Intimate Revelations: A Trippy Nude Picnic at Loch an Eilein by Ronald MacLennan

Inspired by the painting “A Summer Day” (1927) by Gerda Wegener

Here I am, sprawled out on a blanket with my two lovers, having an afternoon picnic by the wild, untamed shores of this Scottish loch, its dark waters reflecting the afternoon light. Loch an Eilein, set amidst the ancient pines that tower like silent guardians around us, and the island in the middle of the loch where lie the ruins of a small 14th-century castle. The LSD is kicking in hard, and the water looks like it's breathing, rippling with secrets.

I, Lillian Fletcher, recline here in glorious nudity, my skin kissed by the crisp Highland breeze that teases my nipples to pert defiance. With me are my two lovers, Abigail and Dahlia, all of us English roses transplanted to this wild Scottish bank. We've shed our clothes like old skins, our bodies free under the vast sky. Our picnic basket is spilling over with strawberries, cheese, crackers, and a bottle of wine that tastes more like liquid stars right now. The air is cool on my skin, but inside, everything's on fire—colors swirling, thoughts expanding. We're diving deep today. Deep into the mystery of life. It’s the universe in motion, and I’m feeling super groovy.

"Oh god, Lillian, look at the loch," Dahlia points to the shimmering water. “It's like a giant... well, you know. It’s like a giant glass eye, and it’s looking right at us.”

I laugh, popping a strawberry into my mouth, the juice bursting onto my tongue. The world is tilting a bit, trees waving like they're in on the joke. "By god, Dahlia, you're right! I see it too! “The loch does indeed look like a gigantic eye watching us, and here we are, naked as the day we were born. Do you think the Loch is checking us out?”

We all burst into hilarious laughter.

Abigail, sitting cross-legged, giggles, her hand holding a wildflower, as she lazily traces circles on Dahlia's bare thigh. Dahlia’s got that dreamy look, eyes wide as saucers from the acid. Abigail presses the wildflower to Dahlia’s lips and twirls it around.

“Do you hear that?” Dahlia whispers, pushing the wildflower away.

“What?” I ask.

“The castle. It’s whispering.”

We listen.

At first, it’s only a breeze. Then we hear what sounds like someone reciting a poem in Gaelic. The acid heightens every sensation, turning the loch's glassy surface into a swirling kaleidoscope that mirrors the depths of our explorations. The walls of the castle on the island in the center of the loch appear to shimmer like they’re breathing. The grass prickles against my bare thighs, a thousand tiny tongues licking at my skin, but I don’t dare move. I feel as though I am rooted, immobile, as if I’ve merged with the grass that grows here. We’re all a constellation, a living rune, and if I shift even an inch, I’ll shatter the shape we’ve melted into. The acid has me wired to the marrow, every sensation dialed up to a scream, every thought a neon thread weaving through my skull. An indigo blue-colored dragonfly hovers over the picnic basket. It looks like a stained-glass flying crystal. Dahlia sits up and stares at the dragonfly, her perky, round breasts bouncing gently, their creamy fullness crowned by rosy nipples that pucker in the crisp air, drawing admiring glances from Abigail and me. The acid turns everything around us into a living painting; the pines' green hues swirl into emeralds, the dragonfly's bright colors dance over the picnic basket, and the castle's ruins pulse with ghostly auras.

"Oh, Dahlia, those breasts of yours are perfection—so firm and inviting, like ripe fruits begging to be savored," Abigail purrs, reaching out to cup one, her thumb circling the hardened peak. The LSD makes them seem to glow, auras of pink and gold dancing around the curves. “My breasts are heavier and more pendulous in comparison. They seem to sway with every breath I take. Feel the difference, Dahlia? Yours defy gravity, so buoyant and youthful, while mine speak of abundance, weighing down with sensual promise. Lillian, yours are somewhere in between—pert but soft.” I lean forward, my breasts brushing against Dahlia’s thigh as I trace the underside of hers, marveling at the smooth, taut skin. Abigail presses her fuller breasts against Dahlia’s perky ones, feeling the contrast in texture and firmness.

We are in a peculiar state of mind, for we have all partaken of the divine sacrament, a small bottle of liquid LSD-25, which unfurls t