Meet Nancy
Let us say my name is Nancy. It is not my real name as I wish this story to be anonymous for reasons that will become obvious.
I was the wife of a minister of religion, Michael, and I had been married to him for six years when the events I am about to relate began.
I was a virgin bride, which, although unusual by today's standards, was I suppose proper for a clergyman's wife. Michael and I had "played around" during the two years of our engagement. He would use his fingers on my vagina and occasionally was able to give me an orgasm. I in turn would rub his penis until he discharged his sperm. Never did we attempt penetration of my vagina.
The early part of our marriage held promise of passion, but after about eighteen months, Michael gradually lost interest. From about three or four times a week sexual intercourse became once a week, then slowly fell away to about once a month, if that.
Michael was appointed as Vicar of a large country town. As time went on he was more and more involved with meetings, committees, and often had to attend seminars, synods, and conferences, some of which took him away from home for a week or more. He was also very popular in the parish, exercising compassionate pastoral care, fine preaching, and always alive with new ideas. In short, Michael was a well thought of man.
I assumed that all this activity on Michael's part had something to do with the collapse of our sex life. I was twenty-seven at the time of the first "event," and still extremely virile sexually. To try to relieve the sexual tensions I experienced I had to masturbate frequently – an activity no doubt frowned upon by the Church.
My days were taken up with organising fetes, bazaars, bring-and-buy stalls, Sunday School and similar non-exciting activities. I loved Michael, but as I saw the years stretching before me, I had a feeling of dread. Was this to be my life? Forever organising these activities and left day after day without fulfillment of my sexual needs?
It Begins
Our house was set alongside the church. It was spacious, with a large garden. Michael had little time for gardening and it was too large for me to handle on my own. To overcome this we employed a young fellow whom started helping out when he was about fourteen. We paid him for his work, which I suppose added to his pocket money. His name was David and he mowed the lawns, weeded and did other odd gardening jobs.
I would often be working in the garden at the time he was working. He was a nice boy, polite and a little shy. He would rarely speak unless spoken to. He was nice looking with a sunbeam smile and light brown hair cut in a somewhat conservative style. When he finished his work, I would often invite him in for a drink. I would try to overcome his reticence with the usual adult ploys of, "How's school," "How are your parents," and so on. He would answer the questions, but no more. He would simply sit and watch me at whatever I happened to be doing, and when he had finished his drink, bid me goodbye and depart.
Time passed and David had been helping out for four years. He had taken over more and more of the garden, and we found we could leave him without supervision to get on with it. Then one rather hot day David had finished his jobs and, as usual, I asked him to come in for a drink.
We sat at the kitchen table with our drinks, and I tried to make conversation. This time I came up with a question I had never asked before – "Do you have a girlfriend?" He tensed for a moment, then looked away and said "No."
I thought it odd that such a nice looking boy should not have a girlfriend, so I pursued the matter. "Don't you like girls?" Still not looking at me he said, "I suppose they're all right." "That's not very flattering to me," I chuckled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude," he mumbled. Still thoughtlessly pursuing the matter I went on, "Wouldn't you like a girlfriend?"
It was then that I noticed something that distressed me. There were tears in David's eyes. Embarrassed I asked if I said something to upset him. He said I hadn't, but there were still the tears. "What is it, David?" I asked.
He sat staring into space for about two minutes, then said, "It's silly really, and I don't think you'd be interested." I assured him that I would be interested if he cared to tell me what was distressing him. "After all," I said, "What are friends for if not to listen to each other's problems, and help if they can. So if you want to, tell me."
Again, he paused, making up his mind whether to say anything or not. Then as if something had been released inside him, speaking rapidly he said, "I don't have a girlfriend because girls don't like me."
My protest broke out before I could stop it: "That's ridiculous. A nice looking boy like you…" I stopped and looked at him. When you have known someone for several years and see them regularly, you hardly notice the changes that have taken place in them. I suppose I still had the picture of David when he first came to us as a boy, in my head. Now, as I looked at him, I saw the truth of my words. He was all of six foot and probably still a little growing to do. The promise of good looks was being fulfilled. There was none of the pimples and pockmarks suffered by so many in youth, and he was well muscled for his age. Every girl in the town should have been pursuing him.
He looked at me and murmured, I don't think it's got anything to do with looks, good or otherwise." Quite a long speech for David! I felt myself impelled to ask, "What has it got to do with, David?" In the same low voice he responded, "It's just me. I think I'm different somehow." "How different?" "I like different things." "Tell me."
"Well," he began hesitantly, "I don't like the same music they like, I don't care for their dances and I don't like the dirty conversation and swearing a lot of the girls use now. They seem grotty and slutty somehow. They seem ready to have sex with anyone – they don't care – they don't have any self-respect."
"But they can't all be like that," I protested. "The ones I meet around here seem to be," he replied.
I was at a loss for a moment. I was very aware of how young and not so young people, behaved sexually these days, but here was a young man looking for something different. I thought I might get him to open further so I asked, "What sort of music do you like?" "I suppose you'd call it 'classical,'" he said. I could see the problem. The town in which we lived did not seem to possess a very large population of classical music lovers.
"They make fun of me about it, and the fact that I love art and drama," he went on.
Yes, it could be very lonely for him I could see that. He now began to talk as he never had before, explaining how much he wanted to share his interests with someone, male or female. How sharing them added to the pleasure. All this I understood. At one time, Michael and I shared these things, but now Michael was always too busy. The women I met through my activities were more concerned to talk about the latest sit-com on television than anything else. I could sympathise with David in his cultural dilemma.
I said to him, "I love classical music as well." "Yes, I know," he said, "I've heard you playing some of your CD's when I've been working in the garden."
I told him of my wish to share this with someone, and how difficult it was in our town. I then said carefully, "Do you think you could share with an old lady like me?"
"Your not really old," he said, and smiled for the first time. "Not more than thirty," he added. Not very flattering since I was only twenty-seven, but I let it pass, returning his smile.
So, it was agreed. Next day David would bring one of his CD's to play, and I would choose one of mine, and we would make an afternoon of it. It was Saturday and Michael was away on one of his interminable seminars, so there was no one to disturb in the house.
A New Factor Arises
As arranged, David arrived promptly at 1 p.m. with his CD. We went into the lounge and began with his music. It was Shostokovitch's 8th Symphony. A bit too ferocious and noisy for my taste, but we sat on the sofa together speaking little except to comment occasionally and briefly on particular passages. When the symphony came to an end, I ascertained that David's liked an occasional glass of wine, so we sat for a while sipping white wine.
I then played my CD that was a Bach concerto. This time there were no comments. David sat in wrapped silence. When the work finished David let out a long sigh and said, "That was beautiful." He then added in a low whisper that seemed almost forced from him, "Like you."
I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hear that remark, and in anycase, I was too startled to respond. Michael, during our courting days, had paid me all sorts of compliments, but never had he called me beautiful. And now here was an eighteen-year old boy – young man – paying me the compliment many women long to hear.
So ignoring the remark, I invited David to have another glass of wine. He assented, and in the now growing darkness of evening, we sat chatting about the music we had heard and about other pieces we might share in the future.
David had now loosened up considerably – perhaps it was the wine or maybe a growing confidence in my company. I decided to extend our time together, and asked if he would like to stay to dinner. He accepted with gratitude, as his parents were away for the weekend, and he would have to prepare his own meal if he went home.
I put together a meal of sliced ham and salad and opened a bottle of red wine. Perhaps the red wine was a mistake. As the meal progressed David got increasingly voluble, talking about the music and paintings he admired, and how he used the money he earned doing our gardening to buy CD's and books. His manner was such as to make me feel that what he was saying was a cover-up for something else he wanted to say.
Finally, after about his third glass of wine, out it came. His precise words now escape me, but it poured out something like this, "There's something I want to say to you – I know you'll hate me and never want to see me again – but I've got to say it. If ever I have a girl friend, I want her to be like you. Ever since I started to do your gardening, I've lo…admired you…I've wanted to …be near you. I've…You're lovely…so beautiful and kind, and…" He stammered to a stop.
I was dumfounded. What I had just heard was a declaration of love. It couldn't be interpreted any other way. But what sort of love? A boy's or a man's?
David rose from the table and muttered, "I'd better go." He started to leave, but my female ego made me stop him. "No don't go yet," I cried. "Let's talk about this. We can go back to the lounge and be comfortable."
