could get out of it by distracting me.”  
     I say, “God, it feels like my ass got stung. Remind me never to disturb the hornet’s nest of a woman’s pride.”  
     “Respect me or else I will literally be a royal pain in your butt.” She gives me a hand up. “Now let me uncake the mud from you. Don’t worry about the clay being a lubricant for your rubdown. I’ll go rough and tough so that the only hardness you get is the clench of your ass cheeks under my slaps.”  
     “Is not my sculpted posterior too royal to be humbled in such a manner?”  
     “You carry yourself as a blue blood which is all the more reason that your bottom is sorely in need of a lesson in humility.”  
     “Please, my regal nature abhors such treatment, especially at the hands of a woman.”  
     “Only a woman can teach you to respect the fairer sex. If ever any man needed a female tutor in courteous speech to women that man is you.”  
     I reply, “I mean no disrespect. But your proposal is an arousal for me.” She bites her bottom lip and laughs in hiccups.