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What's more overpowering at first it's difficult to say - for all senses come rushing into me with a roar, all perspectives with a screech - and the memories, the memories
glissade. First, it comes to me that around this time I smoked pot, three, maybe four, times with Bob Beltane, before we made love in his station wagon, parked up by Moses Lake. Second, that this was like being high - everything musically exaggerated, the sky such a deep and aching blue, the sap from the maples in the plantation behind the yard stickily smelly, the rasp of crickets and drone of hornets a veritable string section tuning up for
Fantasia. Third, that this was Now, and I could feel the very spring of the porch boards beneath my feet, the beat of the summer heat on my smooth
young face, every little waft of cooler air play about beneath my light, cotton dress.
Oh Jesus - what sweet relief! What feelings! What an inconceivably broad view, the creamy piles of cumuli dragging my eyes up, the green grass, brown earth and white clapboard houses dragging them all around. Whirling impressions of inconceivable richness and colour for someone come from mouldering Dulston, from the dead future. But then, within instants - and life is so very instantaneous, so very Now, don't you think? - come other, deeper, more pleasing sensations too. The warm bellyache of recently received and passionately enjoined caresses, the deep thrum of
dĄck-beats inside, the salty gushes of orgasm, his and hers, sweet and sour, acid and alkaline. The scent of the other is upon me and I know - sure as the
shĄt I am - that I've only just arrived from my lover's embrace.
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