Two boys and girls unclothed each other simply at a picnic flush with wine alongside sun-flecked trees.
The girls, easy as the forest round, burned, delicious, as the boys eager and nervous in unequal measure partly gave up concealing their joys at forgetting or remembering in flickers their bare bodies.
It went on over nettles and half-hours and clambered trees and photos taken almost formally (on film, of course).
And boyish lust, at first sinuous, a darting tongue, began to soften against, for instance, the sheer, unthinkable texture of the two girls carved now backward over the bough of a storm-felled elm.
And there in the embers of evening they learned to thrill originally at the vast, gorgeous and astonishing irrelevance of what might happen next.