The Gardener’s Wife

I am a gardener because I love the solidity of growing plants. I plan. I plant. I water. I weed. I dig over the soil and start again. The reward for me is in these gardening tasks, the earthy toils, not in the beautiful gardens I create, for I am a good gardener and my gardens are beautiful. The results of my labour are important to the men who pay me, they are filled with pride when a visitor stands quietly in admiration. For they do stand quietly in admiration. A good garden is a place of peace and tranquility. I am not a park keeper, the gardens I work in are not for sports and children. The spaces I create are for contemplation and relaxation. I have places for reading books, or kindles. I have places for taking in the sun. I have wild places where my visitors can feel completely hidden.

I have begun this story with a lie, there are many rewards to being a gardener in the garden I have described. A gardener is invisible in his or her garden: in my garden I am voyeur treated like a piece of furniture in a private space. I am free to wander about my garden in my green shirt and working boots with my tools in a bucket and I am paid no heed. On hot summer afternoons I don my gardening hat and remove my shirt and even my rippling if sinuous tanned torso turns no heads. I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me, but I have to confess that on those hot summer afternoons I quite often my decision on which beds to tend is based on the beauty of the sunbathers. That is my little secret: I love to watch the people in my gardens.

Last week was just one of those hot days, I sat quietly in front of my shed surveying my surroundings as I sipped my lemonade contemplating which flower beds deserved my attention when two young women walked past me towards one of the more secluded spaces. Decision made. I lingered over my lemonade wondering what the women were doing. They had mats with them so they would be lying down. I predicted the white woman would have stripped to her bikini bottoms and be lying on her tummy,. The black woman would have stripped only to feel the sun on her skin, she would not be concerned by tan lines. They would both have their books out, maybe Shades of Gray everyone is reading. I collected my tools in my bucket to see if I was right.

I walked very close to the women to get to the bed I knew needed attention.

I walked close to their young nearly naked bodies because time has taught me the best voyeur frisson is to be found when observing exhibitionists. By announcing my presence I could find out if these women were concerned about their display. They were not. The vision that greeted me when I stepped into the vista was close to my prediction. They had spread their mats next to each other. The white woman was lying on her tummy but she had not prepared for the day by wearing her bikini, she was simply in her underwear. I believe they are called briefs or shorts as they have a wide strip on the side. Hers were lace, creating a delicious pattern on her pert bottom. The black woman had not taken off her loose shirt but had stripped off her tight trousers. She was sitting with her back to the sun with her book in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. They had tall champagne flutes. I smiled realising these women had paid attention to their pleasures as I noticed the dew drops on the champagne glasses, but they did not care of practical matters as neither had sunny summer afternoon clothes. Neither of them gave me more than a fleeting glimpse as I walked past them.

When I was established with my trowel in my hand and my shirt draped over my spade, I worked out what the black woman was reading out loud to her companion. It was The Story of O, a book I had not revisited for many years. I was entranced listening to this stranger reading aloud a description of O’s naked body. My trowel became inactive, resting in my hand with the tip poked loosely into the soil. My eyes were drawn to the pair of women in the middle of the grass clearing. The women were facing my direction though they were not paying attention to me. The one lying down had lifted herself up onto one elbow to look at the other as she read. Her breasts were only slightly obscured by the arm she was resting on. I followed the curve of her breasts as they dropped freely while listening to the other’s voice describing a man’s hand running over a breast to tweak and pinch the pink aureoles. Only I could not see her nipples.

I turned back to my work, partially to catch my breath and partially to listen to the story. Even though I take great pride in my work, I was not able to concentrate on my weeding and turned back to the women.

The lying woman was drinking her champagne, her breasts completely exposed now. They were small and pert, she probably did not need to wear a bra. Her nipples were soft and puffy, the air was hot. They were brown on the edges and pink in the centre. She put her glass down and ran her free hand along the thigh of the sitting woman who paused only slightly to smile at her companion. A knowing kind of smile, a smile that said you have run your fingers along my thighs before and I like it. And she did run her fingers up her thigh, lifting the loose shirt of the reader. I think I must have made a little sound in my surprise that the reader was not wearing any knickers as the reader paused again. And I quickly continued my weeding.

If I had distracted them they did not care for the reading continued after a pause no longer than the previous one. I managed to turn a dozen weeds before I could no longer resist looking up at the women. The lying woman had shifted closer to her companion and her hand was drifting gently between her legs. The reader was sitting cross legged and leaning slightly forward so the touches were not more intimate than stroking her pubic hair and the soft skin between her thighs. Her hand travelled up to the lowest button of the loose white shirt. She slipped it loose. She undid the next, the next and the one after exposing the reader’s red lace bra. She left one button done as her hand drifted round behind her companion’s back exposing her side and the naked thigh closes to her. Her breast touched the thigh: nipple to skin. She held it there for some time, naked nipple to naked skin. As she pulled her hand back the reader’s bra dropped under the weight of her breasts. Without a pause in her reading she undid her top button, pulled her arm out of her sleeve to take off her bra. Her breasts were large and sagged as natural breasts do, her large dark brown nipples rising and falling as she put her arm back into her sleeve. She repeated the process for the other arm and I was transfixed by her other nipple rising and falling. The reading continued as her companion started playing with her breasts.

They were now intimately embraced, the reader with her arm resting across the back of her companion who was now close enough to take her right nipple in her mouth. The reader’s hand drifted down to slip under the hem of her companion’s knickers while her companion’s hands roamed about her body. With their bodies so intimate I could see very little of where their hands touched, I surmised the companion must have taken the reader’s nipple in her mouth for she stopped reading and smiled down at her friend. Her friend paused, looked up for a few moments then looked at me.

I often wonder what goes through the mind of the visitors to the park when they realise they are sharing an intimate moment with a stranger who, by omission, they have invited into the moment. Seldom is such a moment as erotic as this, but there have been many intimate moments that I have shared. Some reactions are angry, to which I smile genially and continue my work. Some reactions are conspiratorial, to which I smile genially and continue my work. Some reactions are inviting, to which I try to contribute, usually something pithy. Some reactions are difficult to read, this was such a moment. I did not know if the woman’s smile was an invitation to join in their decadence or a patient expression encouraging me to leave them to their moment. For a while I have been reading self help books as I feel I miss out from not being assertive enough.

I would describe reaching out to touching a stranger’s naked body without any words being spoken a little bit like watching a good porn film. I was pretty confident I was welcome because there had been no word of rejection. For a long time that probably was only a few seconds I had knelt smiling at the women. It was when the reader smiled at me that I chose to walk towards them and sit just out of arms read. I shifted forward so I could reach out and touch the forearm of the woman who had first smiled at me. She turned back to her companion burying her face beneath the shirt which was now pulled closed but still unbuttoned. I felt they had invited me to touch although I would wait for more signs before I started removing my clothing. My hand ran up the naked back to her soft hair. I could smell the shampoo on her hair. It ran down to the thigh of the reader. I was hesitant as she had not seemed as welcoming as her companion, but I needn’t have worried. She smiled at me, picked up her book and continued to read.

Were remained like this for five or ten minutes, time was certainly difficult for me to track. I was on my knees able to stroke either or both of their bodies while the one read and the other flicked and nibbled her girlfriend’s nipples which her fingers delved between her girlfriend’s legs, pushing right down into the top of the dark crevice. The reader changed the hand she was holding her book in and reached for my shoulder. She ran her hand over my chest and stomach until she arrived at the button on my jeans. She undid it without losing her place in the story, and the next and the next but she needed my help to pull the jeans down. She leant back to allow her girlfriend deeper access between her legs. She pulled the elastic of my boxers towards her so I waddled about so I was on the other side of her, across from her girlfriend. She stopped reading and took me in her mouth. I was a little surprised, I had hoped for a little fumbling or maybe a hand job but I hadn’t expected a blowjob. Her fingers traced about my balls and gripped the base of my shaft while she sucked the head. My body was already tensing, she could feel this and her hand started moving quickly, up, down, up, down. Her girlfriend stopped to watch as I came in her girlfriend’s mouth. When she had licked my cock clean she discretely leaned across and spat into the grass.

I sat back feeling spent, watching the women. The one who had taken me in her mouth leant back as her girlfriend started licking her pussy. They clearly knew each other’s bodies well as it was clearly exciting: the black woman had pushed back her shirt and was rubbing her breasts. She seemed to have forgotten my presence completely. Watching these two strangers enjoying each other’s bodies got me ready to join in again. I ran my fingers along the white woman’s back to her knickers. She lifted her bum enough for me to slip them down her legs. From behind I caught a glimpse of her pussy lips. She lifted her feet to flick off her knickers. I was unsure what to do but only for a moment as she reached across to her bag and pulled out a packet of condoms which she handed to me. I could barely contain my excitement enough to put the condom on properly. I straddled her legs. She raised her bum. I licked my thumb, parted her bum cheeks and probed her pussy. I ran the moisture from her wet pussy about the edge of her pussy lips before pushing my cock in. I stopped with my cock deep inside a stranger’s pussy and still none of us made a sound or said a word. I worked my cock about inside her pussy, making sure I wiggled my bum to rub against all the sides of her vagina. I pushed as deep as I could back to as shallow as I could. I was still slowly working my cock inside her when her girlfriend orgasmed, probably not for the first time but this time she pulled away to change from the receiver to the giver. She kissed her girlfriend before starting to massage and stroke her. She lightly lifted my hand to request I pull back. Her girlfriend lay on her back with her legs spread for me. She put her bag beneath her girlfriends bum and guided me into a kneeling position. She was now able to lick her girlfriend’s clitorus while the head of my cock worked the entrance to her pussy. I orgasmed in that position and pulled back to allow the women enjoy each other.

I was wondering how I would next enjoy their bodies when I heard my name being called. It was my boss. Quickly I pulled up my jeans and rushed off, panicked at the thought of my boss finding me with these naked women. While I was talking to him at my shed the women walked past us, hand in hand, smiling at me.

Unfortunately, I have to confess another lie. When the women smiled at me I didn’t walk over to them. I did what I always do even to an inviting reaction, I smiled genially and got back to my work. I worked a my way down the bed as the reader continued her story. I did not look back at them and was soon out of sight so I do not know if they continued in their decadence. The bit about them walking past me when I was talking to my boss is true, walking past hand in hand and smiling.

The Modern and the Surreal

How about combining the surreal imagery of Dali with the modern world? With the surreal things we find ourselves surrounded by. And perhaps we too could have a little bit of a smile, or even a laugh at the rediculousness we have carved out for ourselves in thins modern world.

Detail in Colour

Drawings can concentrate detail, and focus, on minor parts of the vista, but what part of the vista should the colour concentrate the eye? Should it be on the part we look at the most, the detail always seen, like the eyes in a portrait. Or should it be the detail that is a little sinister, like a tattoo? Or should it be an arbitrary detail, like a vase with no flowers?

Where, oh where to begin? First, the eye, then the abstract detail, I think.

Why all this malarkey?

To keep what is vital from being lost, the moment of the mind, the found and the imagined and the thought. I so want to capture that thought in a way to show it is indeed vital.

Masks not people

A series of pictures based on the clothes people wear including virus masks but the clothes are filled with other things such as plants, or animals, anything. The clothes including masks are a sculptural remnant of society.

In the Cube

A series of pictures of people examining empty squares, empty spaces where the pictures should hang on the wall. The important point is the pictures are blank and being examined .

Blank not blank

Works if outlined forms with minimal or even no colouring, much like many of my works, with backgrounds based on abstract photos taken on walks in London, perhaps with coordinates as the title, or subtitle.

Like Russian Dolls

You can only see the smaller doll by opening the big doll, a long time ago I wanted to give the viewer a choice between works but unlike the Russian dolls they could not be put back together again. This time I will simply explore the idea of pictures within pictures.