The Hazards of HRT

My therapist suggested that I journal this summer as a substitute for our weekly two PM sessions. I'll be working in Alaska, night shift, far from home. She recommended that I explain my life, as granularly as I chose, as though I was being interviewed, explaining to a civilian. The following are excerpts from that exercise.

DAY 42

Once again, I found myself shopping for calories for the next 36 hours. No, I wasn't at a Winn Dixie or a Publix, but was in the "pack-out" section of the mess hall. There were racks of shelf-stable junk food, a pastry case with freshly-made baked goods, and coolers with fruit, cut-up veggies, yogurt, little individually-wrapped cheeses, pre-made sandwiches, frozen things like HotPockets and Crustables and, and, and. Type II Diabetes, basically. I selected a perfect avocado, a few bags of the washed and cut carrots and celery, several little bags of trail mix. I got Pop Tarts to share, like cigarettes in prison. I was going to take far more food to site tonight than I normally would, because heavy fog was predicted to move in after midnight: We could fly out to site, but likely wouldn't be able to make it back to camp on the normal 0600 timetable. We would need to have food and water for an extra day or so. No one knew, obviously, but it was always fun to play the "prepping for the hurricane game."

At muster, where all of the night crews meet to perform warm-up exercises, to discuss any safety concerns, rig moves, and bear sightings, all the chatter was about the weather system moving in. "Safety Bob" called out the rig assignments, "Chopper" then responded with who would be in what bird, and we set off, clattering toward the waiting choppers that rested like bright orange dragonflies at the edge of camp. We had three machines and my boys, the crew from Rig 5, were to be in 98. I tossed my drybag and hard hat in the bin, and one of the helpers, DeVon, gestured toward the back seat, as he did every evening, and said, "Ladies first."

I clambered into my customary spot behind the pilot, against the right rear window, buckled in so that the lead geophysicist, Nyguen could do the same next to me, and we four sardined into place. Then Jake, the driller, slid the rear door shut and ponderously climbed into the front left seat, closing his door, and did the more complicated operation of securing the four-point harness that the front seat demands. We started to spin up in earnest. Pilot--the one I called Cheyenne, since that was his homebase, glanced back for a thumbs up from us all, then he murmured into the mike, and our bird started to rise, backing slowly and steadily up before pivoting neatly above the pad and roaring off to the north. I looked for a musk ox, caribou, or bear, but that night's taxi ride was unremarkable.

We swooped up the valley and popped out over the saddle at the rig. Our mates were all outside on the deck, looking up, screwing in earplugs, smoking. Cheyenne swung wide of the rig, and lined up on the mark: a meter long pool noodle, basically, but heavy, a bright orange sandbag that is the only mark for the LZ. No windsock here, which seemed odd, but whatever. It worked. Landed.

Gave us the nod: "All clear."

Jake unbuckled, opened the front door, then lumbered out and slid open the rear door. We unbuckled, dominoed out, jumped down, one after the other, carefully re-buckling the seat belt behind us as we went. This detail is important in case bad things happen while the pilot is flying empty--the last thing the pilot needs is to have a bunch of seat belts flapping around inside a corkscrewing bird.

Jake slid the rear door closed, then the front, opened the side basket. As always, DeVon removed my bag and hardhat from the basket. We nodded at Pilot, checked that everything was dogged down tight, and trundled down to the rig.

We were working on a 3000-foot borehole, azimuth 275◦, dip 78◦. A month or so ago, as soon as the snow had melted away, a construction crew known as "The Pad Builders" had flown in lumber and tools to build a big wooden deck for us to work on. 50' X 50'. The drill rig was then flown in in three separate chunks and assembled. A survival hut, a tent about 10'x 10' was set up a little away from the drill deck, and the drill shack- a large tent completely open on the side where the drill rig was, was also erected. The rig had been boring away ever since.

The drill crew consisted of the driller, Jake (obese) and the helpers, DeVon and Jordan (spectacularly fit. More on that later!). On this evening, we had two geophysicists, Nyguen and Sergio, and then me, Alison, a hydrogeo. I am known by my initials, AFC, which DeVon likes to pretend means "Alison From Charlotte," when in actuality the monogram stands for Alison Flavia Camarello. On the radio I'm known as "Hydro Alice." Close enough.

As usual, I was the oldest, 52, and the only woman. I'm short, of Italian extraction, so with the usual dark, wavy hair (cut in a severe pixie, in my case), dark eyes, skin that is happy to tan; and equipped with the normal complement of lips, hips, and boobs (And more on those later). We were a tiny part of a huge exploration effort, tasked with assessing the feasibility of a new underground complex, about 10 miles and a high ridge away from an existing gold mine in northern Alaska.

With the price of gold climbing almost daily, people like us were in high demand. I would make more money in this summer season, alone, than I had earned for many entire years. My annual income had doubled in the last five years or so, even as Warren, my husband, saw his income stagnate. Worse still perhaps, was that I felt like I was at the peak of my powers, working at varied and interesting sites all over the globe. I had more job offers than I could possibly accept, while he felt that he was teaching the same syllabus, to increasingly-distracted students, for too little money. Also, he had summers off, so, were I not working way up here, we could have been vacationing together. With the shortness of the working season this far north, I was always slammed this time of year, so he would spend most of the summer alone. This had been our life for the 30 years we had been together, and up until the last few years, it had felt OK. Lots of alone time for both of us, parallel lives, but happy when we were together. In the before times, he would collect me from the Charlotte airport and we would routinely fuck in the back seat of our SUV, right there in the cell phone lot. We would be hungry for each other.

I felt that things started to go south for us two years ago when he turned 60. He had insisted on me getting fresh, new boobs for his birthday present. I wasn't enthusiastic for a host of reasons: I simply don't understand elective surgery. I understand knee, shoulder, or hernia repair. I don't understand caring enough about looks to do something that requires general anesthesia. I didn't understand dropping money on little sacs of saline that could reroof the garage, or landscape the yard, or pay for good tickets to Turkey. But he had been wanting me to go from my adequate B cup to something fuller, for as long as we had been together, and now that money was no longer a problem, I finally gave in, figuring, "fine, maybe he'll shut up about it if I just do it...."

Now the boobs were two years old, they were way bigger than what we had agreed upon (The agreement was C cup, which somehow morphed into DD), and of course they had solved zero problems in our marriage. As mentioned previously, he was no longer loving work, but rather than retiring, he agitated for me to retire. Even though I had never loved my gigs more, and made the lion's share of our income. The whole situation surrounding my marriage was frustrating. I was now officially in menopause, having had my last period three years before, and my libido had fallen off.

Also, his students never got any older, and every year when I would visit him at UNCC, the girls seemed to wear less and less, and their legs seemed longer and longer. (Full disclosure: I'm 5'3", and if I could have gotten leg extensions, I would have really considered that elective surgery! The new boobs just made me look like I was going to fall over. I looked top-heavy as a fucking dreidle). I wasn't worried exactly, about his tendency to ogle all of that healthy young flesh, but it was disheartening to watch his eyes rove when we walked together, especially since he no longer complimented me when he saw me apply make-up, or wear a new outfit. I felt invisible to him, and I guess he felt increasingly irrelevant to me. And, to be fair, I worked around almost uniformly healthy young men, and often in close quarters, in isolation. He later admitted to feeling insecure about my affection, my attention, too.

All of this to say, Warren and I had separated for the summer on not-great terms, and our communication since arriving at camp had generally been terse, perfunctory. I made a point of checking in every day, and I still sent cool photos of rock specimens, water features, wildlife, food... but there was no doubt that we were in a tenuous place. His responses rarely involved typing, but were most typically just a thumbs-up emoji. Minimal effort, minimal attention.

Our last vacation together had been a Caribbean cruise that he had booked for us in the spring. It hadn't gone well. He just wanted to drink and ogle the bikini-clad nubiles that filled the pool and sunning areas every day. At one point, I said to him, calmly, without rancor, "I just wish you'd stop breathing."

I know. Ouch. Not a great look. When I got home, I started seeing the therapist, and she is the reason I'm writing to you here. Whoever the fuck you are. Probably no one. I doubt that I will share any of this, and I can't imagine anything about my life would be interesting enough for anyone else to read.

The past spring, I had visited an endocrine clinic, and the doctor had started me on a course of hormone replacement therapy (HRT). The timing was unfortunate, because it was clearly working just as I started this contract. The hormone levels back in the green zone, vaginal dryness, brain fog, irritability: all gone. Libido roaring back. I hadn't masturbated for several years, hadn't even considered it. Now I was sharing a 12' by 12' wall tent with another young woman, so had very little privacy, and I just wanted to touch myself all the time. Before the HRT kicked in, I honestly had never considered any of my coworkers as men, as romantic or sexual prospects. This summer, all of that changed. I even eyed the young safety officer, Clarissa, who was my tent mate. We didn't see much of each other, as I was on nights for most of the season and she was days. But. I noticed her. She was quite tall, maybe 5'-10", pretty, blonde, blue-eyed, and was rocking a lithe, athletic body. And she was young: 28.

Cross shift, tonight, was quick as we were still running the same downhole test on this borehole that we were last night, so we didn't have much to discuss with the day crew. In a few minutes the bird had taken off with dayshift and we were on our own.

I took my readings (temperature, depth, and pressure), and went for a hike with Sergio. We took a radio and bear spray, of course, and we came back, having enjoyed a handful of blueberries and the tiny cloud berries, in time for my next reading.

I elected to eat my meal then, around 20:00, devouring the bulk of what I had collected from the buffet. I then got my book and sat on a 20-liter bucket with my back against the wall of the drill shack. I would take hourly readings for the rest of the test, due to finish in the early morning.

DAY 43

Time passed until around 03:00, when we finished up our test. It was still light out at this latitude, but dim, and cloudy. Still flyable. We radioed dispatch, but learned that camp was completely socked in, so no flights out for the foreseeable. Most of the crew claimed cot space in the drill shack, which was warmed. DeVon caught my eye and subtly tipped his head, inviting me wordlessly to decamp to the survival hut. With him.

I hesitated. As previously mentioned, I was rabidly horny, and actually had hoped to claim the survival hut for myself, so that I could give myself some relief. Having DeVon provide relief was a ridiculously-appealing proposition, if proposition it was. I had never strayed. I had had countless opportunities as I was routinely the only woman in the travelers' lounge, in the hotel lobby, in the exploration camp, but I had never even considered so much as kissing another man. Was DeVon's silent invitation just politesse, his natural graciousness manifest? Or was the undercurrent of sexual energy that I felt mutually discernible?

Mentally, I slapped myself. I was "all up in my head," as they say. Lady, sometimes an offer to share a survival shack is just an offer to share a survival shack. Fucking get a grip. You're older than his mother. He doesn't look at you like a prospective lover just because you look at him with hungry eyes....

I subtly nodded, and DeVon and I drifted to the survival shack, much smaller and unheated, but plenty of room for the two cots that were still unclaimed.

As far as I knew, none of this crew had seen me without a hoody, parka, or at least my well-stocked field vest on, and anyway, I normally wore industrial-strength bras that are designed to hide and minimize, not...display. But today, under all of the safety gear, I had elected to just wear a black base layer, a second skin. Sexy, I suppose, in a cat suit-meets ninja, kind of way. I claimed a cot, aware of DeVon's presence behind me, and facing away, first pulled off my boots, then field vest, then my water proof bibs, then my fleece. I stripped down to just the thin layer of clingy lycra blend, and I felt naked. I made to slide into the sleeping bag liner, but DeVon said, conversationally, not threatening:

"Not so fast, there, partner."

A word about DeVon: He is crazy tall, NBA tall, and lean, with mahogany carved cheekbones. He's from Jackson, Missisppi, and his voice...well he could read me the phonebook and I would melt. A voice for radio, but a face for the sculpture room of the Nigerian National Gallery. He is so good-looking it's disconcerting. But also, so kind and gentle that he has become my favorite human at camp this season.

So, I sat up, my legs covered by the sleeping bag liner, and supported myself with my arms, my hands flat on the cot behind me. Maybe I arched my back a little. Presented my exaggerated profile. Lazily, I turned to look at him.

"What?" I drawled, all mock innocence.

"I think you're on the wrong bed. I think you'll find that this one is more to your liking. This one," he says...pausing for dramatic effect, "comes with a heating element...."

"Oh, does it now. Well, then where are YOU going to sleep?"

"I don't imagine there will be any sleeping, not for awhile."

He was proven to be right.

I extricated myself from my bedding and stepped over to his cot. I felt as though I was on display. He had plugged in the little halogen work light, and I was illuminated as though spotlit. I felt...shy, excited, uncertain, self-conscious. He was looking at me in a way that caused me to melt inside, heat furling up from my core, my legs threatening to give way. He held up his phone and took a picture of me.

As I mentioned, I had felt invisible at home, and in civilian life for a few years, and DeVon's avid attention, recording me with his phone...it made me feel seen, obviously, and though nothing explicit had been said, I felt appreciated, admired: wanted.

"Can you turn that light off?"

"But I want to see you."

"You can see enough. I'm not comfortable with the light on. It makes me feel too exposed. Self-conscious. On display. And, I don't want them"--indicating the rest of the crew--" to know we're still up and all...."

I looked at my feet, and nervously stammered, "And, I'm married, you know that right?" Holding up my left hand, ring displayed. "You are incredibly appealing, handsome and kind, But I'm not...I haven't been with anyone besides Warren, and we've been together for nearly 30 years."

"I...figured you were married. I saw your ring, I checked for that the first time I saw you. At the gate in Atlanta...."

"Wait, what? In Atlanta? We were on the same flight?"

"Yeah. I clocked you by the gate. I say: that a smart little MILF, right there. Reading the Economist and shit. Every other motherfucker there on they phone, I watch you for the whole time, you never even glance at your phone. You're reading...paper. I see the ring. I say 'Yeah she married, but not that married,' ya dig?"

"Because If I was really married, I would have been talking to my man? Doing that whole, before take-off boogie, selfies at the gate and shit?"

He snapped his fingers, then pointed at me: "You know."

"Fuckin' detective, hiding in the body of an underwear model."

He chuckled, "Awright, I just like to write stories for folks, you know. Like I see you, you got that dikey shaved haircut, but fuck that body, and I want to write your story...You intrigued me. Not just those tits you were doing your best to hide, not just that ass...It was the whole thing. I watch you get on...priority boarding of course, I see your look and I'm thinking Gucci, but you got a drybag for your carryon. I'm all 'Hold Up!'"

His banter worked to totally disarm me. I was flattered that he noticed me, and well, while he had been talking, he had been gently caressing me from the top of my butt to my shoulders, all along my spine. Which was remarkably yummy.

And he had turned the light off, so we could make out each other's profiles in the dimness, but no details.

Then, quietly he said, "I'm not asking you to break vows and shit. I just want to admire you. Let me take a pic of us."

I stood between his legs, his arm around my waist. He pulled me in tight and reached out to take the picture, using the flash this time.

He said, "I saw your lips were chapped, when we got in the backseat... here, let me..." and he carefully smeared Carmex on them, gently, delicately. The touch of his finger on my lips immediately caused my nipples to pucker and press against my top. With him sitting on the cot, and me standing between his legs, my breasts were at his eye level, He carefully enfolded me in one long, strong arm, and pulled me to him for another selfie.

Holding his phone up to me, he asked "Which one for the group?"

"What group?"

"Girl, keep up! This one: Jake just started it when we found out we weren't going home in the morning. Called 'Al and the lost boyz.'

"Well, not that one," I said, "it's too nipply. Better be that one...it looks like we're just in here, and not like I'm having an existential crisis."

"Ain't no crisis up in here. Only opportunities for entertainment. Points of entry for further advancement... And I like nipply."

I pushed his shoulder playfully, which was about like shoving a cliff. He was...solid. I stepped over to the other cot and went to fetch my phone.

I snorted, "Hah. I see."

The last post on the thread was titled, "Have you seen me? Missing since 03:15. With a picture of the two of us walking toward the survival hut.

"Jake has way too much time on his hands!"

He beckoned me back to him, then lifted me as though I was light as a pillow, draped my legs around his hips so that I was straddling him, and pulled me so that my lips met his.

The kiss, of course, was not merely the first extra-marital kiss that I had enjoyed, it wasn't just the first time I'd been kissed by a gorgeous young man, fully enfolded in his strong arms, pressed against his delicious chest...it was all that and more. In that moment, we had no control over when we would be able to escape this site. That knowledge, that uncertainty, intensified everything.