From the kitchen window in my little white house on the hill, as I fondly refer to it, I could see the bounty from my handiwork spanning across my isolated backyard. On one side, my flower garden stretched like a colorful patchwork quilt along the six-foot-tall white picket fence all the way back to the towering oak tree in the far corner. There, a new wooden swing hung from one of the thick branches above a large patch of soft green grass that I even managed to get to grow close to the tree's big roots that stretch like a spider's legs from its massive trunk. This is my new spot to spend time admiring my flowers in the shade after several hours of work clearing weeds and giving loving touches and words of encouragement to my flower friends.
Across the back of the property line and up the other side is my vegetable garden full of different lettuces including romaine, red leaf, iceberg, manoa and butter flowing into my large spinach section; next is my underground garden of carrots, radishes, beets, parsnips and rutabagas; followed by my varieties of heirloom tomatoes and eggplant that add a splash of color to the sea of mostly green.
The vegetable garden is sectioned off with mobile barricades of chicken wire fencing to protect it from animal invaders. Tucked into the woods with no border fence along the rear and west side of the property, my home has one neighbor on the east side of the tall white picket fence while the rest of the yard lies unprotected offering a garden buffet for wildlife visitors. The chicken wire, although not pleasing to look at, helps protect what I need while allowing me to sometimes open sections to share with my furry and feathery neighbors.
As I scooped up the last of the pile of food waste for the compost pile from the sink, the thought crossed my mind to paint the chicken wire different colors so beautiful hues stretch all the way across my yard from the already vibrant flower garden to the mostly green vegetable garden for a balanced aesthetic view. I laughed out loud as I realize the impact my recent obsession of looking at books of eighteenth-century paintings is having on my thoughts. Also, it seemed silly to fix this view just for me. I am the only one who sees it. My one lone neighbor up on this hill has vacated her house for a nine-month sabbatical to work on her research project in Canada. I have not invited any of my old crew of friends or family to my new house yet, and I do not get out enough to make new friends. Even considering either of these has only recently crossed my mind.
When I somewhat "ran away," as some people have decided to call it, a little over two years ago, it was isolation that I desperately craved. I abandoned city life, walking away from a well-paid corporate climbing job, a long stressful daily commute and a busy life full of countless social engagements including an actual real engagement to what felt like the wrong person and the wrong life. Everyone thought I was crazy, so it seemed fitting to just cut them off as to not give them fuel for their gossip fire. In the end, I felt peace, and when I googled "how do you lower your stress," it said gardening promotes recovery from mental fatigue, and I definitely had a severe case of mental fatigue.
With my compost bucket remnants from dinner in hand, I headed outside to enjoy the garden. When I passed through the mudroom, I saw my work clothes from earlier hanging with the afternoon's sweat still drying. "Yuck," I muttered out loud to myself. Well, no reason to get another pair of clothes dirty. If I live alone on this hill, I might as well enjoy the full benefits of it, I thought to myself and surprised myself with such a daring thought.
I plopped down the compost bucket, slipped off my sweatshirt and unzipped and let my shorts drop to the floor, stepping carefully out of them. Now, standing in a bra and panties, I remembered the eighteenth-century paintings from my art book of beautiful women lounging peacefully and gracefully in their lovely gardens. Not sure if it was artists' vision, the fact they were often nymphs and goddesses or that, in that time and place, the curves and rolls of a woman's body were celebrated, but I admired how those women looked so confident, royale and comfortable in their own skin. I wanted to feel that way! Why shouldn't I! I reached around and undid my bra, slid down my panties, tossed them to the side, held my chin up with confidence, bent down to grab the compost bucket and marched bravely out the back door. The cat didn't seem amused.
The cool evening air enveloped my naked body as I walked into my backyard clandestine paradise. It felt good to know I created this space— my very own painting come to life. I emptied my bucket into the compost pile and reached for a hose to wash it out. Why I hadn't walked out here naked before? Nobody was around to be bothered by it, and I felt beautiful like the pale, curvy goddesses, nymphs, and cherubs that filled the pages of my art books. With nothing but my long tresses of hair flowing down my back and over the top of my breasts, I walked barefoot and carefully over to my flower garden spanning the beauty of the rose-mallow hibiscus in red, pink and white; the purple wave petunias in pinks and lilac; the profusion zinnia varieties in cherry, gold, white and orangish red; the day-lilies with golden-yellow blossoms; and the lacy delicate white petals of the evergreen candytuft.
As I wandered toward my oak tree, I ran my hand along the white picket fence, which as my let my long auburn hair drag across the soft grass. I felt so vulnerable and free-swinging naked in my garden. My mind wandered to one of my favorite paintings in my book that graced some castle in Germany. It was of Antheia the flower goddess seducing Ares the god of war in her garden while cupid drug off and hid Ares's weapons in hopes of bringing peace and stopping all future wars. I desperately wanted Ares to wander into my garden. I felt a tingle run through my body, and a moistness begin to form between my legs. I pushed off to swing again, spreading my legs open and letting my vagina open like a blooming flower, and I felt the cool air soothe the ache between my thighs.
Overwhelmed with pleasurable feelings, I vacated the swing to lie in the soft grass and lean against the big oak tree pretending my body was pressed back against Ares smooth, strong body. "Ahhhoooooooooo," I moaned out loud as I took my hands and began to touch my breasts pretending he was wrapping his strong arms around me and cupping my breasts in his large hands rubbing them in circles over and over, kissing my neck softly in my mind and rolling my hard nipples between his fingers. I reached up with one arm and wrapped it around the tree trunk which felt like Ares strong body while taking my other hand and slowly moving down the contours of my body to the warm, moist area between my shaking legs.
As my fingers began to stroke my soft, wet vagina, I pulled my knees up and arched my back. Ares was now in front of me and bent down to kiss me passionately on my thigh, slowly moving up to my eager pussy. His strong tongue was stroking me, circling around and around, then pushing deeper and deeper. All of a sudden, I realized that I was touching myself, and I felt Ares was watching me. He was standing in my garden, giving me a lustful gaze as my legs were spread open, and my fingers moved in a circular motion over and over. My mind wandered from the blooming life of the garden to Ares strong, vigorous manhood to my body stretched out, open, bold, and beautiful on the soft, green grass. I felt myself reach orgasm and I relentlessly kept rhythmically stroking until I was sure it was finished, released a deep moan and sigh of pure relief and rolled over onto my side, curling up like a sleeping cat.
Was I dreaming? Within the usual array of sounds from wind, bugs, and birds, I thought I heard a door slam. I sat up quickly and looked around. I saw movement to the right like a shadow moving on the other side of the white picket fence. Impossible! My one and only neighbor had closed up her property while on sabbatical, and it wasn't the second Tuesday of the month when a company came to clean and service her pool. I know the one day a month that someone invades my hilltop retreat other than bi-monthly garbage and recycling pick-up. I certainly wouldn't be turning my backyard into a nudist camp if it was the second Tuesday of the month. It was the third Sunday and dusk.
I tiptoed over to the fence, and there he was. That definitely was not Alice, my neighbor. He was a large man, not slender and not fat. He was defined but did not have muscles manufactured in a gym. It was all natural. He was dressed in jeans and t-shirt and had shoulder-length, thick sandy blonde hair. Like on cue, he reached down and pulled off his t-shirt, and my eyes widened. His chest was just slightly hairy with same sandy blonde hair that covered his head, and I wished I was close enough to touch it and run my hand down his stomach to investigate where it went.
I licked my dry lips as he leaned back getting comfortable on the light blue chaise lounge lawn chair. Who is this? I wonder if he broke in to use her beautiful pool. I had certainly thought many times about doing that very thing myself— climbing the fence to jump in that sparkling cool pool on many a hot summer day after my exhausting garden work. He could be a gorgeous pool thief or simply another figment of my imagination. I was just masturbating and imagining the tree was a tall, dark man. If he was a criminal, he certainly was a cautious one. He was carefully applying generous amounts of suntan lotion on his chest and neck and then leaned forward to try and apply it to his back. Ohhhh. I could help with that. I then realized that I was standing in my own yard naked spying on this possibly innocent man.
Suddenly, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. He seemed to have lost something and kept reaching and feeling around in his pocket. Then, I figured it out, and it certainly wasn't lost. In fact, it was becoming more visible through his pants even from this distance. I wanted to yell, "yes, pull it out" but didn't want to startle him— he might not have appreciated being watched. He closed his eyes, laid his head back, and looked as though he might fall asleep. I was disappointed when he slipped his hand out of his pocket.
