rainfields

There is no such word as rainfield, but in my dictionary it is define as an extraordinary place to play, to laugh and be free, and of course, to have sex if I’m lucky.

A secluded venue or at least where people won’t be present for an hour or two. It could be in the park, willow trees abound and empty wooden benches lining the trails. It could be atop a hill, a field opening up to the sky, surrounded by forest with a view of the mountains or a lake. It could be inside a soccer stadium, after everyone have gone home.
 
Grasses is a must in order for it to be called rainfield, but not tall, domineering grasses, all it need are just plain garden grasses.

But a rainfield is not just a place but also a period in time. It happens after storm passes by (not thunderstorm huh), but the clouds still gray, promise of more rain to fall or vision of clouds breaking up painfully slow. It could be while rain is falling too.

The perfect moment begins when you jump on the field and the heel deep water splashing clean and free. The cold, soft caress of grass blades sends shivers even to the very spirit. Ohh! The laughter and giggles it instil on me.

I could just lie on the ground alone, rinse and washed in time, facing the sky, waiting for airplanes to pass by. Half of my body submerged in the water, completely sleepy, and the other half gathers the sentiments of the atmosphere of my care free hours.  And if I’m fortunate, if some parts of the rainfield is knee deep, I’ll seize the moment and be the Olympic swimmer that I’ll always wanted to be. I’m thinking of diving on it too. But it’s for me to find out if I could dive. But altogether it would be fun. Laugh all the time, chasing dragonflies or jumping like a frog, then chasing dragonflies for dinner. Yay!

Or I would make love to this guy, not necessarily someone I love, but someone I would intimately pressed my body over. Both our clothes soaked. His legs spreading, giving way to my thigh, feeling his manhood trying to escape the fly of his denims. He is biting his lips, in his most charming stare, he watches me trace his chest with my fingers over his cotton white shirt. There is no stopping us as we listen to our breath escalating.

That’s what rainfield means. Supposed to mean.  Even though I think my definition would not work as a definition per se. Yet still my dictionary could be soooo Wikipedic sometimes.

I am Argunn.

And in tradition of all beginning, I wrote about rainfields, but there’s more to rainfields inside my head—more than the desire, I have aspirations, experiences, thoughts, and boldness of what I am made of that I am about to tell.