To mark my eighteenth year

I climb high up the Cheviot trail,

Below me I leave the curlew’s plaintive call

And reach with envy to emulate

Swift peregrine’s searching swoop.

Suddenly, beyond a rock she is there,

This unexpected female walker.

Resentment at her intrusion on my solitude,

Is soon tempered by hips

Swaying as though to marimba beat.

Buttocks tight in denim shorts

Twitch, in innocent provocation.

Alongside her now, I view, under

Tight tartan top, taut tempting curves rivalling

The slope and swell of green surrounding hills.

Raven black hair is wind-swept

Over a strong heart-stopping face,

A Giaconda smile, that promises nothing,

Somehow, promises everything.

 No Casanova, I.

Might I warm the heart that beats

Neath that tartan cover?

Cornflower blue eyes hold my hazel green.

And I am diving, seeking

Into a pool, so warm, so honest.

Blue mystery of temptress eyes

Where, in deepest depths.

Is lust detected?

Is this her Lorelei lure?

No way, no femme fatale, she.

More Hathor or Helen or even Aphrodite 

Is lust mine alone, tightening my throat,

Hardening my virgin member?

Comes her murmur, sensuously low.

“You have a need?”

Lost in waves of wonder.

As hurricanes and roses storm my mind  

In a mad mix with sunlight,

And birdsong on the wind

That blows her hair.

Her delicate hand reaches, touches my cheek.

Is this how Lorelei claims you?

Cool the hand, cool the fingers

Closing on mine, lifting me to caress

Her so smooth cheek.

Legs tremble, as I try to speak.

Fingers touch my lips, “No words,

Unless you want to stop.

 I too have a need.”

Her hand draws mine down, swift journey,

Trailing over tender, unfettered breast,

My fingers left to rest and tremble

On silky skin at her inner thigh.

As she leans, lips rising to cover mine.

Gently at first, but now tongues meet.

If she be Lorelei, I’m lost.

Smiling, she guides me, to leaning rocks.

Forming a small cavern, and willingly, I’m drawn inside.

Within that cathedral of rock, intimate worship begins,

My eighteenth year takes flight.

As my hardness is blessed by cool fingers,

And warm wet lips.

Tentatively, my fingers lips and tongue play

On willing, welcoming, generous mounds

And I’m guided to moist pink folds lying twixt

Bounteous thighs, hot, panting breath urging me.

To that first madly magical insertion

And her wildly willing acceptance

Feeding my rapturous joy of being inside her

Filling her with my flesh before my fluids.

Pulse into hers, bringing an ecstasy never known.

Swiftly over, and too soon,

Hand in hand down from the Cheviots.

She tells me I’ve pleased her.

But have I?

One final soft sweet kiss

And sadly, I watch her drive away.

It has been exquisite.

But youth into man?

It may be several years, before                                                               

I can claim my Don Juan scholarship.

But my dear Cheviot lady has pointed the way.

And I trust, will live in my heart forever.