Farm Plan

This? This one is all Tips fault. He’s the one who made the offhand comment about an old farmer and milking machines. Dump that comment into my dirty brain, add my own fetish to the mix and voila! Instant story. And …it is camping season, well, almost. *naughty laugh*  ~nilla~

He paced the floor. At 65 he’d done his time here on Boone’s Farm. Up in the woods of north central Maine, his spread encompassed 25 acres of good land. Millinocket had changed plenty in the last 40 years, even more since his gramps had carved this spread out of the rocky Maine earth. Not far from the famed Baxter State Park and Mount Katahdin, on clear days he could see the tip of that peak from the dock on their small lake.

Away from the house and bunk house was Barn One, where the cows had been kept. They were gone now, Old Bess having passed on last fall. He lived on his military pension for the most part, his wife and kids gone too. She’d gone south to Florida. He couldn’t help the mental sneer over that. Florida? Sissy land. He could no more imagine himself laying in the sun than he could imagine one of his cows suddenly sprouting wings and flying around the pastures. Shaking his head, he continued to walk around the property, thinking about Betty with her new man, fanning themselves as they wandered around Disney. His kids were grown with families of their own, one in California doing fuck-all with computers, the other doing financial finaglings in Chicago. He remembered the years of the kids helping with the cows, hiking the 2 miles to the bus stop for school, the snowball fights in the front yard, and the baby robin his daughter had raised to adulthood. So many images flitted through his memories. Ah, those were the days. He wondered about putting everything up for sale; this area was getting pretty popular with tourists, the lifeblood of Maine it seemed.

He squinted as a beat up Jeep rumbled up the drive. It rumbled to a stop, a kick of dust swirling around. The door opened and his childhood friend Tim shifted out of the car.

“Fine day you got going on up here,” Tim greeted his friend. The door of the car slammed shut with a shove of his hand. He walked, bandy-legged,  to slap shoulders with Bill.

“Two old farts on the farm,” Bill laughed, delighted that his buddy had come up. “What brings you out of the sea-side?”

“I had a dream.”

“Me too. She was tall, big tits and -”

“Exactly!”

“What?”

“We must be on the same wavelength.”

“You’ve been drinking turpentine rather than spreading it on decking at the boatyard?”

Tim laughed, the sound like rusty nails being shaken in a box. He looked at his friend and pointed one bent finger at him. Oh the years of rope knotting, of planing and shaping boards had done a number on his hands.  Boatworking was not easy work, yet it had been the vocation that spoke to his heart.

“Retirement sucks.” He began, pacing away. “The ‘yard was always like my second home. Alls I do at home now is turn on the computer and start searching porn.”

“I thought that’s why they invented the internet? So we could all watch porn in our kitchen?”

“Watch porn, read porn, look at tits…so many ways to go. Did you know that they even have places where you can take a vacation that are porn camps? Mostly for the crowd that likes ropes and whips and chains. . . BDSM they call it.”

“I call it fun. I’m not afraid to use some rope on a gal-”

“Yes! Exactly. And you have all this space here….”

Bill blinked. Turn Boone Farm into some sort of porn vacation? He turned in a slow circle. The barn, hell, needed a shitload of work. The bunk house only had room for 12. The house itself had some room. Down by the lake was a small cottage, not much more than four walls with windows. No plumbing, even.

“How the fuck?” Tugging off his cap, he scrubbed at his head. His shock of white hair stood up in every direction, and he looked like a puzzled, wizened gnome.

“C’mon into the house and let’s go looking for camps…trust me. You’ve got just about everything you need.”

“But nothing is updated. Tourists want updated.”

“Not this kind of tourist. The rougher, the better.”

Side by side, the two codgers moved into the house, plotting, planning and grinning.