When I had dinner with Ana in San Francisco (this would be the Ana from the KTS wedding, not the Ana in Barcelona) she was busily organizing her next project: an erotic novella with a Christmas theme.
When she innocently asked Where in the country do they cut down trees? it was clearly obvious that she needed to see where I grew up.
Although we only just barely knew each other I immediately started to woo her with promises of clearcuts and Kristmastown, USA. The Charm Offensive is mighty and powerful; she tried to resist but finally relented and flew up for the last week of the trip.
Ana wanted to find a lumberjack to learn about the woods, and a bad boy for character study and personal amusement. The credentials to qualify as a lumberjack were vague, but her Bad Boy criteria were specific: tall, tough, tattooed (preferably including neck), smart, and emotionally unavailable.
It was perhaps not entirely practical to search for a lumberjack in the bars of Capitol Hill, but a girl has to make do with the available resources – and I figured we could find a bad boy without too much effort.
Everywhere we went, people wanted Ana’s number, and more than one stranger immediately asked if they could visit her in SF. Bartenders served her endless free drinks, and since Ana doesn’t drink and I don’t touch hard alcohol we often forced Byron to, as Ana said, take it for the team.
During the day we trekked all over Seattle and Tacoma making new friends and haphazardly researching the history of logging. I showed her the original encampment at Alki, and the true Skid Row, and we picked blackberries at Camp 6 on Point Defiance.
Each excursion was fantastically amusing; though after a few days immersed in my highly efficient antics Ana did think to inquire Have I joined a cult?
At night we scoured all of my normal haunts with no success, until a flash of inspiration took us to Kincora, where whole tables of bad boys turned to stare at us as we walked in.
We ended up at a table with the Himsa kids, who pointed out a candidate with the comment His dick is so big it would break you.
Ana didn’t think that sounded like fun so I introduced her to BP, who grew up on the peninsula. He admitted (quite reluctantly) that he used to have a wood business.
I had forgotten that hanging out with smut writers cranks up the innuendo (and adventure) ratio. Ana gained valuable insight on the technical aspects of logging, but more importantly, the culture of my hometown.
BP looks and sounds just like my cousins and may well be one; in the middle of his anecdote about hurling flaming axes I interrupted and asked him to verify that people used to nail live kittens to trees. He shrugged in agreement, much to the horror of those who grew up in civilization.
Ana and Byron and I, with the occasional disapproving assistance of Jeff, rapidly developed a code of conduct to prevent what Ana called cock blocking. The boys were often parked with friends while we girls trekked from restaurant to bar to after party, interrogating potential candidates about their backgrounds in the forest and evaluating their relative badness.
Whenever Ana had a line on a good research subject I melted away to spend quality time with my scintillating new friend Mark Mitchell at the Bus Stop, officially my favorite bar in the whole world.
The intensity of the search leached into every aspect of our week, turning even the smallest and most routine outing into an adventure. One afternoon at a cafe we were plotting our next excursion. I was trying to implement some level of organization on a chaotic plan when I noticed that a barista in short shorts was cleaning the counter next to us – over and over again – and shimmying to a theremin version of Loving You by Minnie Ripperton.
The performance certainly wasn’t intended for me, though I could not tell which of my companions she was going to hit on. I left for a moment and when I came back she was practically giving Byron a lap dance; this is what happens when you spend your free time with notorious flirts.
It was easy to get caught up in the socializing and neglect the reason for her visit – but I was determined to take Ana to the peninsula.
Along the way we stopped at a chainsaw carving school:
The main destination was Shelton, where nothing has changed since I moved away eleven years ago:
The place still has a functioning mill:
And is officially Kristmastown – a perfect setting for lumberjack erotica!
We also saw actual wildlife: a fox, a seal, and a deer!
Somewhere out in the countryside we stopped at a Chevron, and when I went in to inspect the restroom (gas stations represent my true cultural heritage) Ana finally found a real lumberjack!
Or at least, someone who hauls logs. Her approach was simple – she walked over and said I like your truck.
By the time I was done tsking at the overflowing waste baskets and lamenting the lack of gritty pink soap she had acquired extensive insider information from her logger; I came out just in time to take their picture.
With one mission accomplished we returned to the wild decadence of our city search. Ana dressed in a dashing little sailor suit, pointed to her nautical theme necklace, and said Tonight I’m going to hook me a man!
I introduced her to countless suitable people but somehow none of the boys matched her exacting standards. On the final night we had nearly given up hope; standing in front of the Bus Stop at midnight, I explained the problem to Zack and Greg. Both fit most of the profile – tall, tough, tattooed, intelligent, and, as the kids say, hot.
But evidently they were too sincere; like me, they can be menacing when appropriate – but wear their hearts on their sleeves:
The three of us stood on the sidewalk watching with various levels of amazement as Ana swept through the Cha-Cha, selecting and rejecting with ruthless force.
When she made her final choice and zipped past us on the way to see a show at the Comet Greg asked Do you think she knows she is going out with a drug dealer?
I just shrugged; we agreed that we did not understand the ways of Ana, though the whole thing was excessively amusing.