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Bon Iver Erotic Stories

Bon Iver has a lot of pickled rhubarb and not enough time. ‘Baby!’ he says. ‘Help me stuff these peaches before we have to leave for the Wingville Wingding!’

Bon Iver has a lot of pickled rhubarb and not enough time. ‘Baby!’ he says. ‘Help me stuff these peaches before we have to leave for the Wingville Wingding!’

It’s apple-picking season again. The leaves are just starting to turn and the sky is so blue it hurts to look at it for too long. We pull our woolen sweaters out of the attic, and they’re infused with the odors of campfire and pine needle and freshly fallen snow, which remind us that the winter is long and we’ll need many jars of Bon Iver’s famous apple butter to smother on thick slabs of country toast for fortification.   
On the way to the orchard, we make up a song about apple butter and sing it over and over at the top of our lungs, changing the lyrics slightly each time. We arrive just as we’ve run out of words that rhyme with butter and we tumble out of the pickup and get to work. Three hours in, neither of us can feel our hands anymore and we’ve filled so many barrels we’re not sure they’ll all fit in the bed of the truck. “You’ve earned a break,” Bon Iver says while he spreads the Swiss Army blanket under a tree. He lifts an upside down barrel to reveal a bag of warm cider donuts and a thermos full of an Earl Gray and bourbon concoction that starts to bring the feeling back to my fingers and toes.
His beard is full of cinnamon sugar and his breath smells faintly of bourbon and tea and his hands are cold and rough, the winter wood-chopping callouses just starting to form, and he whispers, “Let me remind you how we stayed warm last winter.” And I let him, even though I never forgot.

It’s apple-picking season again. The leaves are just starting to turn and the sky is so blue it hurts to look at it for too long. We pull our woolen sweaters out of the attic, and they’re infused with the odors of campfire and pine needle and freshly fallen snow, which remind us that the winter is long and we’ll need many jars of Bon Iver’s famous apple butter to smother on thick slabs of country toast for fortification.   

On the way to the orchard, we make up a song about apple butter and sing it over and over at the top of our lungs, changing the lyrics slightly each time. We arrive just as we’ve run out of words that rhyme with butter and we tumble out of the pickup and get to work. Three hours in, neither of us can feel our hands anymore and we’ve filled so many barrels we’re not sure they’ll all fit in the bed of the truck. “You’ve earned a break,” Bon Iver says while he spreads the Swiss Army blanket under a tree. He lifts an upside down barrel to reveal a bag of warm cider donuts and a thermos full of an Earl Gray and bourbon concoction that starts to bring the feeling back to my fingers and toes.

His beard is full of cinnamon sugar and his breath smells faintly of bourbon and tea and his hands are cold and rough, the winter wood-chopping callouses just starting to form, and he whispers, “Let me remind you how we stayed warm last winter.” And I let him, even though I never forgot.

'We lost a real good patch of dandelion greens there,' Bon Iver says, his voice brimming with emotion as I pour the concrete for the new sun porch. He closes his eyes and remembers his many summer salads.

'We lost a real good patch of dandelion greens there,' Bon Iver says, his voice brimming with emotion as I pour the concrete for the new sun porch. He closes his eyes and remembers his many summer salads.

He has promised me we’ll dine al fresco tonight, but the air is suddenly winter. So the candles and roast chicken come inside and we pretend we are alone together in our cabina in the Alps. I tear the bread. ‘It’s coming hard and early this year,’ I say, watching the wind whip snowflakes agains the kitchen window.
Bon Iver sips his wine and gazes into the middle distance. “Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco, baby.”

He has promised me we’ll dine al fresco tonight, but the air is suddenly winter. So the candles and roast chicken come inside and we pretend we are alone together in our cabina in the Alps. I tear the bread. ‘It’s coming hard and early this year,’ I say, watching the wind whip snowflakes agains the kitchen window.

Bon Iver sips his wine and gazes into the middle distance. “Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco, baby.”

Bon Iver is stripping blackberry vines of their thorns, ready to begin a new handwoven basket. He’s tucked a lovely autumn rose behind his ear, and his eyes are full of sunrise. ‘This is all a man wants,’ he says, sniffing the rose.

Bon Iver is stripping blackberry vines of their thorns, ready to begin a new handwoven basket. He’s tucked a lovely autumn rose behind his ear, and his eyes are full of sunrise. ‘This is all a man wants,’ he says, sniffing the rose.

One of our ferns is sickly. Bon Iver washes the leaves, moves it to the solarium, and frets. ‘A fern is a responsibility,’ he says gravely.

One of our ferns is sickly. Bon Iver washes the leaves, moves it to the solarium, and frets. ‘A fern is a responsibility,’ he says gravely.

Bon Iver’s cinnamon buns are the talk of the Foliage Festival!

Bon Iver’s cinnamon buns are the talk of the Foliage Festival!

Bon Iver says he’s practicing meditation. But… I think he is actually napping.

Bon Iver says he’s practicing meditation. But… I think he is actually napping.

Bon Iver looks nice in his autumn flannel. ‘I can’t wait to get started on my beard,’ he says…rubbing his beard.

Bon Iver looks nice in his autumn flannel. ‘I can’t wait to get started on my beard,’ he says…rubbing his beard.

Bon Iver is eating whipped honey from the jar with a spoon.
He looks guilty when I walk into the kitchen. ‘I was as hungry as a bee!’ he shouts, by way of explanation.

Bon Iver is eating whipped honey from the jar with a spoon.

He looks guilty when I walk into the kitchen. ‘I was as hungry as a bee!’ he shouts, by way of explanation.