Chapter 8 - ch8 hard and soft

We drove up Friday evening, getting in late enough that all we managed to do was get the electricity switched back on , make sure that the wiring wasn't shorting out, then go to bed. Saturday was much more ambitious, however. Over a bacon and eggs breakfast, Gord layed out the plan. He was first going to go fill in a few pot holes in the dirt drive in to the cottage, then winch their floating dock down into the water and fasten it, take the chainsaw to a big tree limb that had come down during the winter, pick up some driftwood from the shore, and finally take a run into Kenora to pick up bunch of propane cylinders, then load them into the rack out side the cottage.

For me? Flush out the plumbing, pick up smaller fallen branches around the yard, check the screens and windows for any damage, and clear out the old mouse-traps and re-set them with new bait. I complained that he had all the hard jobs, but he countered that really it was his responsibility, and that honestly he was pretty sure he could do them faster, giving us more time to kick back later. I felt like he was patronizing me because I was fat, but I didn't want to say that, so I let him have his way.

Mind you, by the time I'd done all the getting down on my hands and knees and reaching under furniture for the mouse trap job, I was wishing I'd at least traded him for that one. I was surprised how tiring it was to get up and down constantly at my size, even if I wasn't all that big. Still, that and my other tasks were done in time to cook up some hamburgers--on the stove since we still needed the propane for the barbecue. Without really thinking I made up half a dozen of them, assuming that since they were not all that big we'd each have three. I'd finished my three when Gord announced that he was full, and ready to go into town to get the propane. Did I want to come along?
He'd only eaten two burgers, and that last one was just calling to me. I said that I'd pass, I'd find something to do around the cottage. As soon as Gord was gone I downed the burger, then followed it with a couple of hot dogs--I'd bought far more than we'd eat. After that I sat back, feeling comfortably full, wondering what had brought on that mini binge. I had to admit that what I wanted to do right then was go on a full out eating spree, a full on, all weekend, getting stuffed. I could just about feel how good that would feel. But that was not what we'd come up to the cottage for, and how could I explain that to Gord?

Finally I settled for a couple of peanut butter and jam sandwiches, leaving me feeling quite bloated, then I went looking for something to do to take my mind off my eating urges. I found that Gord had stacked the cut up tree limb in a shed with a lot of other logs--none of which were split. Split wood dries better and burns more easily, my Dad had taught me that. And for our wood burning stove in Edmonton he'd taught me how to split wood. I was no master at it, but I knew my way around an axe and splitting wedge well enough.

A little investigation found the required equipment, and even a pair of steel toed boots that fortunately fit me. Splitting wood with nobody around is maybe not the smartest move in the world, but I felt better with that minimal protection. I fussed around a bit more getting myself a drink of water and a water bottle for when I got thirsty, but eventually stopped stalling and got splitting.

Three things rapidly became apparent. First of all, my muscles were out of practice for this, I could tell I'd be sore the next day. Second, I was a lot fatter than the last time I'd been splitting wood, because back then I'd not felt my boobs and belly jiggle each time the axe smacked into the logs. And thirdly, probably the reason a lot of the logs hadn't been split was because they were a mess of knots and branching, and some sort of wood that really did not split nicely. In no time I was drenched with sweat, so I stripped off first my sweat shirt and then my t-shirt, generating more than enough heat to off set the still cool weather.

With a string of curses I finally managed to wedge apart one especially challenging log, when I was interrupted with "And there is a man who has earned a beer. And here I thought I left you here to relax!" I'd not even noticed the car coming back, but here was Gord. It turned out that the cage for the propane tanks was around the back of the cottage, so he'd simply parked there, and hadn't seen what I was doing until he went inside and looked out the front windows.

Abashedly I put my t-shirt back on over my flab before taking the beer. Gord still had to get the dock into the water, but he insisted it was a one man job. So I sat back enjoying my beer while he strained at a small manual winch, gradually dragging a large dock down wooden rails into the water. It was a pretty ingenious system for taking it in and out, but it looked like it needed a more powerful crank of some sort. Gord clearly was working hard, stripped down to a t-shirt, breaking into a sweat, muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed and hard.

He was right to have kept that job for himself, I realized that I would probably not have been strong enough. Not that you couldn't be fat and be strong, but I wasn't that strong. Chopping wood might look manly, but I knew it was mostly about technique, hitting things at the right place. It felt weird being so unequal with Gord. I'd always thought of us as being pretty similar, pretty equal. But now we weren't. It wasn't like I really wanted to hit the gym and build up muscles like his. Did I wish he'd get weaker? I realized that I didn't, that I liked how comfortable he seemed with his casual strength, that I even thought the muscles looked good on him. So what did I want?

I was broken out of my reverie by Gord touching my belly again, and saying "Shows over big guy, let's go crack open a couple more beers."

Without really thinking about it I snapped "Please stop touching my gut."

He jolted, then looked confused. "What's wrong with that? I thought you were OK with how fat you've gotten."

"Not exactly 'OK.' More like happy. I realized that I'd always felt like a fat guy, that being fat feels right to me. Its a little scary, but I love it. But that is the thing, I love being fat, I love my belly, but it is kind of, well, intimate. Being touched there, it is kind of like, like, being kissed."

He smirked a bit and said "You don't like kissing?"

I know I blushed, but I shot back "Yes, No, I mean, I've never really kissed anyone, but I assume I like it. But I don't want to kiss just anyone. You know what a mess my parents are, I don't want that, I don't want to put the pleasure before the relationship. To kiss someone, to have their hands on my fat, I think I'd need to really, really trust them, you know? And I don't really have anyone that I trust like that."

"Don't you trust me?"

"OK, I do trust you, implicitly. We have such a history that..."

He shut me up with a kiss, one hand resting on my paunch.