There are certain things that I think we all take for granted, at least for some time in our lives. Well, I had one of those things taken from me, and it wasn't fun, except for what Ginnie brought to me. Let me explain.
I live in a large city, and in a large apartment building with many tenants on each floor. So what we trade off for volume, we get some amenities. It is a nice building with kept grounds, indoor parking, and security. That's important to many of us the this growing climate of danger of being shot at the next office, post office, school yard, etc.
So I had been living at this apartment for a couple years, and began to recognize some faces after a while. Most people are personable, and nod and smile in the elevator or at the front door. And so it often takes a while for new people to make an impression, because the are quite a few people around the grounds.
But I noticed Ginnie right away. I knew through the grapevine that there was a vacancy on our floor, and that a single lady was moving in. Small town life gets nosy sometimes. And later I saw a moving truck with movers carrying boxes and furniture to the newly rented apartment on our floor. I was home that day, and offered to help the new tenant, and introduced myself to her.
She was about late 40's, but looked quite a bit younger. She was about 5'6", dark brown hair, and obviously took care of her body. She had impeccable clothes, a lithe figure that was highlighted by the taste in clothing that was in good taste in spite of the hassles of moving. But I suppose what got me going from the start was her accent. She was English. Her accent was a beautiful one of breeding, and not cockney, which is charming too. But somehow, on her, she sounded incredible. She introduced herself as Ginnie, short for Virginia.
"Everyone calls me Ginnie," she said with a smile. I was done. Something about the combination of her looks and her smile, and that accent were just the right combination for me to set my imagination going. Sometimes you really cannot explain the things that set off your inner attraction. But with her, it was the whole package.
I spent some time in England during college, and had dated a few English women. So there was this accent thing I had. Also, I had always been attracted to older women. I liked the experience they brought to a relationship, and how there was frequently less game playing because they knew what the wanted from their relationships. When I was in college, I dated older women. When I was out of college, I dated women 6+ years my senior. It was my destiny, I suppose. So I was sort of smitten from the beginning. I did not know a thing about her circumstances, and why she was single, and why she was in this country, and why she was in this building, etc. But I sure wanted to find out.
I am in my mid 20's, and do a lot of traveling for my work, and so for a while, I am not around for periods of time. Then I have blocks of time off where I am not really working a regular schedule, and can do some things that I like to do. It sort of balances itself out after a while.
Over the next few weeks, I saw Ginnie here and there, and we became casual friends. I tried to offer my help with local things, where to shop, where to fix the car, where to go to eat, etc. So Ginnie would call me every so often for little things, and we would run into each other at some errand places (because she ended up going where I recommended, see). There was nothing forced about things, perhaps our age difference made things not so threatening, or plausible. We had dinners together once or twice a week, and occasionally we would do fun things together on the weekends when I was in town. I began to learn more and more about her, and why she was at this point in her life.
It turns out she is actually 52, and widowed for about 3 years. Her husband of 20+ years died from a work-related accident, and she had always wanted to live in the United States. So after her period of mourning, she had substantial means from her late husband's estate and insurance and she decided to move closer to her cousin who lives in the same city. After a couple weeks staying with her and her family, she stumbled on the apartment in this building, and she was trying to build a new life for herself.
She would get rather quiet when she spoke of her late husband. The had two grown children, now out of the house and in college in the States too, so all the more reason to come abroad. Her prior occupation was in nursing, but that was may years ago she said, before children. That was how she met her husband. I didn't pry for information. It sort of came out gradually with our conversations over this topic and that. I got the feeling she was still sort of mourning, and I didn't want to open cans that weren't meant to be opened. At least not yet for her. She offered information, and I listened.
So she spent her days learning her way around the city, and arranging her affairs about the apartment, which she decorated quite tastefully. She had much nice furniture from England, and her taste in decorating was impeccable. She was also into aerobics, and was an avid member of the nearby gym. Time was her friend, and she seemed to be happy in her new life.
Then things for me changed. One of those things I took for granted was my health. I was always healthy, never injured, and never had to see a doctor about anything. Then a couple months ago everything changed. I was helping a friend with some painting on a house he was renovating with his wife, and one of the air compressors we were using for painting exploded when we were cleaning it, and severely injured my hands. Both hands suffered burns to the forearm on me, and my friend had much more minor scrapes from the accident. I however, ended up in the hospital for weeks, undergoing several surgeries for corrective surgery, skin grafting and rehabilitation. I knew my overall picture was lucky. I had no other major injuries. But losing the use of your hands makes one so dependent on others, from eating, to driving to wiping your own ass. Not easy, and very humbling. But I was recovering and Ginnie was among my best friends during my recovery. She was visiting me in the hospital, helping me understand the doctor talk from her experience in nursing, and helping me take care of my life and my apartment while I was in the hospital.
So pretty soon, I was transferred to a rehab section of the hospital for more aggressive therapy and for preparation for discharge. A social worker was given my case, and told me I would probably need a home care nurse for my dressing changes, and for other things like meals and bathing for the next couple weeks, at least that's what the doctors thought. Then when I told Ginnie of the good news of my release, she said in her own proper way, that she would hear nothing of the sort. She had nursing skills, and though they were rusty, she still remembered how to change dressings, and do the bathing, etc. She can be very convincing, and she convinced the staff that she was capable and learned what to do in the hospital, and that the insurance company could save some money. She agreed to bring me in for weekly rechecks and outpatient therapy, and she would be happy to help me out, as I was helpful to her in her move to this city.
I was sort of embarrassed at my situation, but certainly enjoyed and appreciated Ginnie's offer, that I just let the chips fall. So after 3 weeks in the hospital, I was finally released to home, under Ginnie's care. She had all the supplies and instructions, and had taken great care of my apartment in my absence. It actually looked better than when I left because everything was clean and even arranged a little better, with some of her taste here and there. I told her immediately how much I appreciated her help and that I thought the changes she made were quite wonderful.
We sort of settled in to our routine of Ginnie coming over in the morning for the am dressing change, and she would make some food for the day. I began to be able to at least feed myself, and she didn't need to be around all day. She said she actually liked having someone else to take care of, after her husband died and the children were out of the house. She genuinely enjoyed helping me and I truly depended on her. She was able to still have her life, and I didn't want to be a leach or a pest. I didn't ask for much that she didn't already plan on doing. I can get be pretty well with a couple sandwiches and the remote control.
As my life started getting back to normal, and I wasn't needing so much medicine, and things weren't hurting all the time, I began to realize that other natural urges had not been satisfied in more than a month. That's a long time for me. If I'm not involved with someone romantically, I usually have a date with the right hand daily. I just need the relief and have the urges at least that often. The bandages were no easy matter in this regard either. I was at a loss, because I was beginning to feel some urgency in not having had an orgasm in so long, and no solution in the immediate future.
I had to be a little more discreet in the evenings when Ginnie would help me into the shower. Our routine was that at first she would use a wet washcloth and sponge me off, leaving my crotch covered with a towel, and then just at the end, quickly lift the towel too gently bathe my genital area. Over the last few days, I began to eagerly anticipate the quick, but knowing few seconds of attention to my deprived groin, and I began to get an erection just as we started the routine. So by the time she got to bathe my cock and balls, I was quite fully erect.
