My Gardener: A narrative from Ms. Gimply's collection
I didn't think about it at the time, but it turned out that he was old enough to make what we did legal. It was legal, that is, except for the adultery part, but no one seems to bother about that these days.
He was the younger brother of a college friend of my daughter, Mary. He was doing odd jobs for the Summer before he left to begin college in the Fall. Mary had recruited him to work one day a week -- Tuesdays -- in my garden. Our original plan was that she would be home that day to supervise him.
Of course the garden needed a lot of work. I had spent years landscaping, making paths, planting and tending our two-acre lot. But now my Multiple Sclerosis had progressed well beyond the stage where I could do any useful physical work. Mary helped as much as she could but she was busy with school. Her older brother was married and a long distance away. My husband was useless in this regard. (And in other regards as well.)
Now it was Tuesday and the gardener was here for the first time. I was alone when he arrived. Mary had been required to change her Summer school schedule at the last minute. She was off to a day long field course in surveying that was a requirement of her engineering program. She had promised to negotiate a different day for the gardener.
I had decided when I got up that morning that I was doing well enough to show him what to do. I was glad for that. I never knew what to expect. Some days I was almost immobile and spent long hours in bed. Other days I could even walk a bit with the help of my cane. I didn't do that much anymore because I was likely to fall. On this particular day, I found I could move fairly easily with my walker. I knew I could spend a little time in the garden as long as I was careful not to overexert myself.
As soon as he arrived, I sent him to the tool shed for a spade and a hoe. Then I followed, slowly and carefully, to meet him by the plot that needed to be turned over. The walkway down the gentle slope had steps to challenge me every six or eight feet. I saw him ahead of me with the garden tools in hand. He was watching me with a look of concern. He was tall and slender and very easy to look at.
"Don't worry," I told him as I negotiated the last step but one, "I'll get there eventually." He smiled at me for the first time.
I showed him where to turn over the earth and how deep to dig. I sat on a nearby bench and watched him for a few minutes to make sure he got it right. It was beginning to be a warm day and he was soon perspiring. He stopped to remove his tee shirt and to tie a rolled bandana around his head as a sweat band. Then, clad only in shorts and work boots he resumed. The muscles in his back flexed and rippled as he shoveled with an easy rhythm. His body was tanned in all the places that showed. It was difficult not to stare. I vaguely wondered whether he was tanned in the places that were still covered.
I was getting tired. I held the walker and lifted myself to my feet. I interrupted him to give him instructions for weeding a nearby perennial bed. Then I left him to his work and retraced my steps up the path. I made it over the first three steps without incident. But on the next one I lifted my walker and raised my right foot to follow. Then my right leg refused to lift me. I lowered it again and tried to raise the left instead. It refused to move. I was stranded.
Then I sensed him standing behind me. "Let me help," he said with a gentle voice.
"Just lift me a little when I ask," I told him. My right foot went up again and I signaled him. His hands were under my arms and lifting and then I was up the step. I imagined what his muscles looked like as he lifted. I anticipated the next step. We reached the top without incident. I was even sorry we got there. He offered to walk with me.
"No," I told him, "I'll be fine now. You can get on with your work. You'll find me by the pool when you're done." I calculated that he would finish in about an hour and a half.
I made my way along the level walk to the pool. I sat down (harder than I wanted to) on the oversized chaise in the shade of the ornamental crabapple tree. I laid back on it and my sense of relief was immediate. I needed the rest.
After a while I began to eye the pool. I loved the water. It was cooling on hot Summer days and the water supported me and nullified the cruel pull of gravity. I didn't dare to try to get in and out of the pool by myself. I needed Mary to help me. Our pool and garden were so completely private that we never wore bathing suits. The feel of the water on my naked body was deliciously sensual.
Since my MS came on, I have had to relearn about sensuality and sexuality. When I was young, arousal and orgasms came easily and quickly. My husband and I would go at it several times a week. Other times I would masturbate to climax with rapid movements. But sex had never been long and languorous. It had never been really sensual. To say it crudely, our sex life had been just humping and rutting for quick physical relief.
Of course, He didn't relearn sensuality with me. He simply pulled away as my illness took its effect. I was sure that he had another woman, probably one of his secretaries. I found that I wasn't jealous and that I didn't even care. I explored my body's responses by myself.
As I reviewed the past, I worked my hands under my tee shirt and found the clasp on the front of my bra. (The ones that fasten in the back are too much work for me anymore.) It opened and the cups fell away. My left hand went to my right nipple. I was not surprised to find it hard and extended and pleasant to touch.
As I slowly fondled and stroked I thought of my babies all those years ago. I had now finally figured out that nursing them had been the only really sensual experience I ever had. I felt that at the time but didn't have the words and the ideas to express it. Now I realized how sensual the long lazy afternoons of suckling, dozing, inspecting their tiny bodies and endlessly counting fingers and toes had been.
Now, I had learned to recapture that sensuality. I simply explored my body and discovered what felt good. I had learned to have no expectations. My new attitude was that whatever happened or didn't happen was fine. Sometimes I would have an orgasm. Usually it was gentle but once in a while it was like the old days. I welcomed whatever came.
As I stroked my nipple, my other hand slid inside the elastic band of my shorts continued into my panties and I began to play with my pubic hair. In the old days I would have gone directly between the folds and moved quickly to climax. The new me was content just to tug and curl and fondle and to expect nothing.
Through half closed eyes, I watched the reflections from the pool play on the leaves above me. They conjured up visions of his muscles as he shoveled. I daydreamed about babies and about the feel of his hands as he lifted me up the steps. I thought about swimming in the pool. I drifted in and out of sleep.
