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I had started running in the local park early in the mornings, why…I couldn’t have said. It’s not as if I’m a fitness freak and after the first few weeks my body seemed to need the exercise, so I continued with it. I was now running five kilometres a day and sometimes without necessarily making a conscious decision, running a second round of the park. That morning for some reason I lost concentration and with not looking where my Nike feet were pounding the park grassland my foot slipped and I fell heavily fell to the ground twisting my ankle. As I struggled to drag any breath into my winded body, I clutched my ankle and rubbing at the grass burn on my leg as tears welled up in my eyes.

It was tears of frustration rather than the reaction to the pain. Falling down on an open grassy slope without an obstacle in sight somehow seemed consistent at that time with the direction of my life. I didn’t know what I wanted and I increasingly I felt cut off from friends and family. Then there was a sight of a slight built woman who looked middle aged hurrying over to me from the pathway that bisected the park. I recognised her immediately although we had never really met. She lived in the end house across the park from my parent’s home.

“Can I give you a hand, I saw you fall, can you get up?” She asked me.

“I’ll be right” I cried out as I tried to put some weight on my foot.

Marge Taylor was her name, and she was something of a mystery in the neighbourhood or so I heard my mother say in a conversation with her neighbours. Marge stopped a man who was out walking his dog and between them they supported me until I got to Marge’s house where I thanked the man for helping me.

“I’ll drive you home rather than having you hobbled across the park honey” Marge said to me as she got me into her living room and got me sat down on her sofa.

I explained that I was on my own for the weekend and Marge suggested I stay at hers and that she would bathe my ankle and later on she would drive me home. Despite my ankle and feeling foolish I was also a little curious about her. I had often passed her house which was small but attractive with pointed brick work and ivy laced around the bay windows fronting the street. Once or twice, I had heard orchestral music coming from her house and on one occasion a man and woman in evening dress bid their host goodnight.

“I think its best we bathe your ankle and then see about putting on some ointment and a wrapping” Marge then said to me.

“That’s you?” I now said to her.

We were in the hall and Marge had her arm around me, having bid our other helper goodbye. The photograph that had caught my attention was a large grainy print in a silver frame. The ballerina was caught in mid-flight by a band of light from an open window and at first, I had not recognised the face turned partially away from the camera.

“Oh, that was a very long time ago” Marge replied to me.

Marge helped me into a bathroom and with some difficulty I managed to sit on the end of the bath with my feet in the tub. With warm water running Marge left and returned with a jumper. I realised that I was quite cold. While running I had worn brief nylon shorts and on top just a cotton t-shirt with no bra. I was now aware that my nipples had hardened with the cold. My boobs were small, which was one of the things that I disliked about myself. I disliked my boobs most of all. When I was sixteen it seemed as though every other girl, certainly in high school had bigger boobs than me. The bulky jersey warmed me up and I rubbed my hands up and my arms.

“I’ll bathe your foot until there is enough water to cover your feet, tell me if I hurt you” Marge now said to me.

Marge istanbul travesti knelt beside the tub and using a washer she began to gently bathe my ankle. She asked me questions about my parents and school. Now with the warm water and Marge’s gentle washing my ankle throbbed in a rhythmic way and I closed my eyes paying attention to the beat. I was suddenly aware that Marge was no longer speaking or bathing my foot. My flimsy shorts had been pulled tight between my legs as my body weight was pushed forward by the inclined slope of the bath. Looking down between my legs I saw two fine blonde pubic hairs, having escaped the restraint of the panties under my shorts. Were then now visible, curled against my inner thigh. Simultaneously as I registered the hair I was aware of Marge’s gaze that was now focused between my legs. She turned her head and looked at me briefly and so quickly did the moment pass.

I wasn’t sure afterward exactly what I had seen in her eyes, vulnerability, longing? I was shocked without knowing why. There was something about Marge’s eyes, about that look, something it reminded me of Then Marge was bustling. Dressing my ankle, chatting, supporting my awkward movement to a chair in a sunroom, mothering with a cup of tea and a blanket tucked about me. From the depths of a cupboard, a walking stick was found an abstract oil painting hung. I decided before drifting into a sleep it was a landscape configured with boobs, shoulders and flanks of tonal landforms.

I suddenly jolted awake as I remembered clearly the expression in Marge’s eyes which were the same look definitely longing and Marne crying and my…my confusion and later thinking about it my longing? I had been kept back by the sports teacher and the changing rooms were deserted. Normally, I hurried to change and shower, uncomfortable with the noise and casual camaraderie of the other girls. That day I dawdled, enjoying being on my own and I stayed under the shower mindful of the warmth. The water beat down against my boobs coursing in rivulets, arcing over the rise of flesh. My nipples wept tears; the puckered pink crests tightly shut like babies’ eyes.

Yes, my boobs were small, but they were also firm, marbled I thought because I have fair skin and it is possible to see lightly etched veins like tracery in marble. Holding my boobs, I formed a catchment so that each nipple nuzzled a pool of warm water damned by my hands. I liked the flare of my hips angled from my narrow waist. The fuzz between my legs was splayed and flattened like long grass after a storm. Turning my back to the shower and moving forward a step and bending at the waist caused a stream of water to see passage over my bottom. A small stream like a lover’s tongue, curious and insistent found my sex before surrendering to gravity. Cleaning my bottom, hands on hips and thrusting my pelvis at the flow of the shower that was now beginning to radiate between my legs.

Languidly my hand sought the mound of my sex as I thought of Brian and how he had wanted to touch me, how eventually, almost petulantly because I didn’t want his hands on my body, he had guided my hand to his groin. I could feel the urgent hardness of him and at the same time a feeling of panic, of wanting to be anywhere but labouring and sweaty in the confines of the car. The cooling water reminded me of the need to change and catch up with the routine of the day. Turning off the taps with eyes muffled in a towel I stepped from the shower as Marne stood there looking at me. I called out her name, not in greeting but more shocked that anybody who had been staring at me. Marne looked strangely at me, wide eyed and staring and her hands were reaching as though to touch istanbul travestileri my boobs.

Then her hand jerked to her mouth, tears spiked her eyes and with a muffled cry, Marne turned and fled. For a long time after, usually at night in bed, I replayed the scene in my mind. It was the startled, fearful look in Marne’s eyes that I returned to. I came to believe I had seen in the troubled depths, a yearning, perhaps, worship. Always the remembrance ended in fantasy as Marne’s hand touched my boob. Gradually my fantasy developed taking shape and detailed form. Like colours and shapes liberated by water in a child’s paint book my fantasy enriched within my mind. Marne’s fingers teasing the points of my boobs with her tongue lapping like a cat at the moistness between my thighs.

In reality, Marne and I never spoke about the incident, remaining as before distant. Marne blended anonymously into the school’s daily fabric, for no known reason ever an outsider. Not unpopular, simply never accounted. But it was as though she had transferred the longing I had seen in her eyes, to my being. I was obsessed by my feelings. My desires, a confusion of lust, guilt and self-doubt were focused not on Marne but on the knowledge that I was attracted to women. I joined in with my friend’s social chatter, using David as a passport, but all the time I had a sense of acting a part and wondering who the real me was. Aware now that the sun had transferred its warmth to another window, I realised that it must now be late afternoon. Perhaps I should go home. Using the walking stick I gained my feet.

I could hear music and followed the sound. The strings from the slow movement of Swan Lake drew me down the hall towards the rear of the house. A partly open door provided a view into a room and a blur of movement accorded with the raised intensity of the music. Marge was dancing, pirouetting, crouching, leaping and disappearing only to reappear with arms gracefully arched and pointed toes stepping. Her image was caught in a mirror attached to the wall nearest the door. Carefully, I leant against the wall and watched. Marge was totally absorbed and unaware. There was a fluidity about her movements that was captivating. Her body seemingly weightless, defying nature and describing a smooth progression of changing form. So graceful did she appear, it was as though the walls were the only boundaries that the elements of space and body were as one flexible medium…

The music reached a climax and Marge folded with the last note. The silence was immense and Marge stood and suddenly noticed me.

‘Ah you found me” She then said.

‘That was wonderful. It was beautiful. You are so good, I’ve…’ I began until she interrupted me.

“Oh no, no, once not anymore, I’m only working out. I do it most days. It keeps me subtle” She then continued to tell me.

“I would love to dance like that, I…” And then we both laughed.

Aware of how absurd it sounded with my ankle strapped and clutching a walking stick. I also became acutely aware of Marge’s body. She wore a leotard over small panties but no top. Her boobs were clearly visible through the stretched fabric, her nipples prominent. For the second time that day there was a tension between us, electric almost palpable and I could feel my throat tighten with the nervous energy of the moment. I couldn’t stop looking at Marge’s boobs and at her slim body and of course the shadowed area between her legs.

“I…I’d better change then take you home” Marge then told me.

Normality returned and my uncomfortable stance of leaning on a stick for some support and Marge again, all bustle I didn’t want to go home and when Marge returned, travesti istanbul dressed in a blouse and skirt, I asked if I could stay. I stayed for a cup of tea and then for the remainder of the afternoon and then I stayed for dinner. We talked, potted plants under a Jasmine covered arbour, laughed about my ignorance of food and how to cook it. Like two friends with nothing on our minds, not the age difference, not the awkward moments of heightened sensitivity to the other’s body, not the carnality which had infused my body as I watched the display of Margaret’s dance; two friends with only the mutual enjoyment of each other’s company.

Dinner was relaxed but serious, as Marge insisted on describing it. Food and wine are like good friends, a celebration of difference and uniqueness. We prepared and ate small helping of chicken and fish. Leafy salads most of which were picked from the garden. Crystal glasses. Marge talked of the wine and its relationship to the food. We also laughed a lot, often at my expense, because I knew so little. After dinner we sat on the deep leather sofa in the lounge watching Diaghilev’s Berlin Swan Lake on video. After the first movement, trying to ease the pressure on my ankle, Marge suggested I use the length of the sofa to support my legs. She put her arm around my shoulders, then I lay with my head in her lap. Marge whispered to me, identifying significant moments in the plot or technical comment about the dance. Gradually I became absorbed in the story, the beauty and poetry of the dance. As the swan lay dying tears pricked my eyes and slowly eased down my checks.

With the finale my tears turned to sobs. Marge made soothing noises, patting my shoulder and then stroking my hair.

“Honey don’t cry when life ends the dance still goes on” She then said to me.

“That is what the swan learnt, poor one, there” Even as I cried with the abandon of a child, my face was buried in Marge’s lap, I knew my tears were more about me and about an unaccountable sense of loss. Gradually my sobbing ebbed to a whimper, my shoulders relaxed coxed by Marge’s comforting hands. A contented stillness claimed me as Marge’s hand played a light rhythmic movement around the contours of my face and neck. I closed my eyes to increase the stillness. How long we lay like that I’m not sure. The sense of Marge’s body gradually claimed my attention, dragging my mind through the surface of self-absorption, the teary dampness of her lap, the half-moon curve of her breasts. I trapped Marge’s hand and touched my lips to her fingers; an act of gratitude, I wanted to express the tenderness I felt.

Marge lent forward and lightly and unhurriedly touched her lips to my neck; with deliberation she brought her lips to my ear and finally, slowly, with silent concentration, touched my lips. I have no memory of that first kiss only that it happened. No taste, no feel, no sensory definition; my body reduced to a sharply drawn breath. Then inarticulate sounds whimpered from my throat as the pressure of Marge’s mouth-imposed a rising warmth. The volume and weight of her body supporting the need I felt to graft to her, fitting substance to the impression, wanting more, wanting to be absorbed. I kissed Marge’s fingers and placed her hand on my boob as I lay with my head in her lap, reflected in the dark centre of her brown eyes. Calmly, I watched as doubt, acceptance and desire flickered and flamed. First her fingers and then her hand, began a slow soft dance on my boobs.

Our love making that night was awkward, in turn comically painful because of my injured ankle and desperate, because of my inexperience. At the end I raised my hips, thrusting, demanding, pleading and finally, I reached that point when self is annihilated by sensation, when existence is fused to a point of savage intensity. In the newness of early morning, I lay there awake taking pleasure in the nearness of Marge’s sleeping body enjoying a sense of belonging. I was warming my body and my mind, and it was working out.

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