New Story!

Here is a short story I just wrote quickly today about the loneliness of being out on the river. Log Driver's after all miss those girls that they dance with. WARNING! I tried to go with something a bit homoerotic and it kind of went places. See what you think.

“She said she would marry me” I breathed helplessly at the long oak wooden table constructed out of haste from the driftwood.
Sam just nodded as the wind and rain smashed against the tarp that hung over us in a constructed tent. Here was home for night. Here was where we would get as much sleep and food as we can before we headed back out onto the river for another Log Driver’s Waltz down the Fraser to who knows and who cares.
“I’m never going to see her again, I just know it,” I huffed my facin going stern and defeated.
Water fell in droplets from the edge of chiseled chin and my plaid shirt was slick against my thickened body. The same body that Sam was staring right on through He was staring right through me like I never knew Sam could do and pushed a cloudy mud dried bottle towards me that was sloshing full of dark rum.
“Just have a drink, Tom,” he spoke in a gruff manner, his hands still clutching the bottle that he pushed towards me.
I seized it from him like a trembling woman and downed a good lot of it.
“Her freckles were dancing with the music, dancing while we danced, and her breast were against me,” I said wiping my chin, “not like the way any of the girls in the towns push their breasts into you and you don’t care, but she was pressing them into me and I suddenly felt aware of them in a way that was all different.”
Sam frowned. I could tell he wasn’t in the mood for me talking like that. It was lonely out here in the night with just the two of us, driving the logs down the Fraser.
You worked in teams like this. There were camps all the way down the river and you had bits of territory along the river and as logs came into your area, you and your partner would make sure every last one was driven down into the next territory before you moved on down stream assuming someone else’s old spot down the chain and so on. This is how you moved them. This is how we moved down the Fraser for as long as I could remember now.
“I don’t think I can remember how breasts felt,” Sam said, which took me aback, “I don’t remember how they felt.”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about them,” I managed to say after another big drink of rum.
“I never said that,” he replied.
“But you glared at me when I spoke of Molly’s against me,” I pointed out.
“Listen. I know we are alone out here and everything and I did glare at you and as much I don’t want to hear about it, I still thought that I should tell you I can’t remember about no breasts,” Sam said, his facing inching forward towards mine from where he sat at our little table.
I put down the bottle, which he grabbed and he finished the rest of the rum in one long gulp and smacking his lips he tossed it out of the tent and into the darkness outside. I listened for the sound of it landing, but it never came. The rain was too loud.
“What do I do with her, Sam?” I asked.
Sam sunk back on the stump he was using as a chair.
“You shouldn’t of said yes,” he said.
I nodded in defeat. Marrying her would mean the end to this. Marrying Molly and her perky breasts would mean I would have to leave the Log Driving and settle down in that town back there where I had met her at one of those community dances. I would have to support her as a man and a husband. I couldn’t do that as a Log Driver.
“I will miss you,” Sam said.
I bit my lip the way I should have done when Molly asked me to marry her.
Sam suddenly dove across the table and embraced me. I could feel his hands on me like I never thought I would feel.
“I will miss you,” he said.
His hands pawed at my wet body as if he was trying to hold me back, as if he was trying to keep me here in this space, in this free life of movement, up and down the river, of dances, and breasts that weren’t Molly’s, and sharing bottles of muddied rum together under rain swept nights in our tent.
I grabbed back at him sinking down to our bedding and into his warmth. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I didn’t care. We were soon naked and wet. The rain was getting inside the tent and it hammered onto our nakedness. I could feel it running down from his face onto mine as he held me desperately. I squeezed back and my breathing became quicker. It matched his, which was now long since ragged.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t.”
“No,” I replied, “Don’t ever be sorry, ever.”
I could of cried but I didn’t. So did Sam. I thought he would have but instead we just kept nakedly pressing ourselves one another. His ragged breath was tearing into my ears as he thrust over and over again against the length of me.
We had met each other four years ago, both veterans of the waltz, the log drive down the Fraser towards the coast. The foreman had matched us because of our skill because he knew we could handle anchoring the run. Sam was tough and soft spoken. I would often nervously babble to him along the river as we drove the logs. It was how I waltzed. He however would never say a word until we were sitting in camp. It was here I learned that he liked rum as much as me, and was here that we began to talk.
Never before were we closer than right now as he moved on top of me and firmly stroked his muscular body along my length. I ran my hands along his bulging back muscles as I o matched his movements. It was a dance. A waltz together for the first and last time.
“Molly,” I moaned softly as we both reached climax together and sank down to the ground, being pelted by the never-ending wetness of the rain.

By JBomb