## Archive-name: woodwork.class.II

From: ccc_spt@waikato.ac.nz (Simon Travaglia)

Subject: Story: Woodwork Class #2

Newsgroups: rec.humor,alt.sex

By SimonT

--------------------------------- WARNING! ---------------------------------- --------------------------------- WARNING! ---------------------------------- --------------------------------- WARNING! ----------------------------------

I'm just your average guy, you know, average tastes, I never thought I'd have anything to write about, up until I found the love of my life.

A peice of fully treated, perfectly square; sealed, sanded and salivated on chunk of Pine.

I stole it off someone else.

I had to, I needed it, not just for it's grain and groove, but for it's heart- wood. And now I was living with it.

Oh it was magic, down at the beach with my wood, drinking in the small hours of the morning at this little jazz club I know (with my wood), locked up in the psychiatric unit (with my wood). How good can life get?

Of course, my house was very good about things. It knew it was just a stage I was going thru - Solid Oak's good like that, very understanding. And I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a bit of attraction left in my heart for it's long rough-sawn timbers. In fact (although I've never told anyone), sometimes when I'm in bed with my pine, I like to pretend it's the house that I'm caressing, running my hands up and down along it's edges, perpendicular to the grain, just the way it likes it. But they get on, and in a way I think the house and the pine understand each other.

Anyway, so the other day I come home, and straight away I know something's wrong. I reach over to dribble along it's edge in my special little way and I notice that it's a bit cold to my advances, you know, like I left it out in the frost or something. I ask if anything's the matter, but it just sits there and ignores me. Then I notice the house is quiet too; like they've cooked something up between them. I figure the best way out of this is just to ignore them and wait for the situation to blow over.

Then I notice all the doors are sticking; not REALLY sticking, just kinda rubbing when I open them; enough to concern me, but not really bad. Now I've never believed in violence to wood, but I'm really starting to think about reaching for the planer and reface both of them.

I turn around quickly, and I catch the rafters and the pine looking at each other in that special way that only wood can. Shit! Now I know what's REALLY going on - I'm being dumped. Trouble in Eden! I can't just let it end like this, I just can't. So I get a tree-doctor in. He tells me that it's futile, and that it looks like the pine and the house have been getting it on. Sure enough, 2 weeks later, I come home and there's 3 new oak chairs and a pine spice rack, the cutest little things you've ever seen.

I realise I can't stay angry forever, and after all, I am the wrong species. So I go out for the night. I go to 10 maybe 20 clubs, drinking myself into oblivion, drinking to forget. About 1:30am I notice the woman from the wood- shop but before I can do anything I fall from my stool and collapse on the at her feet, semiconcious. Her toe-jam does the rest, I pass out. The next morning I wake up in a strange house, in a strange bed with the sun streaming into my face. I move to get up, then I notice the posts on the bed. Shit, they look to be Ebony. I sniff them. They smell OK. I lick them, figuring what the hell, we spent the night together, there's no point in being bashful now. They taste like ebony! I'm in a frenzy now, the full dark colour of the wood has in it's grip and I don't want to let go. We go at it like a pair of love-starved pigs....

Three hours later, I wake up to find the woman standing there...

"Seen one of these before?" she asks, holding up a little wooden cricket bat with holes drilled in it, like the one on "Dead Poets Society" "It's a bat like the one on dead poets society" I say, a little interested "No exactly. This one is Hickory" she replied Hickory, the legendary springy wood. Worth it's weight in shavings any day. "BEAT ME!!! BEAT ME!!!" I cry....

Next Week: The Temptation of the Lumber Yard

This signature was created using RoboSig, the errorfree sigmaker. Simon Travaglia, spt@grace.waikato.ac.nz, Uni of Waikato, P B, Hamilton, NZ Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and have no bearing his work or employers (but his teddy agrees with him)

No one can enjoy freedom unless he is willing to surrender some part of it.

Last modified (10/10/96 15:07:26) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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