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Bon Iver Erotic Stories

Before I knew Bon Iver, I was a little broken.
I saw myself as a conquerer of the world. I tried my best to acknowledge my flaws, and to use the strength they gave me to push open the doors of every new opportunity. Bang!
I’m the same woman now, but I’ve begun to move more slowly, with more intention. Bon Iver didn’t change me. He only showed me that I could use my power for more delicate things. I could be gentle with a bird’s snapped wing. And I could be gentle with myself.
Bon Iver lays the bird on the grass. We watch as it discovers its new gait, tests its new wing, and leaps into a tree. ‘We’re all a little broken,’ he says. ‘But if I fly in a circle, it’ll bring me back to you.’

Before I knew Bon Iver, I was a little broken.

I saw myself as a conquerer of the world. I tried my best to acknowledge my flaws, and to use the strength they gave me to push open the doors of every new opportunity. Bang!

I’m the same woman now, but I’ve begun to move more slowly, with more intention. Bon Iver didn’t change me. He only showed me that I could use my power for more delicate things. I could be gentle with a bird’s snapped wing. And I could be gentle with myself.

Bon Iver lays the bird on the grass. We watch as it discovers its new gait, tests its new wing, and leaps into a tree. ‘We’re all a little broken,’ he says. ‘But if I fly in a circle, it’ll bring me back to you.’

Bon Iver makes a dream board. He pins pictures of horses and prickly pears and wide open highways. A little bag with a collection of river stones hangs from a nail. wedged in the corner is a drawing of a baby chick, an old dog and a skyline of lodgepole pines. He borders it all in a grosgrain ribbon from the sewing box. He hangs it on the kitchen wall and stares at it for hours, nibbling peanut butter cookies.
When all this is done, he goes into the music room and records a new song in one go, makes a single tape, and buries it in the woods.
'This is my mandala,' he says.

Bon Iver makes a dream board. He pins pictures of horses and prickly pears and wide open highways. A little bag with a collection of river stones hangs from a nail. wedged in the corner is a drawing of a baby chick, an old dog and a skyline of lodgepole pines. He borders it all in a grosgrain ribbon from the sewing box. He hangs it on the kitchen wall and stares at it for hours, nibbling peanut butter cookies.

When all this is done, he goes into the music room and records a new song in one go, makes a single tape, and buries it in the woods.

'This is my mandala,' he says.

Bon Iver brings me a pork chop as an afternoon surprise. Bon Iver fluffs up the bed, even though I rolled out after him. Bon Iver fills my ‘I Love Books’ mug with dandelions.
He is damp and dirty from chores and cooking. (I haven’t left my writing table today.) He has lamb fluff and wood chips on his flannel. (I’m wearing the socks he knitted for me, and my fingernails are clean.)
'This is awfully nice,' I say, as he braids my hair.
'Baby, you deserve it,' Bon Iver says. 'You work so hard.'

Bon Iver brings me a pork chop as an afternoon surprise. Bon Iver fluffs up the bed, even though I rolled out after him. Bon Iver fills my ‘I Love Books’ mug with dandelions.

He is damp and dirty from chores and cooking. (I haven’t left my writing table today.) He has lamb fluff and wood chips on his flannel. (I’m wearing the socks he knitted for me, and my fingernails are clean.)

'This is awfully nice,' I say, as he braids my hair.

'Baby, you deserve it,' Bon Iver says. 'You work so hard.'

Yesterday it snowed, but Bon Iver was as happy as a spring lamb in his rocking chair with his stack of seed catalogues and a big jar of apple tea. Flakes whomped upon on the old house–the wet, unproductive stuff that bends trees but hardly whitens the pastures. Inside, Bon Iver hummed and rocked and licked at the end of his pencil, filling in the order sheet for sweet peas and heirloom tomatoes, berries and corn. 

Today the snow is gone and the sun is warm. Bon Iver sits on a hay bale, planning the garden. I join him for a while, feeling the hot breath of the sun on my neck and shoulders–a pleasure I’d forgotten.

Bon Iver seems to read my mind. ‘Winter makes us forget,’ he says. ‘Baby, the joy of spring is rediscovering a warmth you’ve come to believe you’d never feel again.’

Yesterday it snowed, but Bon Iver was as happy as a spring lamb in his rocking chair with his stack of seed catalogues and a big jar of apple tea. Flakes whomped upon on the old house–the wet, unproductive stuff that bends trees but hardly whitens the pastures. Inside, Bon Iver hummed and rocked and licked at the end of his pencil, filling in the order sheet for sweet peas and heirloom tomatoes, berries and corn. 

Today the snow is gone and the sun is warm. Bon Iver sits on a hay bale, planning the garden. I join him for a while, feeling the hot breath of the sun on my neck and shoulders–a pleasure I’d forgotten.

Bon Iver seems to read my mind. ‘Winter makes us forget,’ he says. ‘Baby, the joy of spring is rediscovering a warmth you’ve come to believe you’d never feel again.’

Sometimes Bon Iver likes to pause before enjoying a meal, just for a moment, to express gratitude or share a whimsy, and today he wipes his buttery fingers on his lobster apron–the one I bought for him in Harpswell Neck–and closes his eyes, his lashes like the wings of little brown birds on his dirty cheek. 
'I'm the luckiest man alive,' he says simply, and takes my hand, and we sit together quietly on the log and he gives me a squeeze. The air is new-spring cold, but I've never felt more warm.
And then we open up our tinfoil envelopes, burned black from campfire coals. Bon Iver surveys the brilliant pink salmon and new potatoes inside, flecked with good green herbs plucked from the mountainside, and he licks his lips with satisfaction as the steam rises to meet them.

Sometimes Bon Iver likes to pause before enjoying a meal, just for a moment, to express gratitude or share a whimsy, and today he wipes his buttery fingers on his lobster apron–the one I bought for him in Harpswell Neck–and closes his eyes, his lashes like the wings of little brown birds on his dirty cheek. 

'I'm the luckiest man alive,' he says simply, and takes my hand, and we sit together quietly on the log and he gives me a squeeze. The air is new-spring cold, but I've never felt more warm.

And then we open up our tinfoil envelopes, burned black from campfire coals. Bon Iver surveys the brilliant pink salmon and new potatoes inside, flecked with good green herbs plucked from the mountainside, and he licks his lips with satisfaction as the steam rises to meet them.

Bon Iver says he can’t stand to be apart from me.
He is squishing me.

Bon Iver says he can’t stand to be apart from me.

He is squishing me.

Bon Iver maintains a book of pencil drawings of creatures he sees in the woods, never failing to return the book to the top pocket of his oilcloth rucksack after a walk around the property. His style is loving and assured, but the sketches themselves don’t always correspond to animals I’ve personally ever seen.
'This little mouse has wings?' I ask.
He nods. ‘I found her in the branches of an aspen. I think she must have flown up there.’ He closes his eyes. ‘What an incredible day!’

Bon Iver maintains a book of pencil drawings of creatures he sees in the woods, never failing to return the book to the top pocket of his oilcloth rucksack after a walk around the property. His style is loving and assured, but the sketches themselves don’t always correspond to animals I’ve personally ever seen.

'This little mouse has wings?' I ask.

He nods. ‘I found her in the branches of an aspen. I think she must have flown up there.’ He closes his eyes. ‘What an incredible day!’

Bon Iver and I pass the afternoon lying on the rug in the fire-warmed living room, sharing our wishes and ideas for the year ahead. I write my resolutions in a notebook I found in his study, and when I flip the pages I discover little corn-yellow pressed flowers. A log settles in the fireplace, I inhale the scent of peppermint tea, and Bon Iver rustles his maps.

'Resolutions aren't for me,' he says, leaning over to kiss my shoulder. 'When the world is so wild and woolly and wonderful, a man like me just can't stick to a plan.' 

Bon Iver and I pass the afternoon lying on the rug in the fire-warmed living room, sharing our wishes and ideas for the year ahead. I write my resolutions in a notebook I found in his study, and when I flip the pages I discover little corn-yellow pressed flowers. A log settles in the fireplace, I inhale the scent of peppermint tea, and Bon Iver rustles his maps.

'Resolutions aren't for me,' he says, leaning over to kiss my shoulder. 'When the world is so wild and woolly and wonderful, a man like me just can't stick to a plan.' 

A cold snap hit a few days back, and Bon Iver and I are doing our best to stay warm. We made a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace and we haven’t moved except to grab the occasional bowl of soup. But Bon Iver can’t stay still for too long. ‘I’m going out. I have a very important errand to run,’ he says, throwing off the blankets and clumsily bundling himself in every layer he can find, including my scarf with the pom poms and my fuzzy earmuffs. He knows he looks ridiculous, which he acknowledges with a little jig on his way out the door.
An hour later he’s back with a bundle of groceries. ‘Don’t move!’ he yells as he begins furiously chopping and dicing. Before I know it, there’s a bowl of fresh guacamole in front of me and a plate of warm tortilla chips. ‘Let’s pretend we’re in Mexico and we don’t even know the meaning of cold!’ He pulls the tequila off the shelf, takes a big swig straight from the bottle, throws a Gipsy Kings record on the turntable and starts dancing around the cabin. ‘Olé!’ he says with a flourish, and I laugh until I can barely breathe.

A cold snap hit a few days back, and Bon Iver and I are doing our best to stay warm. We made a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace and we haven’t moved except to grab the occasional bowl of soup. But Bon Iver can’t stay still for too long. ‘I’m going out. I have a very important errand to run,’ he says, throwing off the blankets and clumsily bundling himself in every layer he can find, including my scarf with the pom poms and my fuzzy earmuffs. He knows he looks ridiculous, which he acknowledges with a little jig on his way out the door.

An hour later he’s back with a bundle of groceries. ‘Don’t move!’ he yells as he begins furiously chopping and dicing. Before I know it, there’s a bowl of fresh guacamole in front of me and a plate of warm tortilla chips. ‘Let’s pretend we’re in Mexico and we don’t even know the meaning of cold!’ He pulls the tequila off the shelf, takes a big swig straight from the bottle, throws a Gipsy Kings record on the turntable and starts dancing around the cabin. ‘Olé!’ he says with a flourish, and I laugh until I can barely breathe.

'Sweet pickle and giblet gravy it's cold outside!' Bon Iver howls as he plucks the icicles from his beard.

'Sweet pickle and giblet gravy it's cold outside!' Bon Iver howls as he plucks the icicles from his beard.