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发表于 2020-8-13 23:46:47
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完结撒花！
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I. Anticipating and Remembering
It was a beautiful afternoon in late October. The sun was still far above the horizon. I laughed at myself for being ready so early. Was I becoming overly eager in my old age? No, I assured myself, I had been just as eager when I was young.
I had spent the earlier part of the afternoon preparing a light supper for two of us, seeing to the table setting and putting the wine by the cool window on the north side to reach the proper temperature for serving.
Then I bathed and did my hair and nails. I spent a long time selecting the right underwear. Then I donned the robe that now was loosely open in front of me.
Now, I had nothing to do but wait. With no particular plan, I pulled an old photo album from the shelf. As I thumbed through it, my eye was caught by the group picture from our church picnic. A moment's reflection reminded me that it had been in the late Spring of 1969.
My eyes were drawn immediately to our pastor. His picture showed him as a bit stiff and dressed more formally that the rest of us. His was the only necktie in the group accept, of course, the one worn by old Deacon Grimsby. On impulse, I took up a pad of paper and a pen and began to write these words.
The pastor in the picture was young and, in spite of his attire, was trim and handsome. He had a kind of curious magnetism that thrilled me still. He had been my first lover.
Then my eyes went to myself. I had been thirty years old then. The picture made me look young and even pretty. I was young and pretty at least until it came to my wasted legs with braces and orthopedic shoes. My crutches were at my side and I had tried unsuccessfully to make them inconspicuous. My first reaction was to be thankful that now we have materials to make braces lighter and less conspicuous and that we can get shoes that if not stylish, at least do not look like they were intentionally designed to be ugly. Of course, I rarely use braces any more as I rely more and more on my wheelchair.
II. Being a Girl and Becoming a Woman
My next reaction was to relive the hurt and pain of my teenage years and of my young womanhood. Life had been good when I was a young girl. Other children didn't seem to mind that I was different and couldn't keep up with them. And, besides, I got to have my picture in the local paper every year when the March of Dimes time came around. I was never one of the big time polio poster children, but everyone in our little town seemed to know me.
But my teenage years were torture. I became interested in boys just like the other girls did. I had crushes that consumed me. But the boys never reciprocated. Even worse, the other girls never recognized that I was just like them. Many of my friends brought their boy problems to me as if I was a neutral, sexless, passionless oracle. Of course, I listened and gave them advice and swallowed my pain.
I was never a cheerleader. But, of course, I was expected to volunteer to sew the cheerleaders' uniforms. I was never asked to a dance. Instead, I served behind the punch table. I couldn't have danced much anyway but it hurt to watch all the other girls being held close in the boys' arms.
Eventually high school ended. I graduated with honors. As I walked slowly across the stage to receive my diploma, my classmates and the audience broke into applause and spontaneously stood. My eyes filled with tears, but not for the reasons they thought. They saw a poor, brave, crippled girl who had overcome her adversities to accomplish the feat of completing high school.
I'm sure that made them feel warm and wonderful. Probably some of them had sentimental tears. But I cried because none of them really knew who I was. They couldn't see that I was a real girl who wanted and needed everything the other girls had.
Then, I was a woman, I guess. I filled my life with church and volunteering at the library. Our extended family had agreed (to be fair, I had agreed, too) that I would be the one to take care of Gran and live in her house and eventually inherit it. Gran was getting a bit dotty in her old age. She had started to burn the food and to forget to pay the bills. The family feared that she would leave the stove on and burn down the house or have some other some other kind of senile misadventure. Of course, the neutral, sexless, passionless, and crippled sister, cousin and niece was the ideal solution.
I really didn't mind. I loved Gran and I liked her even more. She could tell stories of things that happened long ago and could even be quite earthy when the story required it. Her house had two stories connected by a great Victorian stairway. The stairs were a drawback but if I planned well, I could limit my traverses to coming down once a day in the morning and then returning in the evening.
We did have a cleaning lady who came in three days a week. That was cantankerous old Mrs. Fogg. I was almost twenty-five years old before I was told about the absent Mr. Fogg. In our town, children were protected from this kind of knowledge. Gran told me that Mr. Fogg was a drummer. (Perhaps my younger readers must be reminded that a traveling salesman was called a drummer.). He had come through town selling widgets of some sort. He and Mrs. Fogg had a whirlwind courtship and were married within a week of their meeting. Two weeks later he was gone, never to be seen again. Dear Gran ended her narration with some especially earthy remarks that I will not repeat here.
In spite of her grumpy disposition, I always liked Mrs. Fogg, especially after Gran told me her story. At least she had ventured into life. She knew something about passion and love even if it hadn't worked out for her.
I continued at the library and at the church. I read stories to the children on Saturday mornings. I was on duty at all the rummage sales, bake sales and church suppers. It was much the same as high school except for not having to face all the embracing boys and girls. Then things changed again. Marriages began.
I was never a bridesmaid. It wouldn't have been seemly for me to be seen crutching and creaking down the aisle with the able-bodied women. I understood that but it did not ease the hurt. It was even more painful when they came to me in a panic for last minute alterations to their dresses. Of course, I was at all the receptions to serve refreshments and to watch the guests and the wedding party dancing.
I was never a bride. When my friends were marrying, I desperately wanted a husband. When they soon had babies, I was desperate for children. But, after a few years, my friends began to confess their problems to me. I seemed still to be a neutral, sexless, passionless oracle. I heard stories of infidelity, drink, domestic violence and the loss of love. It did not take long to be convinced that I did not want a husband.
It was more difficult to convince myself that I did not need to have children. But, I gradually accumulated a collection of nieces, nephews and young cousins. They all seemed to love their Auntie unconditionally and I reciprocated. They needed me and I needed them. Gradually, I understood that I didn't need to produce more children myself to be connected with the oncoming generations.
So I was liberated when I was almost thirty years old. Well, I was liberated from needing a husband and children but issues remained. My last desperation was for a lover. I wanted a man to hold me and to lie in my bed.
These days, you can read that we had a sexual revolution in the sixties. Even if we did, the revolution did not reach our town. At least it did not reach us by way of the written word. Ms magazine proclaimed the sexuality of women in 1972. Cosmo came on at about that time, too. Masters and Johnson published their research in the seventies.
I explored marriage manuals from the fifties and before. They were not very helpful. A few books kept in the locked room at the library were of use. But generally information was scarce.
Instead, I took matters into my own hands. I mean that quite literally. I experimented with pleasuring myself. I liked to lie naked on my bed at night and caress every part of my body. My breasts were particularly sensitive as were my thighs. I would slowly let one hand slip between my legs. At first I would let one finger slip into my vagina and explore the sensations there. It made me feel wonderfully full. As I gained experience, I began to use two fingers and then even three. The feeling of fullness put me into a dreamy ecstasy when I imagined that my lover was there.
But the fullness was not fulfillment. But when I explored further, I found my clitoris. Of course, I didn't know the name for it then. I didn't know the names of most things sexual until a few years later. But even without a name to call it I was fascinated by this bit of tissue that grew and contracted as if it had a mind of its own. I always found it hard and swollen after I had explored and stimulated my vagina.
One night I simply began to stroke my clitoris with a finger. I remember the evening vividly. It was warm and I had opened the window wide. I had drawn the curtains back as far as they would go to admit what little breeze there was. The moon was full and shining in.
I lay uncovered and naked on my bed. My body seemed to glow in the pale yellow light and to radiate its own light as well. As I continued to stroke, my imaginary lover came with the moonlight and became so real that I could feel and see and taste and smell him. Then his presence filled the room and overcame me. My body went rigid as I convulsed and shook with ecstasy as I absorbed the phantom man and poured my being into his. Then I collapsed in fatigue.
I think I shouted or screamed as well. I was glad that Gran was oblivious to noise as she slept soundly and without her hearing aid. I was glad, too that our closest neighbors were not very near. I lay there a long time, in and out of sleep, and felt little waves of pleasure come and go.
I was so unnerved by the experience that I didn't repeat it for at least a week. During that time, I took serious stock of myself and my situation. I squarely faced that I was trapped in a small town. I knew that my disability made me unattractive to most men. But I knew that I had to overcome my circumstances and start a serious quest for a real lover.
III. Preparing
I periodically visited my cousins in the city. On my next visit I made an appointment with a gynecologist. I had intently studied the issues about birth control. Although the pill had been introduced in the early sixties, there were issues about blood clots. Poor circulation in my immobile legs ruled out the use of the pill. I had already settled on the use of a diaphragm. I only awaited the doctor to agree and to measure me for size.
I took a cab from my cousin's house. I don't remember what lie I told about where I was going. In any case, I found myself in the doctor's office.
I did not like the nurse. I'm not sure why. She instructed me to remove my clothes and to don a skimpy white gown. Of course, she meant my braces too, but she didn't say it in words. I complied.
Then the trick was to get from the chair where I sat to the examining table. I could walk a bit without my braces. I rose by lifting myself with my crutches and the back of the chair. I carefully stiffened my right knee. Without the brace, my knee was hyperextended and quite fragile. In any case, it would support my weight. Without its brace and shoe, the other leg was useless. My extended toes barely reached the floor and offered no support.
I walked this way at home for short times every day, mostly from bed to bathroom and return. First I leaned to the left and put my right crutch forward. Then I leaned to my right and extended my left crutch. Finally, I pulled my right leg forward and steadied my knee to begin the process again. It was easy as long as there were no steps or other obstacles to be surmounted. Also, more than a few minutes of it would make my right leg sore for days.
I turned carefully and used my arms to lift myself to sit on the examining table. The nurse took my crutches and propped them against the wall near the chair and my braces. She still acted as if she didn't like what she was doing.
The doctor came after a short wait and interviewed me about my health history. I had nothing to confess except for the effects of polio which were obvious to anyone who had me dressed in a short gown. He slid his stethoscope under the gown and listened to my heart. Then he asked me to breathe deeply. I guessed he was checking my lungs.
Finally, he said that he was going to proceed to a pelvic examination. He left the room after instructing the nurse to get me ready. At her direction, I gathered up my legs and laid back on the table. She extended the stirrups that were to hold and separate my legs. I had to ask her to help me place them in the stirrups. She seemed to resent it but complied. Finally she lowered the hinged end of the table so that the doctor could have unimpeded access to my most secret place.
Waves of conflicting emotion flowed through me. At one level, the stirrups were reassuring and supporting in a way that reminded me of my braces. But I also felt a flush of terror at being so open and vulnerable with nothing between me and assault except the thin gown. Over all that was the sense of satisfaction that I was really a woman and was about to have the experience that proved it.
The nurse left the room and I felt a brief wave of panic. I recognized the emotion and it subsided. I often feared being abandoned where I could not rescue myself. But in addition to the fear, there is a part of it that thrills and excites me. It has been a recurring part of my life and in recent years I have begun to explore the thrill and excitement side.
The doctor returned. The nurse stationed herself at the side of the room where I did not have to look at her. For the first time I looked directly in the doctor's eyes. He was beyond middle age but not elderly. His eyes were kind and not judgmental. He looked like had seen a lot of life. He had the trace of a European accent that I could not place. I liked him and I trusted him.
My young readers must be reminded that in those days many doctors were still reluctant to prescribe birth control to unmarried women. So, I had worn my late mother's engagement ring and had invented a future husband. He was, I told the doctor, even more disabled than I and we were really not going to be able to raise children. I also hinted that we had already been intimate and that our need for protection was urgent. He seemed to believe me or, at least, he did not object to the lie.
After a brief and reassuring conversation, he pulled back the skimpy gown and I was exposed. I felt vulnerable but at the same time I felt safe with him. He unwrapped an instrument that I later learned was called a speculum. Then he coated it with some sort of jelly.
"This is a lubricant that will make things go easier," he said. Then he slowly pushed it into my vagina. I gasped a little. "I'll go slowly, he said, and you need to relax."
He had misinterpreted my gasp. I had welcomed the penetration. After all, I had already welcomed my three fingers and I was delighted that the speculum wasn't much bigger. He slowly inserted it to its full length.
"Now I will expand it so that can see into your vagina," he said in a soothing voice, "Relax. I will go slowly." I trusted him completely. Of course the nurse was there but out of sight so it felt like there were just the two of us.
He began to turn something on the instrument. I couldn't see what it was but the speculum began to grow in me until it was a size that I had never imagined I could hold. My emotions raced from one state to another. At once, I felt violated and fulfilled. Discomfort and pleasure competed for attention.
"I'll be as quick as I can," he told me as he peered into me with the aid of a light. "Looks fine," he said laconically, "Now I'll take a smear from your cervix and we'll be done with this part." I felt something like a small pinch and a moment later the speculum began to relax its insistent hold and I felt it withdraw. As it did, I gave another little gasp for no reason that I recognized.
"Now I would like to examine your internal organs," he said in a matter of fact voice as he donned a latex glove and slathered it with some more lubricant. "That requires two fingers inside and my other hand on your abdomen." Before I could speak, his fingers were gently entering. I welcomed the human touch instead of the speculum.
Then his left hand was on my belly and began to explore in concert with the right. "Your uterus seems to be normal," he intoned, "Now, will check your ovaries and fallopian tubes. This may pinch a little or even be momentarily painful. I'll be as quick and as gentle as I can."
He was right about the pinching and the pain, but it was over soon and he said "Wonderful, wonderful," as he explored me. He finished quickly and pulled off his glove. I assumed we were finished.
"Just to be complete," he said, "we should examine the back of the vaginal wall." Then, to my surprise, he put on two gloves and lubricated them. "Try to relax," he intoned again. "This will take only a few seconds." Then he was inside my vagina again. Then to my astonishment, a finger of his other hand slid into my rectum and two hands together probed the thin tissue between them.
It was over in an instant before I could even formulate a reaction. There were only vague reactions of violation, fullness, wickedness and perversion. I cannot honestly say that I disliked it.
He shed his gloves and pulled the gown to cover me. He gave me a little smile and rested his hand on my knee. (Yes I know that modern feminist consciousness experiences that as sexist condescension, but I matured in the fifties and I felt reassured.) "Everything is just fine. If you ever decide to have a baby, there is no reason not to.", he smiled, "Except you should be careful of the extra weight on your legs and your balance might become tricky."
He agreed that a diaphragm was the best choice of contraception and he wrote a prescription for one on his pad. He said that the instructions would come with it and that I should read them well. He insisted that it should never be used without the spermicidal jelly that I would get at the same time.
After he left, I dismounted from the stirrups and then the table with the help of the nurse. She was still grumpy but I didn't care. I dressed and fastened my legs into their braces and returned to the reception area.
The receptionist phoned for another cab and it arrived soon. I settled myself into it as the driver hovered solicitously by. I directed him to stop at the nearest pharmacy and we were off.
The pharmacist stared at me long and hard and without embarrassment after he read the prescription slip that I gave him. I stared back, also without betraying embarrassment, until he broke our gazes and got on with his business.
He handed me a small white paper bag. I brazenly asked him to include an extra tube of jelly. With his eyes still averted, he complied. I paid at the register and emerged to find my taxi.
Memory is often a poor guide to what actually happened in the past. What I remember is that I emerged to the street with the words and music of "I am Woman. Hear me Roar" playing in my mind and in my ears. The historical fact seems to be that the song was never heard until some time later in the seventies when Helen Reddy made it popular.
Whether memory serves or not, I felt as if I had been liberated. I went from the door to the waiting cab with a sense of triumph. I thought back to my graduation from high school. Now I was really graduating into the world of womanhood and sexuality. There was a standing ovation in my mind.
I even looked at the taxi driver in a new light. Of course, I rejected the possibility out of hand. But it was an exquisite pleasure to view the world with my new womanly and sexual eyes. I gloried as he hovered while I emerged at my cousin's house. I was probably too generous with the tip.
I think the moon was full that night but I couldn't see it from the little guest room on the North side of the house.
IV. Finding a Lover
Back at home, life didn't change very much on the surface. I continued volunteering at the library and at church. I attended at the rummage sales and I served punch and cookies at our little social occasions. But below the surface, the difference was profound.
I examined every available man in our town with my new eyes informed by my new sexual freedom. I decided that several of my friends' husbands were available but I quickly pushed them out of consideration. The single men that came to the library and to church were all flawed in little ways that probably explained why they were still unmarried.
At home, I experimented with my new diaphragm. After some trial and error, I learned to insert it quickly and easily. Knowing that it was inside me made my imaginary lovers even more real than they were before. However, the problem of finding a real lover remained.
Then the new pastor came to town. He wasn't really a full-fledged clergyman. Our church was too poor to afford a real full time preacher. Instead we got an intern from the seminary who was to be with us for a year. Our only obligation was to house and feed him when he spent the weekends with us.
At the church meeting where the plan for an intern minister was considered, Gran volunteered that we could accommodate him in our spare bedroom and provide his meals. Of course, she did not consult me. I worried about the added expense for food and about the extra work for Mrs. Fogg. Of course, I did not object and I began planning to draw on our savings to meet the costs of buying more food and of a small bonus to placate Mrs. Fogg.
The pastor was with us for nine months of his school year. He arrived in town every Friday and stayed until late Sunday afternoon. Occasionally for reasons of weather (or for other reasons that I am about to relate) he stayed until dawn on Monday morning. Mrs. Fogg, with her pay augmented, only grumbled a little bit about the added work. Gran enjoyed her new higher status in the church as the provider for the minister. I was intrigued with the possibilities suggested by having a man staying in the bedroom next to mine.
He was young and affected an earnest and serious mein. Something about him suggested that he was not very pious but he made up for it by his seriousness and his black suit and dark neckties. He was quite handsome if you looked deeply and I did.
As soon as he arrived, the mothers of all the unwed girls a bit younger than me were atwitter about him and the possibilities he posed for their daughters. Some of the daughters were interested, too. Others were more skeptical and only seemed to see his black suit and studied pose of piety. I do not believe that Gran ever entertained the possibility that I would be with him.
Of course, he was inundated with invitations to dinner by the mothers. I was amazed and amused by the stratagems he used to escape most of them. In the first place, he pleaded that his Saturday evenings were reserved for the final revisions for his sermon for the next morning. Sunday afternoons were committed to visiting the sick and elderly who had not been able to attend the service. That only left Friday evenings and some of the invitations were unavoidable. Still, he seemed to prefer to dine at our place and to talk about the town and the church with Gran and me.
It was a challenge to get him to respond to me on a physical level. Sometimes I put my hand on his as I was making a point in our discussion but he didn't seem to react. He never pulled away but he didn't seem to respond, either. I clearly was not repelling him but I wasn't drawing him closer, either. I was perplexed.
I thought long and hard about how to attract him. Finally in late October I formulated a plan and put it into action. He had bathed and was in his bedroom reviewing his sermon for the next day. Now I made my way to the bathroom slowly and carefully without my braces.
Settling on the high stool in front of the lavatory I shed my robe and sat naked in front of the mirror. I admired the reflection of my body. My legs were out of range of the mirror. I imagined what we would do if my plan succeeded. I filled the lavatory and began to sponge myself. I liked the high stool and preferred to avoid the precarious gymnastics that using the tub required.
Washed and with my hair combed and tied back with a ribbon, I applied just a bit of the cologne that I had bought in the city. It had the scent of apple blossoms. I closed my robe and tied its sash. Then I untied it again and loosened it. I retied it with a firm knot but left a degree of looseness in the sash. I looked in the mirror again and made the final decision to proceed with my plan.
I lifted myself from the stool with my crutches and steadied my right knee to support me. I made my way slowly and carefully into the hallway and to the railing of the stairwell. The moon was full and its light through the bay window of the hall bathed everything in its pale light. I could see the brighter light that came from under his closed door. I leaned my crutches on the rail and supported myself by grasping it. Then, I carefully lowered myself to the floor.
Once there, I arranged my legs and my robe. Then I took my crutches from the rail and tumbled them onto the floor to make a sharp noise. At the same time I uttered a cry loud enough, I hoped, to get his attention.
He came from his room to find me on the floor. He wore powder blue pajamas "I've fallen," I said, trying to put a plaintive quaver in my voice. I let my eyes beseechingly meet his for a moment. He looked as if he didn't know what to do next. I let my gaze fall to the floor and said, "You'll need to help me. But let me catch my breath first."
"What can I do?" he asked with a quaver in his voice that sounded real. I did not meet his eyes. I sensed his attention to my loosely tied robe. I turned a little to let the moonlight fall on the exposed skin between my breasts. I sat quietly for a long moment.
Finally I broke the silence. " lease put your hands under my arms and lift me," I told him. He complied and I was surprised at his strength. I came upright and put one hand on the rail for support. "lease hold me until I get my leg steady under me," I asked. Then I lingered a bit to let the moment last. His hands were next to my breasts and I could sense that he was excited by touching me. I could also sense some reluctance.
I told him that he could let go and then retrieve my crutches. He handed me one of them and I tucked it under my right arm. As he handed me the other, I didn't take it. "No," I said, "Let me lean on you. I'm really afraid of falling again." I slipped my left arm under his right and reached up to grasp his shoulder. That left him no choice but to put his right arm around my waist. My body clung close to his as he held my unused crutch in his free hand.
I took a tentative step. Then, linked together, we slowly made our way to my bedroom door. I did not hurry as I reveled in the contact of our bodies separated by only a few layers of fabric. I longed for the fabric to be gone.
At the door, we discovered that it was not wide enough to accommodate both of us head on. After a bit of fumbling and giggling, I went in sort of sideways and he followed, close as ever. Of course the giggling was mostly mine as he was obviously still conflicted.
Then it was only a few short steps to my bed. The white coverlet glowed with the light of the harvest moon. I still held to him as I said, "Help me sit down." Awkwardly I swivelled around as he followed. I put all my weight on my crutch and his shoulder, and flexed my knee. Than I abruptly sat and, still clinging, drew him down with me.
He attempted to untangle himself but I resisted. "No, please," I said, "Stay with me for a while. I'm still shaken up from falling. You make me feel safe."
He stopped trying to escape but said, "It's not appropriate for a man to be in a woman's bedroom."
"That's the rule for most people," I told him, "But, surely, it doesn't hold for cripples."
"It most assuredly does," he replied, "Or at least it should." His manner was stiff, but I felt him relax a bit.
After a few moments of savoring his closeness, I reached down to lift my legs. With the same motion I lay down and pulled him with me. He was no longer reluctant. Now my robe had fallen even more open and my free hand untied the knot in the sash. Through his pajamas I felt his arousal and responded with the heightening of my own
I pulled him to me and kissed him. His response was nervous, even frantic. In a moment he was inside me and pumping with the same frantic energy. He climaxed quickly with a still frantic groan but we continued to cling to each other for a long time.
We said nothing and even pretended to sleep. A half hour must have passed when I drew his mouth to mine and kissed him gently. "Thank you," I told him. "Now you should go to bed. You have to preach in the morning. We'll talk tomorrow." I kissed him again and then he drew himself away and closed my door behind him.
I lay awake for a long time. I finally slept when the moon had moved on and the room was dark.
V. Growing Together
He was out of the house especially early the next morning and I did not see him until the church service began. I was tired, of course, but he looked as if he had not slept at all. He went through the familiar ritual by rote until he came to the sermon.
He preached about sin and temptation. The major thrust of it seemed to be that one should not succumb but that we were all miserable sinners anyway. He was not organized. He rambled and repeated himself. The whole congregation seemed to be squirming in their seats. Even old Deacon Grimsby, usually very keen about sin and long sermons, could be seen surreptitiously consulting his old-fashioned pocket watch.
Eventually he stopped. As we sang the closing hymn, I felt sorry for him. I knew that the whole disorganized sermon was my fault. If sin was involved, it had been mine. However, I could not convince myself that it was really sin. Perhaps I was beyond redemption.I didn't know. I didn't mind.
I did not see him again until late that afternoon. He came back to the house after he had made his pastoral rounds. He collected his things for the trip back to the seminary. Our eyes met often but we said nothing while Gran bustled about packing him a sandwich for the journey.
We were alone together for a brief moment before he went through the front door. He finally spoke. "I'm sorry," he told me, "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be silly," I answered, "You have nothing to be sorry about. If anyone should be sorry, it's me. I shamelessly seduced you." I gently touched his hand with mine. "And I'm not sorry a bit." As Gran returned, I only had time to say, "We'll talk when you come next week." Then he was on his way.
Of course, I thought of little else in the following days. I admitted to myself that as a sexual encounter it had not been really satisfactory. He had climaxed almost instantly and I had no orgasm at all. But the bright side was that I had actually had a lover, a real one and not the old and vague imaginary one. The image and feel and scent of him filled my nightly explorations of myself. I knew I could help him find the parts of me that I thrilled to and that I could explore his body, too.
The following Friday evening we all had a light supper and Gran was off to bed earlier than usual. He and I sat alone after the table had been cleared. I spoke first. "I'm glad to see you. I missed you."
After a long pause he said in a kind of stuffy and pompous way, "We can't do that again."
He didn't specify what he was referring to but we both understood. "Why," I asked.
"It's just not right," he responded in a plaintive voice.
"Why not. We are both adults and both single. I'm not cheating on another lover and I believe that you're not as well. Am I right?" I did not mean to sound querulous.
"That's right," he said and paused. "I worry about pregnancy. Don't you?"
"Of course," I told him in a softer voice. "I used a diaphragm. I got it just a short time after I met you," I lied. "I hoped we would get to use it."
He seemed to melt in front of my eyes. He was clearly relieved. "Now please come here and kiss me," I said primly. We were in his bed until the first light of dawn when he helped me walk back to my room. Of course I could have done it without assistance but it seemed to recapture the magic of our first night together.
After that we fell into a routine of sorts. We spent Friday night in my bed or his. Usually we slept alone on Saturdays so he could prepare for the next day. Once in a while he stayed over on Sunday evening and left before dawn the next day. I don't think that Gran ever suspected what was going on in her house. I still wonder what her reaction would have been.
As lovers, we grew together. By subtle reactions and by direct requests I taught him about my body. I learned about his body too, mostly from his reactions as he seemed unable to articulate his needs directly. Soon we seemed to fit perfectly together and to work like a seamless whole.
I have especially vivid memories of some of our love making. There was a night in winter. There was cold rain and a gusty wind. We sat with Gran by the fireplace until late in the evening. She stayed up unusually late and was regaling us with old stories about doings in our town. She even had tales that I had never heard before about some youthful indiscretions of Deacon Grimsby.
He encouraged her to talk on and on. I was impatient to be with him alone. My diaphragm had been in for hours in anticipation of his arrival. He had not come the week before because he had attended a regional church meeting. Moreover, it was the time of the full moon. I had learned that my body followed the lunar cycle. Of course, the moon didn't shine through the storm but my body was acutely aware that it was there.
As Gran talked on, I watched the colors of the moon in the crackling fire. It aroused me further until I could barely make out Gran's words. I didn't learn the word "horny" until some years later. Of course it is vulgar and I would never use it in speaking. But it might convey my state to the reader. I was consumed by simple lust.
At last Gran excused herself and headed to her room. Neither of us spoke as she left. She was hardly out of sight up the stairs when I put my hands on the edge of my chair and lowered myself to the floor. I slid myself closer to him and to the fire.
As soon as the sound of the closing door came from upstairs I looked directly at him and said simply, "Come here. I need you, now." At the same time I pulled my dress up as high as I could. Then he was on his knees with his trousers open. He lifted me by the buttocks and without shame I pulled my dress even higher. He lowered my panties to the upper cuffs of my braces and was in me.
His finger played around my anus. It was a trick we had discovered together and it always drove my passion to delirious heights. The moon colors of the firelight played on the walls. The sight of my braced legs lifted and splayed transformed into an image of the gynecologists stirrups. Then without warning his finger was in my rectum and I was filled and fulfilled and violated and safe and in danger all at the same time.
Then I was pushing and accepting, rebelling and submitting. There was a shout. I vaguely wondered whether Gran's hearing aid was off. Then I was lost to pure carnal lust. It was my first vaginal orgasm.
We slept until late the next morning. By the time we awakened, Gran was busy dusting and tending the plants in the hallway outside my room. We waited what seemed an endlessly long time for her to finish and to go downstairs. All the time, we struggled to muffle our giggles. We were like naughty children. At last I went to the hall to distract Gran so that he could escape unnoticed from my room to his.
We went on like this for the next several months. Once in a while he had hinted at marriage but I always shut him off. I made clear several times that I was not interested in marriage to anyone. Although I didn't tell him, I was especially uninterested being a minister's wife with an unending routine of rummage sales, women's groups and church suppers. He soon accepted what I said and we settled into a routine of lovers' trysts.
Once in a while we broke our Saturday night rule. It didn't seem to make much difference in his sermons. But it certainly seemed to make a difference once. It was in late Spring shortly before his internship ended and just a few weeks before the picnic pictured in my album.
It was the first really pleasant evening of the season. The air was warm and the breeze was still. The peep frogs from the nearby pond sang to the night. Of course, the moon was full. We watched it as we lingered together on the swing that hung from the rafters of the back porch. Gran had retired early.
Inevitably, we began to kiss and pet. He had sensed my weakness (or was it strength?) for the moon and liked to enjoy it. Saturday night or not, I did not want to stop.
With my left leg sprawled across his lap, he removed the brace and shoe. He had learned all the nuances of straps, buckles and fasteners. It was a very special kind of intimacy which never failed to arouse me. He stroked the place I had showed him inside my thigh. For a while I had thought that perhaps my withered leg had the same number of nerve endings as a normal one but distributed more densely on the smaller surface. I soon decided that was absurd. It was the easy intimacy of being accepted for the way I am that was so erotic.
I felt an orgasm approaching but it waned as the moon moved slowly out of sight above the roof of the porch. I gently pushed his hand away and kissed him. "Be a dear and get my diaphragm from my nightstand." I didn't need to mention the jelly, he knew the routine. He complied without comment and as he got up to go I added, "And bring the big blanket from the shelf in my closet."
While he was gone, I removed my remaining brace and shoe. Then as quickly as I could, I slipped out of my clothes. He returned with his arms full with the large blanket. The flat pink case of the diaphragm was clutched in one hand. I couldn't see the tube of jelly but I knew it was there.
He started with surprise when he found me naked. Then a sly smile began to spread across his face. "Spread the blanket under the apple tree behind the shed," I ordered him. "We should be able to see the moon from there." Again he complied without comment. As he turned to go, I added, "Don't forget to come back for me. You know how much I am afraid of being abandoned."
He was back in a moment and standing by me as if he did not know what to do next. "You'll have to carry me," I told him, "I can't possibly walk over that rough ground." He lifted me from the swing and I clung to him as he took me down the steps. Over his shoulder I saw my cluttered pile of braces, crutches and clothes.
Under the blossoming apple tree, the moon shone brightly. He laid me naked on the outspread blanket and stood their watching me. "You have the advantage of me, sir," I said primly. "If you disrobe, we will be equals in this encounter." Slowly and deliberately he began to take off his clothes and drop each item on the blanket. I watched his naked skin reflecting the moonlight. Finally, completely nude, he was like a young and shining god.
He knelt by me. The diaphragm had completely escaped my attention. But he retrieved it from somewhere in the folds of the blanket. I watched him as he opened the case and unscrewed the cap of the jelly. He had mastered the ritual of the diaphragm. I watched still as he spread the jelly on the rim and skillfully folded it. I half closed my eyes as he carefully inserted it and let it find its proper place. He let his fingers linger inside me and did a gentle massage in the places I had showed him. With eyes half open, I saw the moon shining over his shoulder. I inhaled the scent of apple blossoms and the musty odor of damp earth and decaying leaves.
He entered me and obscured the moon with his shoulder. Then as he began to move slowly in and out the moon began to reappear then disappear again. The music of the frogs merged with my soul through my ears. My arms reached beyond the bounds of the blanket and my hands joined the earth, grasping the wet soil and last year's musty leaves.
He relentlessly came in and then out. The moon came and went. I invited the moon to enter me and it came and retreated with his rhythm. I arched my back and dug my fingers into the earth as I shouted my ecstasy to the sky. The moon entered me and stayed.
I heard his shout, too. Then we were still, tangled in one another, him and me and the moon. I felt filled with the moon as if my belly were rounded. A pale yellow glow seemed to light me from inside. I can't say how long we lay there.
Eventually the breeze grew stronger and cooler and we stirred. "Carry my things to my bedroom, please, and then come back for me," I asked him. He donned a minimum amount of his own clothing and his shoes and left without a word. I watched as he gathered up my clothes with his own and grasped braces and crutches to make an unlikely, even comic, burden. Then he disappeared into the house as the screen door closed itself behind him.
Then I lay naked under the moon. My old panic about being helpless and abandoned began to build in me. What if he didn't return, I wondered. He could fall and break his leg on the stairs and be unable to come for me. My mind was washed with a torrent of awful possibilities. But as abruptly as my panic came, it ebbed away. I laughed aloud. Even if I could never move again, I could lie here for all eternity and be the mistress of the moon.
Of course, he was back in short order. He wrapped the blanket around me and I was in his arms. He carried me to the porch and then inside and up the stairs. Finally he laid me gently on my bed.
We were together for the whole night. I worried about his duties in the morning but he seemed unperturbed. I also worried about the debris we had brought in with the blanked. There were little clods of dirt, old leaves and apple blossom petals. They all fell out when I unwrapped myself and littered the bed and the floor. I resolved to do a thorough cleaning in the morning. Gradually the moon inside me lulled me to sleep.
He was gone when I awakened in the morning. I set myself to clean up all the mess we had carried in the night before. I thought I had done a fairly thorough job but it later turned out that I hadn't. I also had to invest an unusual amount of time on my hands and my nails to undo the effects of groveling in the earth. In consequence, Gran and I were almost late to church.
He seemed unusually youthful and relaxed in the pulpit. His sermon was short and coherent and quite out of the ordinary. It did not seem to be particularly biblically based. His theme was that the universe and all creation is a priceless gift to us to be enjoyed and appreciated. Old Deacon Grimsby seemed to be perplexed by it. I laughed inside at the look of him before I returned my eyes to the pulpit.
I blushed when he began to recite examples of the great gift we had been granted. He talked about apple blossoms and the new smell of the earth in the Spring. Of course he referred to the singing of the frogs. When he came to the gift of the full moon, he turned his eyes directly at me.
Our gazes locked. With a great effort, I tore my eyes away when I felt my panties dampen. I shut my ears and applied myself to multiplying the page numbers of the open hymnal in my lap. Thus, distracted, I survived the rest of the service. He stayed the night that Sunday.
Mrs. Fogg discovered the detritus of our adventure. We had left a little trail of soil, blossom and leaf through the whole house. She complained bitterly and blamed him. She couldn't understand, she kept telling us, why the silly minister had to prepare his sermons out under the tree and in the mud and then track it all in the house. I bit my tongue. Gran didn't seem to notice.
Mrs. Fogg's objections came to a head a few days later when she decided to refold the blanket in my closet. I watched in horror as more of the telltale dirt, blossom and leaf fell to the floor. She turned to me and stared I met her gaze. I tried to look calm and collected with a touch of defiance. She was expressionless. Then she abruptly took her eyes away and busied herself with cleaning.
She never mentioned the subject again. Dear Mrs. Fogg; she and I were kindred souls, I think. We had both tasted life. I wondered what she thought and felt when the moon was full. Of course, she never said and I never asked.
VI. Life Goes On
His internship ended a few weeks later and we never met again. We corresponded once in a while and exchanged cards on holidays. Gradually our contact tapered off to nothing. I heard from friends that he had married. I was not jealous - I was even glad for her. She was with a good man.
Later I heard that he had left the ministry and was teaching in a private school. I worried a bit that I had destroyed his faith. No, I finally decided, perhaps I had moved him to a deeper and more sustaining faith.
Gran died peacefully in her sleep a few years later. Our church was without a pastor so it fell to Deacon Grimsby to do the eulogy. Of course he assured us of life everlasting and all that. But he also told stories about Gran in her youth and his that I had never her heard before. I had never imagined that the old Deacon had ever been ever young. I certainly never thought that there was any humor in him. We cried and we laughed. Even Mrs. Fogg smiled a bit and seemed to have tears in her eyes.
At first, I missed Gran terribly. In ways I still do after all these years. But over the next few months I plotted the course of the rest of my life. I surprised everyone in town when I sold the house. They were even more surprised when they learned the price that the buyers from out of town had paid. The city was expanding and our town was in the first stages of becoming a desirable suburb.
I moved to the city and found an apartment that was easy to care for in a building with an elevator and very few steps to cope with. I found part time work in a nearby bookstore and applied some of my high school accounting skills to doing the books for a few small businesses. I volunteered at the local branch library. I invested most of the house money and my portfolio prospered.
I have never been promiscuous but I have never been long without a lover. My jobs and my volunteer efforts brought me into contact with many men. I have never been shy about practicing the arts of seduction. Lovers are fairly easy to find. Some of mine have been very good at it and have taught me. Some of the others I have taught myself. I do not regret even one of them.
VII. Back to the Present
My reverie was interrupted by a soft knock on my door. I came back to the present and quickly put the photo album back on the shelf with my writing pad beside it. It was dark outside and the full moon had risen.
I looked down to arrange myself for him. My robe was open. I wore a scanty bra. At least it was as scanty as I could find with an underwire. The bra was a concession to the passage of time and to the effects of gravity. I wore panties that matched. They were a concession to the simple fact that an old woman in a bra without panties would appear to any thinking person as a pathetic figure of jest.
I closed my robe and tied the sash with the trick that I discovered all those years ago. The knot was firm but the sash was loose. I turned out the light.
As I wheeled my chair to the door, the knock came again. It was more insistent this time. A little shudder of anticipation moved through my body as I rolled through a patch of moonlight and reached for the latch.
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发表于 2020-8-13 07:47:55
