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Goddammit.
You swore. You swore to high heaven this'd never happen again.
And even after all that swearing, here you are. Slung full-bodied, sweaty, against the front of another man. Arms up around his shoulders — like a woman. Piss drunk. Wanting him so bad your mouth waters and your guts squirm.
It hasn't been easy out here, in your defense. It's been goddamned hard work, and harder still since the rain came on. A man's liable to lose up from down in all that water. Hell, sometimes you think it's too easy. Step wrong, vanish under the pelt and the logs, and bam: Tom Howard's no more.
Ain't much to begin with, Dad would say. You just know Winslow would nod in accordance, that same unhappy look in his eye.
You clutch the band of his braces for dear life. They're the only thing tethering you to the ground anymore. You absently stroke your thumb along the fraying edge.
And goddamn, he's been hard on you. Even said as much. When you couldn't shake the thought and the rain was beating down, no one was looking so you thought, so you moved without thinking and then bam: the foreman's heaving your shivering body out of the drip. You misstepped is all. Some dark part of you cursed him then. Crystal blue eyes bore into you, lily-white hands fist up roughly into your shirt. What's the matter with you Tom? Keep your head on. You sizzle with the shame of every secret time you wished for him to slip.
Same hard hands now make a rhythm of fist & release into the back of your shirt. Same gruff voice gone butter soft, low like not to wake a babe. The hot flesh of his throat rumbles against the sharp of your jaw. Humming - not singing - some slow song into the static space around you. You don't recognize it and you don’t care to strain your ear over the rush of blood pounding around inside him.
A startling moment of clarity hits you. The shanty songs faded some time ago. But when? All you hear now is crickets and night... and Winslow. How'd you get here?
You remember. You walked here.
You walked your sopping, sorry ass back to the bunk first. You’re certain God in Heaven got a kick when you found the roof pissing rain onto your bedding alone. One thin, whistling, unbroken stream.
As if that's not enough, the foreman calls you to his quarters. You think on the way about what could’ve made him so stinking upset. You're expecting a lecture, a smack on the head. The thought creeps on: he’s figured you out — knows exactly what kind of man you are and the things you did before you got here. He’s sending you off. Even the timbermen won’t keep you. You swat that panic off.
When the door swings in, he doesn’t look mad at all. It might be the nicest you ever saw him look.
I been hard on you, he says. He says it himself. He pours two glasses. You’re a good man at the end a’ day. Make a fine river pig ever I seen one.
Electrifying pride and ire strike you like lightning.
You know that. Don’t need anybody else to tell you those things.
Something about Winslow, though… It makes you want him to be pleased with you. That’s all. Even when he acts like a belligerent old queen — something magnetic’s in him. Maybe its the ghostly skin, all pale and unweathered. Or the eyes that pierce and scour your deepest, darkest thoughts. Or the young man’s hair which sits like snow. He’s not that much older than you, but he gets all the good stuff. And for what? His own nice lodgings, his woman around, and everyone’s good goddamn graces, too. Maybe that’s it. Whatever it is, you’re pleased he’s pleased with you. He rarely is.
Outside, the boys are singing songs and fiddles keep the tune. You think of the oncoming return to your own soggy bedroll, cabin hot with fried dough breath and smoke and passed gas. He offers you the drink and feeling friendly, you take it.
Things get less clear after that.
One drink turns to two turns to four and so on. It’s Saturday night, after all.
He wrings it out of you that it maybe wasn’t all an accident, what went on out there. He scolds you but he slurs a little, he leans all the way forward in his chair, and his eyes are fixed on you in a funny way. All bright with unspoken things.
It really feels like he cares.
So while you swore you’d never let this happen again (after all that shit you got into in Portland) you’re drawn like a magnet. And closer. You touch him how he’ll let you. Knuckles brush passing smokes; wrists grinding, hands clasped to wrestle arms — you lose which lights you up; the play hitting. When you’re drunk enough, you’re dizzy and leaden on each other’s shoulders. You still want to get closer. For this, you hate yourself. For that, you drink.
So you wound up like this. Wound around him, cheek flat on his shoulder, breathing in deep his scent of musk, pine tar, tobacco. Every man in camp smells like it but they’re mostly just smelly. Winslow smells good. Smells fucking edible. You can’t resist it. You roll your head like a rock to press your lips, open and almost drooling, against his collarbone. You don’t think. You don’t say a word, keep your head hung low, swaying against him. His humming-song melts into a quiet laugh.
His hands lazily drift from the sides of your waist down the small of your back to settle low on your hips.
“Ephraim…” You breathe, unable to contain it. Ephraim Winslow — now that’s a name. It rolls like real poetry off the tongue. Tom’s a dime a dozen. Nothing special. If he’s this easy, no doubt he’s been with at least ten more Toms. Something about that disturbs and entices you. You decide you are envious of Ephraim — his position, his name, his pretty face.
“Foreman,” says Winslow back, all firm like you’re out on a drive. That stops you dumb.
“What?” You hate your own voice, so quiet and affected. You stumble back a hair but keep your wrists on his shoulders. Try to look him in the eyes but can’t, so your blurry vision gets fixed on some wood slat over his shoulder.
“Foreman Winslow to you.” He smirks this kind of dark, knowing smirk. Sadist bastard. He doesn’t look half as drunk as you, and it’s just mean of him— “Tom.” He adds, just to rub it in. Something ugly stirs in you.
“But… now listen, I—“ You want to tell him his name is pornographic to you but he doesn’t give you the chance. You really wouldn’t , even if he did.
“Don’t argue.”
You slump and grumble something incoherent. You didn’t think he’d be like this. You’re in deep enough now though. Does no good to do a job halfway. And if you’re honest with yourself, it’s been a while. At least he's good looking— kind of girlish in a way. Only bigger and rougher, and fully in charge. Your Adam’s apple bobs with a hard, dry swallow. Your gaze sinks to the floor, nose points at your shoes. A drunken scoff gets you smiling ironically, tingling down to your fingertips. Just once, you’ll eat your pride.
“Yes sir.”
“Atta boy. C’mere," Winslow coos all loving, eyes halfway closed. He sounds sweet when he wants to. And he's got lashes like snowfell on them, frosted and fluttered. You think he’s got one lucky lady. His hip-holding hands pull you toward him as he sinks to his seat. You don't realize your ankles are crossed til you’re tripping, first falling onto him then sinking like a drunk stone to your knees. You damn yourself. Knowing now you're here, you’re not getting up. Not the way his face goes crazy with want. The way his legs fall open on instinct.
You oughta be ashamed of yourself. And God knows you are. Nothing about the things you want are godly, or lawful, or right. You know what kind of man you ought to be. And you know how this looks. But it’s been so goddamn hard and for once, you feel halfway good. With the foreman looking down on you all smug son-of-a-bitch grin, cloudy eyes, ravenous and righteous.
Right now, he wants you and nobody else. That’s something, ain’t it?
So, yeah. Fine. You suck his cock.
And you enjoy it best you can — pulling him apart, at least. He yanks on you and squirms around, whimpering like a bitch into his fist. Tom, he moans, biting down on a knuckle. Resentment burns in your groin. Your dick twitches trying to reason the hate with your position. You groan reflexively. He sighs: Jesus, Tommy.
At the same time a bead of sweat drips down the back of your neck, his jism hits the back of your throat. Like liquor out the bottle, you take it all. Your legs are too loose to carry you elsewhere and your head’s too fuzzy to care how he sees you so you swallow it. Wipe your chin with the back of your hand and frown deeply at yourself after the fact. Winslow watches you do this, pleased as can be. Bastard. Then he tilts his head all the way back, taut neck glowing damp, and breathes deeply. It’s all quiet now but the air is shaking & shrieking like madness between you.
Cruel mistress Clarity finds you again. It hits you like a falling pine this time; you’re crushed like a bug, still breathing but barely. You fall back on your ass and draw your knees in, shifting all your weight away from Winslow. All you hear is his breath. You swallow your own spit, soak in the shame, grimace at the floor.
You see what he’s doing. He thinks he’s pulled one over on you but he ain’t. He’s got you all liquored up and vulnerable. He must’ve heard something somehow, decided to take advantage of your circumstances.
From utter stilness, you’re on your feet in one frantic second. You shove up from the floor, sway in place, and catch yourself before the fall. You’re drunker now that you’re stood. You close your eyes… to concentrate.
“If— that’ll be all.” You nod once, turn like its business. You're ready to run out the door, get back to your bed, and fuck your hand til this all seemed some strange fantasy dream.
“Tom.” You don’t stop. You're halfway there. “Thomas.” He says it like your boss this time. That’s really starting to grind your gears. You come to a stop but don’t turn around. “Turn around,” he orders. So you do. “Come here.” You grind your teeth, cross and uncross your arms, but ultimately take the few paces to his feet.
Boldly, he reaches up to slide a hand across your stomach to your ribs. You realize suddenly your shirts barely clinging to your beltline, union suit hanging halfway unbuttoned. How long—? You startle back, staring suspiciously at him. “What- What’re you tryin’ to do here?”
“Shhh.” He nods towards the door his wife must lie behind, a finger at his lips. You want to ask why he can bark at you all he wants but he goes right on talking, “Hush now. I won’t tell on you.” He hooks a finger into the band of your trousers. “Come.”
Glaring sideways at him, you shuffle wordlessly forward. You won't get had twice. You swear to it.
But you do wind up in his lap, hiding in the crook of his neck, rutting like a dog into his palm. You’re panting through your nose to keep quiet, but these little needy whines keep bubbling up from inside you. He doesn't shush any of that. You call him foreman because he wants you to and he rewards you with praise.
Half-dressed, you come crying pathetically into his mackinaw collar.
—
You startle up to a room dark as any night, quiet as death.
There’s nothing to have woken you up until you realize the big wet spot on your groin. You’re mortified until you realize the roof is drip dripping away onto you — leak managed but not fixed.
Irritated and disoriented, uncertain when you fell asleep and what exactly happened, you flip to your side on the edge of the bunk, just barely avoiding God’s personal punishment for your sins, and go back to sleep.