Lumberjack Smut

I attended my first Log Show over the weekend. ┬áThere were lumberjacks. Can’t help it. They were so cute. I am totally gonna borrow one for an imaginary romp.


It was a large crowd. Of drunk people. The type of drunk people that attend the Annual Log Show – the biggest event in a small town. I was weaving my way through them, looking for the bathroom facilities and hoping they wouldn’t be porta-potties. I hate those things almost as much as I hate airplane restrooms.

A giant blow-up soccer ball landed on my head, followed by the spray of a water balloon landing inches beside me. Disoriented, I turned to see what had struck me and ran right into him.

He was tall. Built. He was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched over his well-formed biceps and suspenders holding up his jeans. I recognized him as one of the cute lumberjacks competing in the log show.

“Pardon, me,” he said, as he held me steady with his large hands on each of my arms.

I looked up. No, further up. He was tall. Attractive, very.

I was wearing sunglasses. Like Cyclops from X-Men, they’re more for the protection of everyone else than to block out the sun. Especially when I’m wearing blue.

He was still holding me. He probably could have let go a few seconds ago….but he was still holding me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You alright?” he removed his hands and lifted one up to remove his baseball cap and run his fingers through his short, dark hair.

“Yeah. I was just looking for the restroom.”

“Ah,” he replied, putting his hat back on. “Was just heading there myself. I’ll show you.”

I smiled gratefully. “Great! Thanks!”

He led me through the crowd, occasionally returning offers of high fives and victory signs. He led me to the entrance of the women’s restroom (thankfully not porto-potties) and I thanked him and went inside.

Sitting on the toilet in the crowded restroom, I silently imagined all sorts of things I would do to that young man. I thought about how he’d feel under my hands, my lips – I imagined how he’d taste. Yeah. I came. I can do that. It’s a talent.

With a sigh, I finished up and reassembled myself. It’s a lovely fantasy, but I know one-night-stands are not really my style.

Washing my hands, I looked up in the mirror and put my sunglasses up on my head. Using my middle fingers, I wiped the smudged eyeliner from underneath my eyes, then ran my fingers through the water again.

When I stepped outside, he was waiting.

“Oh, hi…” I was surprised.

“Didn’t want you getting lost on your way back.”

Our eyes locked.

“Damn.” he said.

Shit. The eyes.

I smiled.

“Phi.”

“Jake.”

“You from around here?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Nope. From Los Angeles. Visiting friends this weekend.”

“So, hotel?”

“Across the street.”

He paused.

“Do you need to tell your friends you’re heading home?”

“Yeah, I’ll text them on the way.”

He tasted every bit as good as I imagined.

Please note. This was totally made the fuck up. I did not meet a lumberjack. I did meet a lumberjack clown, and he was nice, but not THAT nice.

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