We returned to our college town of Missoula. Our old friends Melinda and Steve put us up. They lived in an old farmhouse in the rattlesnake area of town. Being back there was a return to everything we loved then, everything that made us fall in love. Steve fried up four brook trout he'd caught that morning. Melinda played her banjo and showed us the quilt she was making. We drank a whole bottle of single malt. Then late that night, Melinda and Steve went upstairs to bed. They'd laid out the futon couch for us, some blankets and pillows. It was summer and the windows were open and we could smell the fog in the valley and the slow Clark Foot River as it slid through the sleeping town.
We had stripped naked and were standing in the livingroom of our friends' house. We were still drunk and still happy with seeing our old friends, and that thrill of being naked in a room far away from home and the usual daily routine. We both looked up as we heard the unmistakable sound of a brass bedframe rhythmically beginning to creek and rattle and tap the wall of the upstairs bedroom. We listened to the night crickets and the brass bed. I set our digital camera on self-timer. Without discussion we moved to the futon and locked into a 69, mouth on skin, arms and legs twined. We grunted and slurped. Upstairs the bed rattled. Louder, faster. We could hear moans starting and then Melinda as she began to cum. We were there too, now cumming into each other's mouths.
Then slowly, as the room stopped spinning, as our breathing slowed, we fell apart, laying naked and sticky on the mattress. The breeze wafted in from the window. Outside the first birds of dawn began to chirp. Snoring from upstairs. The old farmhouse now filled with the soft sounds of rest after sex.
By the time our trip was over, we downloaded our pictures, and there, between snapshots of trout and Steve's dog and Melinda's quilt and all of us at a corner booth in Dixie's cafe where had breakfast the next day, was a shot taken with the shutter on self-timer.
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