It was about three years ago that we met outside a bar. It was the springtime and the nights were balmy enough to drink outside. I had just got engaged and was there with my soon to be husband. The gardener was introduced to us by a mutual friend.
He had the air of someone who spends a lot of his time outdoors. A tanned face, a healthy glow in his cheeks and the stature of a man used to physical labour. As we said our goodbyes, I remember kissing him on both cheeks and feeling his hard biceps through his jacket. It was enough to make me curious about the rest of him. Shortly after that we invited him to one of our dinner parties, in the hope of setting him up with one of our younger single friends. He showed up with a homemade quiche and bottle of red wine. I was impressed with his cooking abilities (I’m a sucker for men who can cook). The dinner party took it’s course and he came across as the shy, bumbling Englishman when introduced to our friends. But there were moments of lingering eye contact across the dinner table and I decided to get to know him a little better.
The following week he and I met. We went for drinks. He had driven in from the villa outside the city where he worked and had parked his car a short walk from my flat. So, it seemed only polite to invite him in for coffee on our stroll home. I was also a little concerned about the amount he had drunk, given he was planning to drive. We talked, drank coffee and I teased him about setting him up with my younger friend. We moved closer to one another and he took my hand, playing with my fingers. The flat was silent. We both looked at our intertwined fingers, furtively glancing up in an attempt to gauge what the next step should be. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. And so we kissed, timidly at first and then with a heated animation. That first night was very innocent, just kissing and fondling. It was fun, like being teenagers again.
That was the start of my long hot summer with the gardener. He started to drive into town regularly. Monday nights became our ‘pasta & fuck’ night. I would make us dinner, the same pasta sauce every time. We would open a bottle of wine, talk, eat a little, fuck a little and then go back to finish the pasta and wine. It was such a wonderfully simple combination. No expectations, just chat, sex, food and wine. He had started dating the young friend I had set him up with. When coming into town to see her, he would arrive early and drop by my place first. Within a minute of opening the door to him, we would be kissing and stripping the clothes from one another’s bodies, moving towards the bedroom as we did so. His body was so firm and tanned. I loved to run my hands over his torso, tracing each bump and dip with my finger, licking his skin to taste his salty sweat. His biceps and forearms were perfect. Perhaps it is a little fetish of mine, but I cannot resist a man with well defined forearms. It gives me a sense of security, perhaps the feeling that those arms could protect me, carry me, caress me. It drives me wild.
After our heated sessions together, he would shower, dress and head over to his new girlfriend’s place, where he would usually have to spend the night. I got a thrill out of meeting up with him and her for drinks within an hour of having his cock inside me. I have often wondered whether he and I were most alike in that sense. He was and remains a bachelor, a guy who fucks around. He liked the thrill and danger of our affair as well. That summer we lived a risky life, so much deceit, so many lies, but what incredible sex we had and on many occasions the bruises to prove it. But that’s another story for another day.