Ch 1 a flirtatious young man
"I hope so". Even as those three words slid out of my mouth I knew I'd stepped in it. A bare foot, softly sinking into a slippery silken pond. My inner libertine chafing to get out again. Oh no, she's still there.
We'd been talking about my house across town, that I might move into. I said my son lives in the garden flat out the back.
"You'll have boys visiting." My response above, given as a matter of fact admission of desire, a spontaneous and dead give away. Or maybe I gave it away long before.
When he arrived today, I was on the phone with a clearly male voice. It's always on speaker.
"Date night?" he asks, smiling, as I say good bye: "See you at 5:30 at the press club..."
"A friend," I say with a hint of amused indignation. "He's a friend, and he's married and his wife is my friend, too." My totally disingenuous claim to the moral high ground.
Over a few months his assistance in the garden has taken on a certain leering quality that frankly I found quite appealing. A tall and handsome footy and fitness fellow, earning a bit doing yard work while finishing year 12. I was on the brink of leaving a 27 year monogamous relationship that had become disrespectful and devoid of sex. I'd slipped into a sexual coma.
Heaven knows much of my past is incomprehensible to me now, but today showed that is all likely to resurface, already is.
I'd already accepted the nil hypothesis regarding the garden help. Who cares, the flirting alone put a bounce in my step and a smile on my face. Maybe he's not just kidding around.
His smile was always just a bit over friendly, happy to tackle whatever task I set him. Not always with great success, judging from his attack on the periwinkle. Reminded me that lust is like a weed, always popping up again, hardy and persistent.
Later I confide to my son, who fancies himself a grand strategist of sexual politics and a minor Lothario. He brought me back to earth with his disdain: "Mom, lots of people live with their delusions. He only wants you for your gardening work."
The few friends I told just referred to Lady Chatterley's Lover as a template. Politely agnostic but knowing my proclivities.
It was giggle territory for me, flattered and amused. As the fog of my sexual coma lifted I heard the distant call of sex. Bringing back memories of my wet pussy in Sydney that lasted days after some of the more outrageous encounters. Like the Newtown cemetery on a drizzly Saturday morning, with that wicked B but that's another story. Stirrings.
