Lawnmower boy

 

From where I lay, I could hear the lazy drone of the mower.  It frustrated me.  It was one of the things I enjoyed doing, the clean sweet smell of the grass, the way disorder was turned to order, the mild tiredness I felt after I’d finished.  Like working out.  Working out was better, though, the combination of lassitude and reinvigoration I felt afterwards as good as post-coital tenderness with a guy I liked.  I hadn’t had love for a while.  For a long while.  But lawnmowing was good.  Kind of mindless but satisfying.

I looked down at the cast on my leg.  Irritable.  Grumpy.  I know – a bad patient.  And it was my own fault, too.  Showing off, at karate.  I’m an instructor, that’s what I do.  My dad made it unnecessary to work.  I miss the old bugger.  Anyway, I tried a kick slightly beyond even my capabilities, and here I am.  Listening to someone else mow my lawn.  Fuck it.

It didn’t help that he was utterly gorgeous.  I’m not bad looking, I’ll say that.  He, though, was perfect.  And he didn’t even notice me.  My hair is pepper and salt, but my face is relatively unlined.  I wear my hair in a long plait down my back, all the way to my bum crack.  Some guys like that.  Some women too.  And my body’s pretty good, especially if you think how old I am.  At least twice his age.  I called the fifth name in the garden services section of the knock-and-drop newspapers.  Sean’s Super Services.  It kinda appealed.  The guy’s voice was . . . . . warm, deep.  Gave me the shivers.  Gave me a hard on, if you must know.  But, hell, I know that most guys are straight.  We all think they’re gay, and they’re not.  But what the fuck, I needed my lawns cut before the house disappeared into a jungle.

When he arrived, I was already in my wheelchair on the front verandah.  Polite, even courtly.  And so fucking beautiful.  Parents from somewhere in the Levant.  Curly black hair.  Dark, sweetly curved eyes, tender and soft.  A nose exquisite, elegant, sloping down to a mouth with carmine lips, pleasingly bowed, kissable, fuckable.  Olive skin, free from the adolescent hell of pimples.  Slim body, a boy’s body, though he was clearly a man – he’d driven to my house in his own truck, which meant he was well over eighteen. He’d negotiated price quietly, firmly, and I’d accepted, lost in a dream of slow lazy loving fucking, him deep inside me.  Oh, yeah, I forgot to say.  Big macho me, I like to bottom.  I like the feeling of a man in me, stroking me, giving me that explosion of bliss as he rubs me deep inside, velvet and ivory and ecstasy.   My tricks are always surprised – the martial arts teacher, the macho gruff utterly male guy wrapping his legs round another bloke’s body, playing the part of a woman.  Better than playing straight, which I can do too, hypocrite that I am.

Anyway, he went off to mow, and I made myself some tea.  Fucking leg stuck straight out, I had to be careful not to bang it.  Jeez.  And listened to the lawnmower.  And lusted, painfully.  Thank God I was wearing bikini briefs not boxers.  No tented bulge to give me away.

He came round the corner, and the noise level doubled.  He saw me on the verandah, and took off his earmuffs, throttled the mower down, and walked over to me.

“Would you like me to come and do this section later?”

Dad left me more than money.  A couple of acres, a grand house.  All that shit.  Pity I had to live here alone.  Sometimes, I didn’t bring tricks back here, because I didn’t want them to pretend to be interested in me just because I was rich.  But Sean didn’t show the slightest interest in me.  No gaydar ping.  Straight.  Irredeemably straight.

“No, no worries.”

He went back to his job, but the way he moved suggested he knew I was watching him.  Nope, I wasn’t gonna do this.  Yearn like some fifteen year old for the center forward of the footy team, no sirree, I wasn’t.

I turned to go back inside, and so besotted I wasn’t watching where I was going and banged my leg on the door jamb.

“Holy fucking Mother of Christ!”   I went to a good Catholic school.  I groaned in agony.

Behind me the lawnmower stopped, and quick footsteps tapped on the decking.  So he’d been watching me, huh?

“You OK, mate?”

Perverse to the last, I said “Yes, it’s no biggie.”  I lacked conviction, I think.  You can’t say that easily through your teeth.

“C’mon,” he said, and pushed me inside.  Oh, I like that, a man who takes charge.

I was feeling better.  I watched his arms on the handles of the wheelchair through the corners of my eyes.  Oh God, I wanted them stroking me.  Around me.  Shit.  I’d been without a good fuck for too long.  But how was I going to get any when I was like this?   The buff beuties in the bars didn’t want hassle.  They’d take one look and go off for more interesting prospects.

“I can’t do anything through the cast,” he said, voice soft and deep, stirring my cock which had deflated in the agony.

I started to laugh.

“What?”

“It’s the other leg”.

I was wearing shorts.  Easier to manage with the cast.  He colored, then “Where?”

“My knee and calf.”

He began to massage, his head downcast, his eyes avoiding me.  “That better?”  Holy Mary, that voice.  Those fingers.

“Yeah.”  Strangled.  Jeez.  Don’t look at my pants.  I could feel the pre-come leaking.  My shorts were thin.  Please, please, O Lord, I promise to be good and not say horrible things to Aunty Juliet at Christmas dinner.  Please don’t let him look.  I watched the top of his head.  Raven curls.  Innocent ears.  A kissable neck, with blameless tendrils, sweet as baklava.

He looked up.  Something in my eyes.  He colored deeply, the ivory skin glowing like a desert sunset in winter.

Something in his eyes.  I reached out my hand, and stroked his cheek.  “Beautiful,” I whispered.

Later, my cock inside him, he leaned forward and kissed my bruised lips.  “You too,” he said, voice like warm honey.   He tightened himself around me, deliciously.  Oh, I might prefer to bottom, but hell, you can’t do much with a cast.  I could get used to this, I could.

Still later, he asked, his breath warm on my neck, “Will you be needing the grass cut again, next week, sir?”

“I reckon.”  Then I added, laughing a little, “Maybe even before that.  You know how quick the grass grows at this time of the year.”

“Yeah.”  I didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling.

 

©Nick Thiwerspoon 2012 All rights reserved