Coaxing the Roughneck

When I see the chopper approaching in the distance, I look at the steel door leading below stairs and whisper, “I love you.”

I hold my skirt down to keep it from flying up in the whirlwind created by the helicopter propellers. And when it finally sets down in the designated spot, I jog toward it and climb aboard, my heart ricocheting wildly in my throat. I’m doing the right thing. I have to leave now or I’ll never go. Worse, I’ll force Butch to do something to make his trauma worse. I won’t do that. I can’t.

This is the only way.

The pilot looks at me in askance and I give a thumbs up.

We lift into the air and the rig becomes smaller and smaller beneath us.

But not so small that I don’t see Butch run out onto the deck, shirtless, his face a mask of denial. Agony. Insanity.

All I can do is double over, bury my head between my knees and cry.

Please understand, Butch.

I can’t stay and I love you too much to make you leave.

I don’t stop crying for a long time. Not when the rig becomes a tiny speck in the distance behind me. Not when I get back to New Orleans. And not when I crawl into my bed sobbing his name, my body on fire for something it can never have again.

Life doesn’t feel real.

I came back from the rig one day ago. There were job requests waiting in my email and I took the first one, determined to throw myself into hard labor in the sunshine to distract myself. Maybe if I exhaust my body, I’ll stop throbbing everywhere. I can’t breathe right. My skin is so sensitive that I had to cross my legs and squeeze this morning after accidentally brushing up against the doorframe.

But I can’t make myself orgasm.

In the shower, I pictured Butch on top of me, I tried to imagine his weight pressing me down, that enormous part of him grinding in and out of my body while he snarls and grunts. Can’t move. Can’t escape. His hand around my throat. I got to the point where I was panting and clenching, but no relief came. I can’t get any relief from this pain without him.

My pulse thuds loudly in my ears, my breasts ache inside my tank top.

The sun might as well be two feet away for the dew it’s leaving on my skin.

I’m on my hands and knees outside of a townhouse with a small patch of garden. They want gladiolus. Or was it lilies? I don’t know. I can’t even remember what I purchased at the nursery this morning. The whole trip is a blur. When my fingers bury in the dirt, it feels like a sensual act and I trap a moan, wishing for Butch’s fingers in my hair, pulling. Yanking.

No way to sugar coat it. I need to be orgasmed. Now.

By my roughneck.

And I don’t even know how I’m going to make it through one day, let alone a lifetime. There are tears pooling in my eyes from missing his arms around me, my nipples are in pulsing little peaks, begging for suction from his mouth. I’m in agony. How did I form an addiction to him so fast? What is happening to me? I’ve soaked through the seam of my jean shorts and my core is almost ticklish, like I’ve gone over a bump in the road at high speed and caught air, but I never come down, I just hang there, my privates growing weightier, needier. Stop. Please stop.

But the lust won’t dissipate.

I glance behind me at the quiet street in front of the house, then pick up the hand shovel, pressing the length of the handle to my cleft, rubbing myself there through the denim. I moan and fall forward onto an elbow in the dirt, working, working the handle on top of my clit, imagining it’s Butch’s shaft. I shouldn’t be doing this to myself. I’m only going to make the misery worse, going to bring myself to the precipice and I won’t be able to come down the other side.

God. Oh God.

I sob in frustration, dropping the shovel, fingers burying into the dirt and ripping out handfuls. The earth sifts down through my fingers when I hear a familiar bellow. My lungs seize, my entire body going still. Is this my imagination playing tricks on me? Or is that Butch calling my name? Here in New Orleans?

I’m still on my knees in the dirt when he comes into view.

At the end of the block.

This is a quiet street, but the few people on the sidewalks jump to get out of his way. And it’s no wonder. He is moving hell for leather. Covered in sweat, teeth bared like a wild animal, no shirt or shoes. He walks in front of a car without looking and a scream lodges in my throat, but the vehicle skids to a stop at the last second and I slump sideways, freezing again. Unable to believe what I’m seeing.