Many are the memories I have of the frolics around the sacred pole and the accompanying teasing and joy with the season.
In New York, we would gather for sensual potluck parties, and light candles for assage nights. In New Jersey, I would collect with comrades at the clothing-optional Gunnison Beach, where we would raise glasses of wine in praise to the warming sun as we enjoyed the sand in the nude.
When I lived in Massachusetts, we would awake before dawn and see the waltzing students, clad i evening gowns and tuxedos, dance over the Charles River. The morris dancers would summon the season with bells upon their ankles, and the hobby horses would chase the women with clacking and hungry jaws.
There, and here in Ontario, my friends and me would gather in the parks, and among the trees we would share old classic stories and pass forfeits, small papers with taunting and teasing dares inscribed upon them, among one another. "Give the person of your choice a kiss." "Whisper on someone's ear what you would do for them on a cold, winter day alone." "Tell your lover what your favourite memory of her/she is when you're alone and think about her/him."
The bonfires at night, sharing mead under the stars. The rustle of nearby bushes as partners excused themslves. The scent of roasted meat on the breeze. Laughter overheard from far away. The drums. The naked, bejeweled dancers. Embracing friends one had never before met.
I live for the May.