Written by: John Trusty

The old red barn barely still stands,
tho rigid memories are vividly erotic.

At thirteen her changes long arrived,
mine somewhat volcanic by nature.

Winks and nods to belie our intent,
separate departures to decoy suspicion.

Hay loft providing that scratchy surface,
as we eliminate clothing for access.

The deed was finally now at hand,
full of pheromones and short of breath.

Consummate screams from parental chests,
cataclysmic wave of detumescence strikes.

Panic running as cold wind bursts my lungs,
hearing muffled belts busy raising her welts.