If my lover
had a cloven hoof
and a cunt and a penis
and we went along
the horizon line
shouting about it
only the people who mattered
would be left
anywhere near us
Myrna Elana, "Define 'Community': This is a Test"
Content note: sexually explicit, implicitly negotiated primal scene, chasing, hand over mouth, begging, restricted speech
The earth is wet. Tree limbs intertwine, their leaves wandering over oakbark skin, rustling wind teasing oxygen sighs from carbon breath. Pan crawls from her burrow, thick stone chains nestled between their breasts, swaying as she moves carefully through the old-growth forest. A sweet scent catches in her nostrils, a perfume of orchid and wild blue phlox. She stills. A few yards away, the dryad Erato appears from the brush, her chestnut curls bouncing lightly in the morninglight. She is dressed in sheer silk, the gentle rays of the sun illuminating the faint shadow of her body tender beneath the cloth.
It’s time. Each spring equinox they meet here in the oakshade to consummate the coming season. Pan moves swiftly, almost silently, but with force, like the imperceptible movement of tectonic plates. Erato gasps as they enter her view, panic quickly falling into gentle recognition, giggling softly as they begin their annual game. She bounds away laughing, pretending to escape but letting her dress ride up with the motion of her hips, flowing lace caressing her nightblue skin. Pan quickly overtakes her, the strength of their body matched by the light touch of their hands as she guides Erato down into the soil.
Without a word, Pan lifts her dress above her waist, exposing the wanting moisture of her cunt, ringlets of deep brown hair circling her entrance. Pan coos in her ear and places a hand over her lips: Listen. Listen to what we will create again. Birds whistle overhead as the rain plays syncopated rhythms through the canopy, a symphony of organic life born from desire. Pan slicks the head of their smooth wooden strap with the morning dew of the grass and presses into Erato with a Gaianic growl, the folds of her core wrapping like tree roots around their shaft. She groans into Pan’s palm, honey-light trickles of joy lightly dampening the corners of her eyes. Pan presses the whole of their body against her and enters deeper, one hand steady against her mouth and the other wrapping back around to press her to their breast: Listen. Listen to how nature celebrates us.
Erato’s eyes roll back, overcome with the pulsing immanence of matter-in-motion as she begs against their hand: please, my love, please, let’s create again. Pan moves deep within her, their strap opening the stream of her spirit, fresh water pouring from her cunt and soaking the earth deep beneath them. Erato sighs and whimpers, groaning desperately against Pan, wanting nothing more than to merge with the butch demigod with whom she has made the cycles of time her home. As her release rises ferociously within her, the whole of the forest comes together into a single point concentrated in the contact between Pan’s cock and the ridged walls of her interior. Barely able to contain her moans, she looks up at Pan and pleads wordlessly, letting her eyes say what her tongue cannot.
Finally, Pan whispers again: come for me. And she does. The solar flare of creation bursts within her womb and a river is born between her thighs, rushing out from underneath them and watering the whole of the forest. The constellations give thanks overhead as the stars melt into ludic joy. Her thighs quiver against Pan’s slowing thrusts, the rhythm of her orgasm bringing forth blooming flowers, radiating circles of pink and red and yellow changing shape and color with each wave of pleasure. Pan holds her tight for one final thrust as they howl, the moon blushing in jealousy. They collapse together, lover-in-lover, nature-in-nature, Pan’s palm gently leaving Erato’s lips and bringing her closer to them, kissing her on the forehead as new trees break from the earth: my love, my love, my love. They lie there, barely moving, Pan’s strap still deep within her, as the seasons begin to drift, moss overtaking their bodies as the matter that composes them blends together, fertilizing the soil beneath them. The forest has been born again and they can rest within one another, knowing that at the next spring equinox they will awaken to remake the forest anew.
Roll me over in the morning
lover
and make me a roseScarlet Woman, “Roll me over and make me a rose”
Image: Forest Landscape with Reclining Pan by Arnold Böcklin (c. 1855)
