by Jay Lawrence
(01/28/04)

I have a wonderfully secluded little garden at my house by the sea. In the winter, when the fog rolls in, it sleeps, a neat, walled zone of barren sticks and shrouded patio furniture. In the summer, my garden comes into its own, a dazzling crescendo of fruit and flowers. I love flamboyant colors and unusual plants. An ascending chorus line of terra-cotta pots edges the steps to my kitchen door, a nursery of kiwis, kumquats and hibiscus.

Last August, an old lover decided to pay a surprise call. As always during the warmer months, I had installed myself and my laptop at the little table on the uneven red brick square that is my patio. I was trying to summon the Muse -- who appeared to be taking a day off -- when a voice called from the wrought iron gate.

"Hey!"

"Darrell! Where on earth did you spring from? Come in!"

The gate creaked as she entered, lugging a well-stuffed hold-all.

Questions regarding the state of play of her long-term relationship came to mind but I didn’t voice them. Instead I offered a welcoming hug and a kiss. "You look tired. Let me make you some tea."

Darrell sank into a chair. She smiled up at me, all bright blue eyes and a halo of soft golden hair. She looked like an angel.

"I've left Karen. It's for the best." Darrell's expression was as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's. "You don’t need to say anything. Some things simply aren't meant to be. I don't suppose you have any of that glorious apricot tea left?"

Darrell, the pragmatist. Like a cat, she always fell on her feet. I watched my girl kick off her sandals and stretch out in the dappled, sun-splashed light of the patio. Two years before, I had lost Darrell to Karen, a tall, brusque redhead who was an architect in Manhattan. I wasn't bitter. It was hard to bear a grudge against Darrell.

In my tiny yellow kitchen with shells arranged upon the window ledge, I boiled water and searched for the special fruity tea. There was just enough left to make a pot for two. I recalled its origin: an old-fashioned hole-in-the-wall store in Greenwich Village. That day, Darrell had swathed herself in a great scarf to ward off the November chill, looking every inch the student she was. Maple leaves lay thick on the ground as I kissed her.

"Here we are, Daz." The old endearment slipped easy from my lips as I set a tray down upon the garden table. I'd used a clear glass teapot, and the tea glowed like purest amber. Darrell's dress had somehow risen above her lovely knees, revealing a glorious sweep of gleaming sun-tanned leg. She grinned at me like a mischievous child. I could forgive this woman anything. Half amused, half annoyed, and just plain happy to see the girl, I poured the fragrant tea into porcelain cups.

"You have wonderful taste, Suzy. I envy you."

That made me laugh aloud. Here was my gorgeous girl, glittering in the afternoon sun, admiring my mismatched thrift-store china. She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs and revealing yet another inch or two of thigh. Terminally artful and absolutely adorable.

"Are those peaches, Suze?"

I followed Darrell's gaze to the heavy-laden tree, espaliered against the south wall of my little sanctuary. A multitude of blushing downy globes had rewarded my care, and I had been planning a lengthy canning session that very evening. Nothing brightens a winter's day more than a spoonful of gold from a well-stocked pantry.

The grass was cool and moist beneath my feet as I padded across the lawn to select the ripest fruit for my impromptu guest. "You don't get these in the city."

I thought of Karen's industrial-chic loft, all white empty space and Bauhaus chairs, like some monochromatic Lego set. And in the midst of it, Karen herself, lean and taut with Pilates, poles apart from my homely charms.

I placed the peach in Darrell's lap.

She smiled at my offering to the goddess. "You're so sweet. Would you peel it for me, please? I'm so hopeless, I always get in a terrible mess."

I fetched a knife from the kitchen and, as an afterthought took out a bright napkin patterned with sunflowers. Glancing through the window, I spotted Darrell surreptitiously unbuttoning the bodice of her dress. My mouth went dry, as if all my moisture had rushed to the warm oasis between my legs. Well, beloved, you certainly don't waste any time! You know I'm caught -- like a fish on a hook.

I stood transfixed watching Darrell remove her dress. Did she sense her captive audience of one? Yet it was an unselfconscious striptease. Sunlight caressed her breasts as she unhooked her bra and my pussy responded with a soft, insistent fluttering, like butterflies of desire. Though I was determined to maintain some semblance of dignity as I descended to the patio, knife and napkin clasped in moist hands, my heart was beating like a drum.

Darrell lay stretched out on the grass like a big calico cat. I almost expected her to purr as I sat down beside her. I peeled and sliced the velvety fruit, hands trembling. Only Daz would have the nerve, the sheer insouciance, to arrive without warning, demand her special tea, and ask me to prepare her a peach, as if nothing had changed since that November and Karen the architect didn't exist. I felt as if I should build a wall, keep myself safe, but, dammit, I just wanted the girl. Wanted her and loved her too.

I put the peach in front of her. "What am I going to do with you?"

Darrell giggled and opened her arms. "You could start by kissing me."

I felt a rush, an urge to dive into her embrace. I knew I was being used, and I didn't care. I kissed the girl. Her lips were sweet and faintly sticky, as if she'd been eating candy. We reconnected, time dissolving like the honey in our tea.

We came up for air, breathing hard. I looked down at her. Her eyes were closed; a faint smile played on her lips; her cheeks were flushed. I admired her breasts, small and firm, their tips upturned. Pert and perky. I had always lavished attention on Darrell’s breasts.

The sun felt heavy on my back as I knelt between my lover's parted thighs and dipped my hot tea-sweet mouth to suckle upon her small pink nipples. They felt like firm jellied candies against my massaging tongue. The butterflies returned, beating their pleasuring wings deep within my syrupy pussy. I took a slice of juicy peach and placed it against my lover's slightly parted lips, simultaneously caressing her silky inner thigh. Darrell sighed; a long, sibilant sound like the sea rushing up the gravel beach to greet the dunes. Slowly, as if she knew it would drive me wild, she drew the dripping wedge of fruit into her mouth and held it there.

I whispered into her ear. "Feed me, Daz."

Her eyes half opened, glittering dreamy slits in her sun-kissed face. I counted the tiny freckles on her sweet snub nose as she squeezed the slice of peach out through her plump and sticky lips. A nub of orange/pink flesh emerged from her mouth, so resembling a swollen clitoris that I began to flick the fruit with my tongue. The ripe fruit slid down my throat and I swallowed greedily, as my hand instinctively strayed to the soaking place between my legs. My thin panties were drenched and I shivered as Darrell's cool fingers reached up to ease them over my hips and down my thighs. Swiftly, I wriggled out of my sun dress and tossed it onto the grass. Suddenly, it was as if we couldn't stand to have the slightest wisp of fabric between our bodies. Almost roughly, I nipped at her skimpy panties with my teeth, dragging them down to reveal her perfumed velvety pussy.

"You look just like a peach!"

It was true. Darrell had the most beautiful pussy, with a plump Mound of Venus trimmed to leave but a fine dusting of reddish gold, a bloom of soft curly hair. Her labia were small and perfectly formed. She was the most tempting fruit of all as she lay like a glorious windfall beneath the whispering branches of my tiny orchard. The afternoon sun caressed my naked back as I slipped into a soixante-neuf. My lips found her clit. I began to lap her musky juice, tracing the satin of her inner places.

"Eat me, Daz!"

Almost tentatively, Darrell's mouth captured my own ripe to bursting fruit. I could take no more than a few brief moments of her intense wet heat before crying out with my first orgasm. As soon as the waves subsided, I placed my mouth over her solid, shiny clit and sucked like a five year old enjoying a lollipop. I remembered Darrell. She was the kind of girl who took a lot of stimulation. I'd long suspected that Karen spanked her, taking full advantage of her slight passivity, but ours was a meeting of equals. I licked and sucked and flicked the tiny female cock, savoring the smooth silk of her fresh clean flesh, the salty sugar of her copious juice. Darrell aroused slowly but steadily, as if her body chose to climb a long, steep plateau and make brief ecstasy last forever. Her hands felt warm, sometimes playing with my hair, sometimes pressing softly on my back, guiding me gently, encouraging me to stay the course. I could sense her orgasm rise, swell, grow, from a well-hidden seed in the depths of her love-nest, to a full, ripe, bursting, juice-filled crescendo. As she almost reached her peak, she began to thrash around from side to side, as if to come was just too intense, too much for her body to bear. She took her time but when she came it was explosive.

"Oh, fuck me! Oh, please!"

I kept my mouth on her, never missing a beat, but I slipped the tip of one finger into her anus. Darrell's body rose, writhing like an ivory serpent.

"No, oh no, no, no..."

I remembered her pleading, as if she almost had to fight the relentless onslaught of her orgasm. Nobody came like Darrell came. It was all I could do to hold onto her as she ground her shaking hips against my face. I was coated in her juice from forehead to chin. Finally, joyfully, her body imploded beneath my tongue and she screamed, wailed, moaned a veritable Greek chorus accompanying a climax that could waken the dead.

"Oh god! Oh, my darling..."

It took her a while to subside, to slowly come back down to earth, so I gently dismounted and brought her tepid tea, patiently waiting for my lover to recover. From time to time she shuddered with little aftershocks, as if she had been plugged into a powerful electrical source and now had to shed the current amp by amp. Suddenly I felt overwhelmingly protective.

I held her. "You're precious to me, you know."

Darrell looked up at me, her gaze a bright mix of gratitude and triumph. She lifted her head to sip the apricot tea.

"There's so much I have to tell you."

"There's time. I'm not going anywhere."

My lover smiled ruefully, but I hadn't meant to imply anything. I wouldn't be going anywhere because permanence is my style. I'm a patient sort. I understand that the seasons turn and birds fly south in winter, to return when the weather is fine. I love the slow, sensual rhythm of my garden. Sometimes it sleeps, sometimes it sings. If I tend it, it rewards me with baskets of fruit.

Darrell is a butterfly. She lives completely in the present, without regret. I know I can never possess her; I can only seize the day.

That drowsy August afternoon, I got her to help me with my peach canning. I would store up sweet fruit and memories to ward off future chill. My lover comes and goes. Months pass and all I have are postcards on my fridge, stamped in Albuquerque or Spokane.

I deal with it. Summer can't last forever but it always returns.

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