May in my neck of the woods means lots and lots of mud. It’s a surer sign of spring than flowers. Flowers are a sign of burgeoning fertility to be sure, but I always get an intense urge to fuck in the mud. I have fantasies about ancient pagan rites of rutting in the fields to make the crops grow stronger, or to ask the Gods to bless our lands. Mud is like the blood of the earth and I want to be wild in it. I want to fuck like animals.
The problem with the Cascade Foothills is that it’s still pretty cold at the beginning of May, but we found a way for me to frolic in the mud anyway. We built a fire in the cabin so I could go and warm up as soon as we were done, and we were quick. We had awesome amazing sex with my back arched and my feet on his shoulders, then we smeared dirt all over and took pictures.
I don’t normally like to get dirty, but something about mud is so intriguing. I didn’t feel naked while covered in blood, I felt armored – tough, primal, and bestial, but also vulnerable. Mud is eternal. Fucking in the mud tends to celebrate the things that I fear about sex:
- It’s messy. I like sloppy sex, but I’m also fastidious about keeping everything clean. With mud, you can’t control the mess. I want to make sure that I feel dirty in a good way.
- I’m exposed. Being naked outdoors is an experience that takes some getting used to. More than that, much like good sex, being covered in mud made me feel like my soul was showing.
- I lose my sense of self. Usually I like letting go, but it can also be alarming. Wearing mud gave me moments of feeling other than human, but I also got to experience some kick-ass mojo.
I feel pretty earthy now. The dirt has certainly thawed and come alive. Spring is well sprung. I feel good with having done my part to quicken the earth, reveling in the May mud.
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