Bigfoot

I ease back to a slow drip and start to look around. All right then, now what Einstein? Pioneers did this all the time, you use a leaf, dipstick.

I reach for the nearest leaf and he grabs my hand with a worried look. Ok then, I'm not gonna wipe if you're that into my bodily functions...

Instead he pulls my hand toward a different plant, broader, and softer. Very funny, Charmin of the Forest: don't settle for that grocery store brand! Actually my still swollen lips appreciate the softness. I hadn't paused to think that a rough and raspy visit to an overworked kitty might be a journey I'm not ready to make. I pat gently and he pulls me up and quickly flips the soil back over my personal port-a-pit.

He leads me around to several berry bushes. We eat our fill and somewhere along the line, we end up back at the cavern (I thought we had walked nearly a straight line). Along the way, he'd picked up snatches of various greens. The oddest event was when he scaled up a tree near a small creek, coming down with pieces of fish: dried fish. Learned or taught, I don't know - supposedly the first natives to the area knew how to do it, so maybe monkey see, monkey do. Forgive me, that just sounds so wrong to say about him, but I'm trying to be honest with my thoughts.

Back and settled outside the hollow, we have a little feast, wrapping the fish bits in the greens; really very good flavor... or maybe I'm starved, possibly both.

After eating, he produces a wood stick that had obvious nicks and chew marks on it. Blowing on it, almost audible sounds come out of it, with an occasional high pitched squeak. He sways gently while doing this, eyes closed, an undulating, soft purring just barely present. Music to sooth the savage beast. Or maybe he was playing me a love sonnet (a girl can dream, you know).

We crawl back into the bedroom as I've started to think of it, and if you must know: yes... twice more... for each of us (well, don't tell him, but I actually sneak in three). I'm getting pretty darn good at taking him... all of him... in me. That amazing feeling of complete fullness makes me tingle to this day.

As we lie there, me spread wide across him because it was too much bother to pull my legs together, also I was enjoying the slow fading pulse slowly coming down and out of me as his erection subsided... he startles.

Head kinked to the side, eyes scrunched up, a confused, worried look across his brow. I keep sniffing the air fearing return of bad bear, listening for his huff. Amazing that I've already adapted to a life of freedom from human restraints and patterns, becoming a feral human adopted by the wild.

Then I hear it too: a sound like a referee's whistle - three short blasts. My friends had called in a search party.

Fear in my eyes, I meet his gaze. He lifts me to my feet (and even put his hand over my head to keep me from damaging my brain on his roof, yet again) and pushes me toward the sound.

I turn back to him, wrapping arms tight around his chest, my own breasts smashed against his wonderful, strong chest. He holds up four fingers and huffs in the air, again prying me loose, nodding in the direction of the sound.

"Tweet.... tweet... TWEET!"

Dammit, no.

Huff, three fingers, head nod toward sound. It's getting closer. I can hear voices as well.

He hands me his wood reed, the one he played for me. Tears well up in my eyes. He pushes me again toward the sound and this time I go.

I take several steps. I falter and pause. I try to look back after only a few more steps, but I can't see him. Deep down I know I have to be found soon, otherwise they're likely to find him too.

The next three tweets, I rush toward the sound yelling. My voice comes out raspy and hoarse.

Before I know it, there's a thermal blanket around me, so much noise and confusion. They try to talk gently to me, I'm sure I have the look of shock on me, but I'm passing all their quick medical assessments with flying colors. No dehydration, no wounds, no obvious concussion (save for two small bruises atop my head... dumb low ceiling). I can count their fingers, repeat the year, even tell them the president's name.

What I don't tell them about is the little piece of wood I'm carrying with me and why I refuse to release it.

...

I can't explain to people how I've changed. They blame it on survivor's mentality. Everyone expects me to avoid the woods, hikes, and especially the deep forest; now I'm drawn to it.

Of course, if you ever take off from a trail head and pass a woman hiker with very little supply packed, blowing silently on a little twig... ignore my wide smile and my bowlegged walk. Don't worry about me. I have a date.