I am 21, it's August, and I'm fucking my boyfriend.

Legs up and wrapped around him, both of us grunting and moaning, the afternoon sunlight coming in my window. He still has his socks on.

These are the things that randomly infest my memory; the memory of an afternoon bout with a boy who kept his socks on.

Later, I remember a candlelit room and a different lover. It's Beltane and I am sitting in his lap facing him. We are silent, and we move very slowly and very gently, whispering to each other in voices only we can hear. Something large and ancient flows over us as we fuck slowly, moving like a river around a mountain. Slow and heavy.