The ‘Bon Iver Erotic Stories’ tumblr. I’ve already done a blog post, but this is so perfect I couldn’t resist.
Excerpt: “Bon Iver warms the house with baking today. He visits me in my workroom with a heart-shaped sour cherry hand pie made from our preserves. We eat it standing up. It tastes like sunny summer. Our mouths are stained red and the floor is carpeted with flakes of his good buttery crust.
‘This pie is like our love,’ he muses.
I laugh and pluck a bit of pie out of his beard. ‘Tell me more,’ I say, kissing him.
He sighs happily and rubs his belly. ‘It’s warm, and we both like it.’
And as usual, I marvel at the power and simplicity of his words.“
While never actually erotic, these short blurbs paint Bon Iver as the epitome of Manic-Pixie-Dream boy. Rather than leaning toward the nerdy, as Parks & Rec’s MPD boy does, Bon Iver is painted as an emotional, sensitive artist whose ‘nerdiness’ is perhaps his quirky and sweet love of nature and farming. This imaginary Bon Iver is, of course, kind, gentle, entirely devoted to taking care of you (the love interest) and aware of your every need before you are. What’s more, he’s just as devoted to all of the fuzzy little bunnies and cutesy farm animals that you two, of course, have in abundance. He’s so sensitive, artistic, and earnestly caring that he needs you
“The valley below is full of good Christmas tree prospects, but Bon Iver must inspect them all. His footprints zig and zag from pine to spruce, and he fingers the greenery, sniffs the trunks and performs careful (unscientific) triangulation calculations to determine height and breadth.
My thermos of peppermint cocoa is dangerously low, and my feet are cold.
‘They all seem like good candidates,’ I say, somewhat exasperatedly. But his frustration appears to be worse than mine.
‘That’s the problem!” he says. ‘I want to give them all a home!’“
“‘Do you think you might come out today?’ I ask. I reach for the curtains and pull them open to show Bon Iver that the day outside is brilliant.
He removes his headphones and squints into the light pouring through the window, illuminating millions of dust particles. He shakes his head.
I take some sandwich dishes and begin to retreat, but he captures my by the wrist.
‘Baby,’ he says, and his voice is broken but warm. ‘I know it’s hard for you when I have to stay in here, but I have to stay until I’ve written a song that’s worthy of the light that warms the earth out there, that’s worthy of the lighted earth that you walk on, my angel.’
And he picks up his kazoo and honks a tune that I think, privately, may not yet be worthy of the sun and earth.”