The Woodsmen - chapter 5 (with images) (Patreon)

The wall unit gave up around two in the morning, the orange coils dead and dark. The bunkhouse is freezing. I lie on my back and crack my eyes open.

The heavy wool blanket is pulled up to my chin. Underneath it, the breasts rest against my ribs. They're a solid weight. The soft flesh pools slightly to the sides, settling into the shallow hollows of my armpits. The skin is hot against my own skin.

I pull the blanket down. Cold settles on the bare chest.

The nipples contract. They pull sharply into the hard lumps behind them. The tissue feels like cold stones buried in the fat. I sit up on the edge of the narrow foam mattress and the breasts drop with me. They slide down my chest and stop with a heavy bounce against my upper stomach.

I put my hands on my thighs. They’re thick with muscle. Above them, the breasts hang pale and heavy in the dark room. Heavier than yesterday. Heavier than a handful.

There's no binding them today. The torn gray cotton rags are sitting in the small plastic trash can by the dresser.

The shorts pull tight against the pelvis. Everything held flat. I step into my heavy canvas work pants, pull them up and button the brass button.

I find the heavy black hooded sweatshirt. It’s a thick fleece, a size too big. I pull it over my head.

The thick fabric drops over my chest. It hides the defined curve of the breasts, but it can't hide the sheer bulk. My chest looks massive. The fleece lining rubs directly against the stiff, sensitive nipples. The friction makes my breath hitch. I put my green forestry jacket on over the hoodie and zip it halfway.

The boots take three tries. The right one's sitting on its side under the bed where I left it last night, and when I bend down to grab it the breasts press into the ribs hard enough that I've got to lift back up and breathe. I try again from a deeper squat. The compression shorts pinch high on the hip and I can't get the angle. Sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, I pull the boot toward me by the laces.

By the time I tie them my back is already sore and I haven’t put a saw on my shoulder yet.

Across the gravel to the mess trailer. The rocks crunch under my soles. I keep my arms loose, don't cross them, don't hunch. The weight pulls my center of gravity forward a little. For three steps it feels almost right.

I open the door. The room smells of sausage and black pepper and old coffee.

I walk in and the talking stops. It cuts off like a radio cord being pulled from the wall.

Terrence looks up at the bulky black hoodie under my jacket. His jaw tightens. He drops his plastic fork. It clatters loud in the silence. He slides his plate three inches away, like the food turned sour on him.

Terrence stands up and grabs his heavy coat off the hook by the door, then walks out, banging the door shut behind him. The weather stripping slaps against the metal frame.

I take a plate from the counter. Two split biscuits, a ladle of white sausage gravy over the top, two fried eggs on the side.

Hank is wiping his hands on a dishrag. He looks at my plate, then at the thick black hoodie. He spits into a paper cup sitting on the counter. He doesn't say a word.

I take my plate to the empty chair across from Walt, sit down, put the plate on the plastic table. I pick up a fork.

Walt slowly works through a biscuit with the edge of his fork. He puts a piece in his mouth. He chews and looks at the window.

I eat the eggs in heavy bites. The gravy is thick and salty. I clean the plate.

Dana comes in at five-fifteen. She goes to the stove and pours her instant coffee. She talks to Hank about the spur road conditions. Her eyes go to Terrence's half-eaten plate sitting abandoned, then to me in the black hoodie.

She takes a sip of her coffee and doesn't look at my face.

We hike the spur road at six-thirty. The sky is the color of old iron.

I carry the saw on my shoulder. The heavy black hoodie traps the heat of the climb immediately. Sweat starts to pool between the breasts. It runs down my sternum in a slow, tickling line. I'm suffocating in the thick fleece, but I don't unzip the jacket.

Terrence walks twenty yards ahead of me. He walks fast, kicking chunks of frozen mud out of the ruts.

We reach the block. It's a steep section of dead standing timber, choked with wet vine maples and ferns.

Setting my gear down, I pull the cord. The engine kicks on.

A ninety-foot fir, marked.

I don't look at the rest of the crew, just bring the saw up, plant my boots, and sink the bar into the wood.

The fir crashes through the canopy and hits the limestone outcropping below. I don't wait for the dust to settle, just move to the next marked tree.

I run the saw for four hours straight without stopping to drink water or to rest my back. The deep ache in my pelvis is gone. The hip joints are loose now, the bones sitting different in the sockets. I use it, pivoting on the loose hips and swinging the saw through the brush.

I fell ten trees before noon, buck the logs into twenty-foot lengths and drag the heavy tops into slash piles.

Every saw-swing the chest moves under the black fleece, the skin pulled by it. It's a constant, heavy, fluid motion trapped against my ribs. The wet fabric of the hoodie rubs the swollen nipples until they feel raw. I ignore it, lock my jaw and cut.

Hank walks the line around one o'clock. He holds a metal clicker in his right hand. He counts the fresh stumps. He looks at the massive pile of bucked logs in my section.

I’m standing next to a dead cedar, my face covered in brown sawdust and sweat. The saw is idling in my hands.

Hank clicks the metal counter. He turns around and walks back up the hill.

Terrence is running his saw two units over. I can hear him bogging the engine down, pushing too hard in a cut. Moving to the next fir, I cut clean, wedge it, drop it, move on.

We walk down at five o'clock. My arms are numb from the vibration. The black hoodie is soaked through with cold sweat. It clings to the slopes of the breasts, outlining the heavy lower curves. I don't try to pull the fabric away.

Terrence is at the back of Hank's truck when I get there with my saw. He has the tailgate down. He moves his fuel can over without looking up to make room for my Husqvarna. He shifts his own gear to one side so my chaps and tool belt can go on the dry part of the bed liner.

He hasn’t spoken to me all day.

I set the gear down where he made the room. He closes the tailgate.

I walk to the bunkhouse, into my room, and shut the door.

I strip the soaked hoodie off and peel the wet compression shorts down, standing naked in the dark room. The skin under the breasts is bright red from chafing and trapped sweat. The nipples are irritated.

I pull a wipe from the flat package Dana gave me and clean the sweat from under the breasts. The cold chemical moisture stings the raw skin. I reach down and wipe the skin between my legs. The inner folds are slick with something other than sweat. Something I'm doing now.

I dry myself with a rough towel, then put on clean thermal underwear and an oversized flannel shirt.

The vine maple sits on the dresser next to the bird. I work it for ten minutes after dinner. The shape still hasn't decided itself. 

The seventh day is the same. Wake in the freezing dark. Put on the heavy black hoodie. Sit at the table in the suffocating silence. Terrence leaves his plate early. Walt eats slowly.

The left boot lace breaks at the second eyelet on the climb up the spur. I tie it short and keep walking. I work the line with a brutal, silent speed, dropping twelve trees and clearing fifty yards of heavy deadfall.

At the end of the shift on the seventh day, the light is fading fast on the landing. The air is so cold it hurts the back of my throat.

I lean against the cold side of the Ford. I’m spent. The muscles in my thighs are trembling.

I look at my hands resting on the tailgate. The knuckles are scarred. But my wrists look different. The thick, ropey veins that used to stand out under the skin are less pronounced. A thin layer of fat has smoothed them over.

I touch my own jawline. I haven't shaved since we left Colville. The stubble is there, dark and rough, but it feels patchy. It feels slower.

Walt walks up to the truck. He’s carrying his Stihl 462 in his left hand.

I step back to give him room at the tailgate and cross my arms over my chest instinctively, pulling the heavy black fleece tight across my ribs.

Walt sets the saw down in the bed. He pushes it forward so it doesn't slide.

He turns around. He's standing three feet away from me. He has his hardhat pushed back on his head. The dirt is ground deep into the creases around his eyes.

He looks at me.

At my face. At my eyes. Then he lets his gaze drop. The bulky black hoodie. The way my arms are crossed under the breasts.

He just looks. It's a long, unreadable assessment. It lasts maybe four seconds.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a tin of chewing tobacco, and walks away toward the mess trailer.

I stand by the truck. The cold wind whips around the metal cab as I watch Walt's broad back disappear into the dark.

The eighth day. Dinner.

The mess trailer is suffocatingly hot. The propane heater is turned up to high. Moisture runs down the small sliding windows above the sink.

Hank cooked up spaghetti, ground venison and jarred sauce, the pot still going on the stove. Half a loaf of garlic bread cut into thick wedges on a foil sheet.

I'm sitting at the end chair by the door, wearing a loose gray sweatshirt. The breasts push against the fabric, distinct and heavy. I eat slowly.

Terrence is sitting down, working through a second plate, talking loud.

"I told the guy, I said, 'You want three grand for a truck with a cracked engine block, you better leave the tools in the bed.'" Terrence points his fork at Walt. "He looks me dead in the eye and says the crack is cosmetic."

Walt doesn't smile, but he nods.

Dana is sitting right next to Terrence, squeezed into a chair, her thigh almost touching his. She's wearing her frayed green jacket unzipped.

"A cosmetic engine crack," Dana says. "That's a new one. Was it a Dodge?"

"It was a Dodge," Terrence says, laughing a loud, barking laugh. "Fucking right it was a Dodge. Half-ton piece of shit."

Dana laughs. It fills the small trailer. She tips her head back, looks at Terrence and smiles.

I watch the way she leans her elbows on the table, the way she takes up space. She's loud in a way she isn't usually. Like the volume is set for the room and not for her.

Maybe she's protecting herself. Maybe she's protecting me. I don't know which one would be worse.

She hasn't looked me in the eye since the hallway.

She sits three feet away from me. She doesn't look up.

I look at my plate. The spaghetti is covered with a thin sauce. My fork clicks against the plastic as I put it down.

Dana stops laughing. She takes a sip of her coffee. She doesn't look my way.

I stand up and push my chair in, then leave the trailer.

The night air is a relief. I walk to the bunkhouse. The gravel crunches loud.

I go into my room, lock the door, and turn on the overhead light. The weak yellow light casts long shadows against the cheap plywood walls.

I take off my boots, pull the heavy canvas pants off, take off the black compression shorts and pull the sweatshirt over my head.

I stand in front of the small mirror bolted to the back of the door. The mirror is cheap glass, slightly warped, but it shows enough.

I look at my face. The scar through my right eyebrow is exactly the same. The nose is the same. But the jawline is softer. The sharp, hard angles of the bone are padded by a new layer of fat. The skin itself looks different. The pores are smaller. The rough, leathery texture from years in the sun has smoothed out. It looks like the skin of a much younger man.

The tits are big on my frame. Dense permanent weight now. The dark skin around the nipples is broad. The nipples themselves are large, soft in the warmth of the room. They point slightly outward. I look at my waist. The side muscle has started to pull inward. The fat has migrated down, settling on the tops of my thighs and rounding out my hips. I stand there a few seconds longer than I meant to.

I rest my left hand on my stomach.

My hand slides up. The calluses on my palm scrape against the soft skin of my upper stomach. I cup the underside of the right breast.

It fills my entire hand. It’s heavy. The flesh is dense, full of liquid weight. I lift it slightly, feeling the sheer volume of it shift against my ribs, then let it drop. It settles with a soft, heavy slap against my chest wall.

I run my thumb over the dark skin around the nipple. The nipple hardens instantly under the rough pad of my thumb. It draws up into a tight point.

The sensation is sharp. It's an electric line that travels straight from the breast down into my pelvis.

I close my eyes and slide my hand lower.

I trace the line of dark hair down my stomach, touch the top of the pubic bone, and move my fingers lower.

The outer folds are soft and yielding. I part them. The skin inside is slick and damp.

I find the clit and press my index finger against it.

A violent rush of heat. The hips jerk forward without me telling them to. The breath catches in the back of the throat. I open my eyes. A man in a dirty room with his hand on a pussy between his own thighs.

It hurts inside my skull. The body under my hand is responding like a woman’s.

I move my fingers lower and find the opening. It's wet when I press my middle finger against it. The muscle gives and I slide my finger inside.

The heat inside is intense. It's tight, gripping the rough skin of my finger.

The pleasure hits like a wave of pure, localized electricity. My knees buckle slightly. I've got to grab the edge of the dresser with my left hand to keep from falling.

I move my finger. Just a shallow, slow push inside the wet heat.

A ragged groan tears out of my throat. It sounds like a wounded animal in the small room.

The feeling is nothing I know. A throbbing ache through the whole pelvic floor. My lower stomach feels weighted, full. 

I pull my finger out, stagger backward and hit the edge of the mattress, sitting down hard. My chest is heaving. My right hand is shaking. The finger is slick with my own moisture.

I stare at the weak yellow lightbulb.

It wants to be touched, demands it with a mechanical insistence. I sit on the bed in the cold room, fighting the overwhelming urge to lie back and finish what I just started.

I grab a heavy wool sock from the floor and wipe my hand off. The blanket comes over my naked body. I turn the light off and lie in the dark, shivering.

The tenth day.

The block we are clearing is a chaotic mess of blown-down timber and tight second-growth. It's on a steep, rocky incline. The footing is treacherous.

I’m working a section right next to Walt. Our lines run parallel, maybe forty yards apart.

The sun is bright, but the air is freezing. The sky is a hard, clear blue.

I’m wearing a loose brown flannel. The breasts move heavily under the fabric with every swing of the saw. I’ve learned to adjust my balance. I pivot from the hips, keeping my chest relatively still, letting the arms do the work.

It’s a widowmaker. A massive, dead standing fir. The top is broken off, the trunk gray and rotting. It has a bad lean straight toward a cluster of healthy cedars.

I’ll need to drop it uphill, against the lean, to avoid smashing the keepers.

I start the Husqvarna. The scream of the engine fills the air.

I step up to the tree and clear the brush around the base with my heavy boots.

I make the face notch. The sawdust is brown and wet. Rot in the core.

I pull the saw out and move to the back, sinking the bar in for the felling cut, leaving a thick hinge of wood on the uphill side to try and pull the tree against its own weight.

The saw binds almost immediately. The rot is worse than I thought. The tree settles backward, pinching the steel bar tight.

I hit the kill switch and step back, then unclip the sledgehammer from my belt. I grab two large yellow plastic wedges. 

I drive the first wedge into the cut right behind the saw bar, then swing the sledgehammer hard. The breasts pull against my chest with the violence of the swing. I drive the wedge deep. The tree groans.

I stack the second wedge on top of the first, grip the sledge with both hands, and swing.

I swing ten times in a row. It’s brutal, exhausting work. The sweat pours down my face. My back aches.

With a loud, sharp crack, the hinge holds. The tree lifts off the saw bar. The massive gray trunk tips backward, fights gravity for one long second, and then falls exactly where I wanted it, smashing into the bare hillside away from the cedars.

It hits the ground with a thunderous crash that shakes the dirt under my boots.

I drop the sledgehammer and lean forward, resting my hands on my knees, gasping for air. The loose flannel falls away from my body, and the breasts hang straight down, pulling at the skin of my chest.

Standing up slowly, I push the flannel back against my ribs.

I look to my left.

Walt has his saw turned off. He's standing thirty yards away, leaning against the stump of a large pine he just dropped. He has his visor flipped up.

He watched the whole thing. He watched me beat a ninety-foot leaner up a hill with nothing but a sledgehammer and plastic wedges.

He stands there for a moment. He reaches up and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his leather glove.

He looks at the massive dead fir lying on the bare hillside. Then he looks back at me.

"You're cutting clean, Joel," he says. His voice carries easily in the cold, quiet air.

I stand still.

It’s the same thing he'd say to anyone whose work held up.

But he's saying it to me. After five days of silence. After Terrence. After watching Dana sit with the crew.

He’s looking right at the bulky brown flannel, right at the undeniable female shape underneath it, and he’s telling me my work is good.

Walt hadn’t spoken to me in five days. He just did.

I reach down and pick up the Husqvarna by the top handle.

"Wood's rotten," I say. My voice is rough. "The hinge almost didn't hold."

Walt nods slowly. He doesn't smile. He just accepts the answer.

He turns around, pulls the starter cord on his Stihl, and goes back to work.

I stand in the moss and listen to the scream of his saw. I look down at my heavy boots, the toes covered in wet brown sawdust. Then I turn back to the line and pick my next tree. The vibration of the saw goes up my arms again. Something low in my stomach. It passes after a few moments.