Date: Tue, 26 May 1998 22:28:00
From: Simone Graham <edf3@hotmail.com>

Subject: WORKING OUT

Afterwards I couldn't remember what I had been thinking about. Losing
concentration , not looking where my Nike feet were pounding the park
grassland, my foot slipped and I fell heavily, twisting my ankle.

I had started running in the local park, in the early morning. Why, I
couldn't have said. I wasn't a fitness freak. After the first few weeks my
body seemed to need the exercise and I continued, five kilometres a day and
sometimes, without necessarily making a conscious decision, running a
second round of the park.

That morning, as I struggled to drag breath into my winded body, by turns
clutching my ankle and rubbing at the grass burn on my leg, tears welled in
my eyes. Tears of frustration rather than 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; who I was. Increasingly, I felt cut off from friends and family.

 A slight built women, mature aged, hurried over from the pathway that
bisected the park. I recognised her immediately although we had never meet.
She lived in the end house, across the park from my parents home.

"Can I give you a hand?  I saw you fall; can you get up?"
 
"I'll be alright, I...."  I cried out, as I tied to put weight on my foot.

Margaret Passmor was her name. Something of a mystery in the neighbourhood,
or so I heard my mother say in conversation with a neighbour. She stopped a
man walking his dog, and between them they supported me to Margaret's
house.  "I'll drive you home, rather than have you hobble across the park".

I explained that I was on my own for the weekend and Margaret suggested I
stay, bath my ankle and later, she would drive me home.

Despite my ankle and feeling foolish, I was also curious. I had often
passed the house which was small but attractive with pointed brick- work
and ivy, laced around bay windows fronting the street. Once or twice, I had
heard orchestral music coming from the house and on one occasion, a man and
woman in evening dress, bidding their host goodnight.

"Best we bath your ankle and then see about ointment and a wrapping."
"That's you.! "


We were in the hall. Margaret with her arm around me, having bid our other
helper goodbye. The photograph that 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.

"It was a long time ago".

Margaret helped me into a bathroom. With some difficulty, I managed to sit
on the end of the bath with my feet in the bath. With warm water running,
Margaret left and returned with a jumper. I realised I was quite
cold. While running, I wore brief nylon running shorts and on top, a cotton
tee shirt; no bra. I was aware my nipples had hardened with the cold. My
breasts were small; " titless ", I had heard one of Brian's friend's
say. Of the things I disliked about myself , I disliked my breasts the
most. I was sixteen and it seemed as though ever other girl, certainly
everyone at school, had bigger breasts. The bulky jersey warmed me and I
rubbed my hands up and down my arms.

"I'll bath your foot until there is enough water to cover your feet. Tell
me if I hurt you"

Margaret knelt beside the bath and using a washer began to gently bath my
ankle.

 Margaret asked questions about my parents and school.  Now with the warm
water and Margaret's gentle washing , my ankle throbbed in a rhythmic way
and I closed my eyes paying attention to the beat.

I was suddenly aware the Margaret 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 blond pubic hairs, having escaped the
restraint of the panties under my shorts, were now visible, curled against
my inner thigh.  Simultaneously, as I registered the hair I was aware of
Margaret's gaze, focused between my legs. She turned her head and looked at
me. Briefly, and so quickly did the moment pass, I wasn't sure afterwards
exactly what I had seen in her eyes; vulnerability, longing?. I was shocked
without knowing why. There was something about Margaret's eyes, about that
look, something it reminded me of.

Then Margaret was bustling. Dressing my ankle, chatting, supporting my
awkward movement to a chair in a sunroom, mothering with a cup of tea and
blanket tucked about me. From the depths of a cupboard, a walking stick was
found.  She left me. The sun filtered between large leafy plants. On the
wall an abstract oil painting hung. I decided before drifting into sleep,
it was a landscape configured with breasts, shoulders and flanks of tonal
land-forms.

When I awoke, I did so suddenly. As though jolted awake. I remembered
clearly; the expression in Margaret's eyes reminded me of Marnie. That
look. What was it ?. The same hazel eyes, the same look; definitely longing
and Marnie crying and my, ... my confusion and, later, thinking about it,
my longing?

I had been kept back by the sports teacher and the change rooms were
deserted. Normally, I hurried to change and shower, uncomfortable with the
noise and casual comraderie of the other girls. That day I dawdled,
enjoying being on my own. I stayed under the shower, mindful of the
warmth. The water beat against my breasts, coursing in rivulets, arcing
over the rise of flesh.. My nipples wept tears; the puckered pink crests
like tightly shut babies eyes. My breasts were small but firm. Marbled I
thought, because I have very fair skin and it is possible to see lightly
etched veins like tracery in marble.. Holding my breasts 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, moving forward a step and bending at
the waist, caused a stream of water to seek passage over my bottom. A small
stream like a lovers' tongue, curious and insistent found my sex before
surrendering to gravity. Clenching my bottom, hands on hips and thrusting
my pelvis at the flow of the shower, a slow warmth was starting to radiate
between my legs. Languidly, my hand sort the mound of my sex.  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. 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. Marnie stood there, looking at me.

 I called out her name, not in greeting but shocked that anybody had been
observing me. Marnie looked strangely at me, wide eyed and staring. Her
hand was reaching as though to touch my breast. Then her hand jerked to her
mouth, tears spiked her eyes and with a muffled cry, Marnie 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 Marnie's eyes I returned to. I
came to believe I had seen, in the troubled depths, yearning, perhaps,
worship.  Always the rememberence ended in fantasy as Marnie's hand touched
my breast. 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. Marnie's fingers teasing the points of
my breasts, her tongue lapping like a cat at the moistness between my
thighs.

In reality, Marnie and I never spoke about the incident, remaining as
before, distant.  Marnie 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 Marnie but on
the knowledge that I was attracted to women. I joined in with my friends
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 the sun had transferred its warmth to another window, I realised it
must 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. Margaret 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.  Margaret 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 Margaret folded with the last note . The
silence was immense . Margaret stood and suddenly noticed me.

'Ah you found me,'

'That was wonderful. It was beautiful. You are so good, I've...'

'Oh no, no, once not any more. I'm only working out. I do it most days. It
keeps me subtle.'  '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
Margaret's body. She wore a leotard over small panties but no top. Her
breasts 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 Margaret's
breasts, at her slim body , the shadowed area between her legs.

' I,.. I'd better change. Then take you home. '

 Normality returned. My uncomfortable stance of leaning on a stick for
support and Margaret again, all bustle.  I didn't want to go home and when
Margaret returned, 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
arbor, 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 others company.

Dinner was relaxed but serious, as Margaret insisted on describing
it. Food, 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.
Margaret talked of the wine and its relationship to the food. We also
laughed a lot. Often at my expense, because I new so little.

After dinner , we sat on the deep leather settee in the lounge, watching
Dahgiliv's Berlin Swan Lake, on video. After the first movement, trying to
ease the pressure on my ankle, Margaret suggested I use the length of the
settee to support my legs. She put her arm around my shoulders and I lay
with my head in her lap.  Margaret 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. Margaret made soothing noises,
patting my shoulder and then stroking my hair.  'Silly one don't
cry.'.........  life ends but the dance goes on.'  'That is what the swan
learnt.' ' Poor one, there.......

Even as I cried with the abandon of a child, my face buried in Margaret's
lap, I knew my tears were more about me, about an unaccountable sense of
loss.  Gradually my sobbing ebbed to a whimper, my shoulders relaxed coxed
by Margaret's comforting hands. A contented stillness claimed
me. Margaret'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 Margaret'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
Margaret's hand and touched my lips to her fingers; an act of gratitude, I
wanted to express the tenderness I felt.

Margaret lent forward and lightly, 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
Margaret'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 Margaret's fingers and placed her hand on my breast. I lay with my
head in Margaret's 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
breasts.

Our love making that night was awkward; in turn comicly 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 awake taking pleasure in the
nearness of Margaret's sleeping body. Enjoying a sense of
belonging. Warming my body and my mind. It was working out.


Simone Graham

Copyright National Beagle 1997