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Splitting Wood – Part 26

Debating back and forth with myself about whether or not he wanted to date me, albeit casually since I gave him my phone number, but maybe giving it more serious consideration since he invited me camping, I ought to have considered if he was someone I should date, much less someone I would want to date. So far, the results had been mostly favorable, despite being left to fish all alone.  From here he appeared to have a good excuse for his action, but then again, why would he invite me along if he was just going to be working anyway?  I did not see the inklings of a relationship in our diverse chores.

In this moment, though, of simply raw, unclothed, male physical exertion, without any consideration for the little nuances I already learned about him and the hundreds more I may have yet to uncover, I would definitely date that body. Admittedly I may very well have been ovulating, but the newest perspective of him did not involve insight into his profession, or hints of his prowess in the kitchen, or even glimpses of his kindness and thoughtfulness, but was unbelievably beautiful and strictly physical, and I could not take my eyes off him.

In contrast, though, as I continued to watch his chest and abs tighten before each downward stroke, I considered what he might see in me: I spent the morning in conversation and close interaction and proximity with dead fish. I haven’t showered.  I hunched over a hole to relieve myself.  I doubt I appeared half as tempting to him as he looked to me.  With no makeup or figure-flattering attire, I certainly could not appeal to him the way I currently enjoyed him.  Perhaps this was a one-sided fascination, and I should recognize our disparity.  But for now, I was savoring the view.

When I finally stopped staring, I glanced around at the other view, the scenic view, from where I rested against the rock. The weather was perfect, the sun bright, even the half moon was already well on its ascent, and the trees reached on for miles over each progressive ridgeline.  I looked upwards towards the sun, closed my eyes and basked in its warmth.  I could smell the fragrance of the air, clean and light with hints of pine and sage, and I could still hear the sound of wood being sliced apart by the beautiful man nearby.  Beyond that, there were no sounds of vehicles or planes or machinery or any intruding forces, save an occasional bird.  Here in this vast forest, the Lumberjack and I were isolated and I selfishly relished in the magnificent views of both the mountains and the man for my enjoyment alone.  I could no longer admit that I found him merely interesting.  My curiosity about him remained, but my attraction to him, which admittedly existed since I first saw his eyelashes, now took the driver’s seat.

Had my stomach not growled, I might have remained watching him work for hours, but if I was hungry, he must have been starved. I resumed my hike down the hill, winding through a few of the trees to fake subtly, and upon getting closer, attempted to make enough noise so as to not startle him with a greeting, but rather appear out of the woods as if I stumbled upon him accidentally.  What a ruse!

He held his swing when he saw me emerge from the trees and he set the axe head on the stump and leaned against its handle. His skin was wet and shiny, and he smiled when he saw me.  He belonged on a poster.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” I replied trying to mask my new-found adoration for his exposed physique. It was challenging with his shirt off.  “You hungry?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mind lighting a fire and cooking lunch for you, but there is a step in between that involves preparing lunch, and I don’t know how good of a job I might do at it.” I paused briefly, “Or where I might find a knife.”

He set the axe against the pile of wood he started to accumulate, and grabbed a white tee shirt from a nearby stump. He removed his hat, wiped his face with the shirt, then slid it over his head and covered his body.  As he reached upward in his motion, I noticed his arms and body were flawless, and not just in an erotic, want-to-rub-my-hands-all-over-that way, but free from any large scars from his years of military service.  I didn’t see his back, but I sighed out of relief that he hadn’t been severely injured more than just out of the sheer sex appeal, but the sex appeal was definitely overwhelming and I focused on containing my reactions.

Oh, don’t feel like you have to wear that on my account, I thought as the tight-fitting tee wrapped around his neck and he stretched it into position, it clinging to his damp chest. Oh, I was in deep water.

He likewise grabbed a button-down shirt, presumably the one he’d worn that morning. I couldn’t recall what he wore earlier come to think of it, and after fastening it, he tucked both into his jeans.  I needed something to do to not be caught staring at his hands sliding down into his pants, so I wandered around the outside of his work area, careful to watch my step to avoid all the fallen logs.  This would be the scene where I would trip over something.

Since I was already close to the road and I knew the way, I decided to just start towards camp. His legs were long enough that he would catch up quickly if he wanted, but it wasn’t until I stopped at the truck to retrieve the fish that I discovered he was not behind me.  I didn’t know I could lose a man that quickly, but if anyone could, it was me.

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About Pam Portland

For a decade and a half I worked behind a series of desks, peeking out from around my computer monitor. Seeing the United States in bits and pieces wasn't enough to satisfy me, so I am grabbing my virtual pen and taking flight. Welcome along!

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