MOTHER NATURE'S MILK TRAIN
The train was leaving Medford, Oregon, headed south from the Canadian border -- toward the warm fertile California valley -- following the long undulations of the rocky Cascade Mountains, like a metallic serpent twisting through canyons and peaks.
In the last car of the train, a voluptuous woman and a young man were sitting face to face, without speaking -- looking at each other from time to time. She was in her early forties, gazing at the dramatic landscape. She was a robust woman from the land of ageless rainy evergreen trees in the Pacific Northwest.
She had a powerful, but relaxed, naturally maternal demeanor -- with black eyes, large breasts, fleshy cheeks. She had pushed several packages under the wooden bench, holding a basket on her lap.
Facing her was a thin, weathered, handsome young man, in his mid-twenties -- dressed in an expensive, but rumpled and dusty business suit -- like he'd been wearing it for a week.
He was thin, tanned, with the dark complexion of men who work outside in the hot sun.
Near him, a handkerchief: his whole fortune: a pair of shoes, a shirt, pants, and a jacket. Under the bench, something was also hidden: a shovel and a pick-axe attached together with a rope.
Though in winter, this region was mostly cold, wet, rainy and depressing, at this time of year, the sun, rising in the sky, was pouring a rain of fire on the mountain peaks.
This was around the end of May, and delicious smells were fluttering, entering the car whose windows were still opened. The citrus trees sweated pungent perfumes, and even roses were at home in these rugged mountains -- making the air tastier than wine.
The train was going slowly, as if it wanted to linger in the soft canyon. It was stopping in small stations -- moving again at its calm pace, after a long whistle. Nobody else was riding except the young man, and the curvaceous woman. It seemed that the world was dozing.
The shapely woman, from time to time, was closing her eyes, and opening them suddenly -- a food basket slipping on her knees, about to fall. She was catching it with a quick movement -- looking outside a few minutes -- then dozing again. Beads of sweat were shining on her forehead, and she was breathing with difficulty.
The young man had bent his head, sleeping the deep sleep of exhausted souls.
Suddenly, after the train dragged out of a deserted station, the woman seemed to wake up. Opening her basket, she pulled out a piece of bread, boiled eggs, a bottle of wine, a hunk of swiss cheese, and began to eat.
The young man abruptly awakened, staring at her every bite. He looked like a hungry coyote: lean, wiry, dusty, but strangely statuesque: arms folded, hollow cheeks, lips closed.
She was eating voraciously -- stopping only to breathe and slurp a mouthful of wine to wash the eggs down her throat.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. A ravenous hunger gnawed in his body, from throat to bowels. But, for some reason -- maybe because he was embarrassed that a young man dressed so expensively would need to beg for food, or maybe because she ate like a hungry animal -- when he opened his jaw to ask, no sound came from his mouth.
She sensed his discomfort. "Are you hungry?"
They were two opposing actors in the eternal drama of hunger: One needed strength, and one needed gratification.
In a flash, she made everything disappear: bread, eggs, cheese, and wine. When she finished her meal -- feeling a little embarrassed -- she loosened her blouse.
His hungry gaze did not disturb her -- the pressure of her huge breasts stretching the cloth of her dress revealed, more and more, her deep fleshy cleavage.
To break the awkward silence, she pronounced in her small-town drawl, "It's impossible to breathe in this heat."
She asked, “Are you from this area?”
“Salinas. Central California Valley. Farm-picking country.”
“I grew up in Seattle, Washington. My family's from Canada: Manitoba.”
She had spent her whole life drifting. She realized some people weren't destined to live happily ever after. She had learned to live life one town at a time. While she had no path to happiness, she had an innate sense that worry is worthless.
She once had a child, but left him with the father. She felt guilty, but could never make a lifelong commitment to any man. She had been married a bunch of times -- but always ended up with no money.
When things got desperate, she became a waitress, then a bartender, a stripper, a sexually-explicit actress, an escort, and finally, a prostitute. But, she laughed, "Even the most sensual women reach a point where their bodies become too 'mature' to produce a living wage."
She had gone back up north to re-connect with her family. But, it was an empty pocket. Now, she was returning to a job in the San Francisco Bay area as a nanny and breast-feeding wet-nurse for a wealthy young progressive couple who wanted to live an organic lifestyle, but were too busy to spend enough time with their children.
She eventually realized some lives are more meant to be lived than planned.
He told her that he grew up as a building-laborer, and then had tried to run his late father's construction business with his crooked brothers.
But, when the real estate boom went bust, they went bankrupt, and he was back to seeking farm-labor work in Salinas after hearing about newly-bought almond farms.
They fell silent, under the sun's roasting of the roof of the railroad cars. A cloud of dust was hovering behind the train, with a thickening and growing scent of intense lemon, and roses.
Suddenly, she gasped -- blouse open, cheeks soft, eyes dull.
"I have not breast-fed in two weeks; I'm about to faint."
He didn't know what to say.
She continued, "When I have milking breasts, they feel like weights dragging down my heart."
He did not want to appear too nervous, or excited. "It obviously bothers you."
She wiped her sweating forehead with her forearm: "Men -- and even women -- are infatuated with busty women. But when I can't nurse, my body pays the price.
"Could be worse."
"After two weeks, I'm panting, and my back is cramped. That's the burden of feeding." She seemed exhausted and weak. "The milk flows like a dozen water-pistols. It's hilarious. All the ranchers would pay me to spray into their drunken mouths, a half-foot away."
"Makes me want to own a ranch."
She sighed. "Without a hard-sucking, the pressure builds." She was sweating -- in obvious physical discomfort.
He gasped. "My mother had huge breasts. But she never breast-fed me."
"Do you and your mother have a good relationship?"
"My father told me that she died of leukemia, when I was 3. But I think she just left him one day."
They both turned their heads toward separate windows -- uncomfortable, for different reasons.
"The only thing I remember about her was a big brown birthmark in the shadow of her cleavage -- which looked like a vulture. It gave me nightmares for years. Even now, whenever I see a big bird circling -- like an eagle, or a hawk, or buzzard -- I get dry-mouth, and feel faint."
Instinctively, her arms pressed her breasts together, tightly.
The train stopped in a small town. Standing near a gate, a woman was holding in her arms a thin, ragged screaming infant.
"That desperate baby and I could really help each other. We would be born again."
He spoke generically: "Can I get you any -- "
"I can't take it! I'm dying."
In an unconscious gesture, she opened the top half of her dress, completely.
The right breast appeared wide, fleshy, and firm, with an enormous brown nipple surrounded by a dotted areola.
She moaned, "What can I do?"
He laughed -- too guilty to take a good look. "What am *I* gonna do!"
The train resumed slowly, in the wistful sigh of the warm evening breeze.
Finally, he stammered, "Maybe I could...relieve your....pressure."
Instinctively, she leaned toward him, carrying to his mouth -- in the gesture of a professional nurse -- the dark tip of her breast. By taking her two hands to bring it towards him, a drop of milk appeared.
Cautiously, so he would not break this unique spell, he knelt in front of her and began to suck eagerly. He seized the heavy breast in his mouth like a huge soft eggplant, and suckled in a greedy rhythm.
As he passed both his arms around her waist -- to bring himself closer -- he drank, like an infant, with slow sips, and a bobbing neck.
Suddenly, she said, "That's enough. Take the other one."
As she gently drew out her other huge breast: she placed her hands on his back, breathing happily, enjoying the breath of flowers mixed with blasts of evening mountain air.
His eyes closed, and he drank forcefully, as if he were again tasting his first meal of life.
She pushed him gently. "That's enough. I feel better."
He got up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. She guided her soft mammaries into her dress, and murmured, "Thank you."
"I am the one to thank you. I hadn't eaten in two whole days."
"Why didn't you accept my offer, before I wolfed down my food so selfishly!"
"I was embarrassed to let you know that someone dressed so expensively was a failure in business."
"No hungry person should ever be ashamed."
"I guess Mother Nature evens the score."
"Fate works strange miracles: You got on this train hungry, and we ended up helping each other."
He stared out the window: "It was just blind coincidence. Fate didn't give me a mother to love -- or a mind for business. I'm doomed to die digging irrigation trenches."
"You are a strong, compassionate young man. Why do you let bad thoughts destroy your future?"
"I have no future."
"Mother Nature always gives fresh chances to honest, hard workers."
"My father was a hard-worker. All it got him was heat stroke."
"Cynicism never put food on a table." Her warm, maternal gaze engulfed him. "Life could spin your way at any moment."
"You sound like a natural mother."
He dozed off to sleep. And in his dream, he was sure that she was his mother. But, when he opened his eyes, she was gone.
Years later, up to his waist in a sewer ditch in the blistering sun, he started to feel dehydrated and delirious. He drank water ravenously -- so he wouldn't end up like his father.
Pungent dirt flared his nostrils, reminding him of a grave. He had a sinking thought that no matter how hard he worked, his life would get no better.
Suddenly, above -- a wide-winged bird circled him. He began trembling in the ditch. He wondered what hunger, what fear, had kept him from searching the shadows of her soft bosom, for his mother's birthmark.
But, wasn't she was right? What difference would it make, if she were his mother -- or anyone's? She nourished him. He satisfied her.
What is the cure for a life of pain? Maybe just one ride on Mother Nature's Milk Train.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
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