They say every journey starts with a single step. In my case, the journey to enlightenment began with a spilt cup of tea.
I should begin by explaining how I got to the starting point of my journey.
My name is Eve Laidler. I was born and raised in England: my father was the owner of a small independent garage and repair workshop in East Anglia, a quiet, gentle man but with a twinkle in his eye and an unassuming sense of fun, which I’d like to think I’ve inherited. My mother on the other hand was a more severe woman who tolerated, but never really joined in, my father’s humour. Then when I was eleven years old, my father died quite suddenly of a heart attack.
My mother tried to take on the running of the garage, although it was already clear that the big car dealerships were squeezing the likes of us out of business. But our little operation was near an American air base, and some of the staff stationed there would use us to service their American cars which they had brought over, since the big boys had no advantage over us when it came to models they had no experience of. One day about two years later, my mother announced that she was going to marry one such serviceman, Joseph Waller. This was out of the blue, as far as I was concerned; she had never brought him to the house, and although I knew she had evenings out, I never realised she was dating. Within 6 months, she was married, Joseph was sent back to the USA, and we went with him. Shortly after, he left the Air Force, became the manager of a hardware store and we settled in a modest wooden house in a small town in middle America, in what some comedian called “one of the square states”, and I found myself having a completely different life.
Joseph was a humourless and solemn man, who was stern and domineering. To give him his due, he tried hard to be a father figure to me, and was kind in his way, but the austere outlook soon had me suppressing my fun side, and I became more introspective, careful about what I said, and keeping my emotions hidden. My mother and I became Americans. We became closely involved with the local church, the Church of the Redeemer, and Pastor Josiah Brown became a regular visitor to our home. I was persuaded — actually, more like commanded — to join the choir, and what with school and church affairs, I had a steady and secure, if not exactly stimulating, existence.
At school, I was a bit of an oddity, with my English accent and upbringing, and a lack of understanding of many of the ways of life that my fellow students took for granted. Even the teachers found me hard to integrate, since the syllabus was different and I was missing some of the early years’ grounding in some subjects. Also I found it hard to get used to American spellings, and constantly got ribbed for using the wrong words — after I asked a class mate to borrow a rubber, instead of an eraser, I got called Rubber all the time. I didn’t know at the time it meant a condom, at school in England we called them Johnnies. So I found myself a bit socially excluded, and became a bit of a loner.
Then when I was sixteen, my stepfather died. He’d been fit and healthy, but ran out of the store after a customer who’d left his wallet on the counter, and was hit by a car coming past the front of the store. This was in the parking lot, and the car was only doing ten or fifteen miles an hour, but he fell awkwardly and hit his head hard on the road — a freak accident.
My mother was devastated. She cried a lot, and when she wasn’t crying, she was angry — at Joseph for leaving her, at herself for not coping with it, and often at me, for reasons I couldn’t always determine: I couldn’t seem to do anything to please her. She seemed to lack the drive of old, and I think she probably had a minor breakdown. More and more of domestic life I found myself taking over — cleaning, shopping, cooking. My mother had had a part time job as a receptionist for a local doctor, but took so much time off for ‘compassionate leave’ that eventually the doctor was forced to replace her. I began to wonder how we were fixed financially. Pastor Brown stopped by often to lend his support, and slowly my mother began to rally. Eventually one of the church members found her another job helping out in a store — not well paid but at least it helped her back into normal life and interaction with the outside world.
It was easier in the choir at first, as we had little time for socialising, and choir practice was more about singing than chatting. There was one boy there though, Pastor Brown’s son Abe, who began to take an interest in me when I was seventeen. I had become a reasonably attractive teenager, with a decent and trim figure and a pleasant if not exactly pretty face. Although I did nothing to show off my looks, Abe began to seek me out. Now Pastor Brown was an ebullient man with a booming voice who always seemed to fill any room he was in. He seemed to consider his role in life as uplifting people by force of personality, and of course keeping them in God’s way in the process. Abe, on the other hand, was a sly, unctuous kid with a wheedling voice, who acted in public just like the very correct Pastor’s son, but who in private started to come on to me. At first, it was sexual innuendo. For example, one evening I was collecting up all the various hymn books and music sheets after choir practice, and Abe stood watching whilst everybody else was packing up and leaving. When they had all left, and I had nearly finished, he came over with his usual oily smile and said, “I’ll help you if you like, if you do something for me in return.” “That’s big of you,” I replied sarcastically. “It’s what you can do in return that will make me big!” he responded with a leering grin.
This kind of exchange became more frequent when he had the opportunity, and I could see him start to engineer such opportunities. If I borrowed a book from the church library, he would somehow be there when I took it back. Once a month in summer, the church had a stall in the car park selling donated goods to fund missionary work, and if I volunteered to man the stall, so would Abe, forever trying to peer down my cleavage if I leaned to reach an item from under the table.
The Pastor seemed to think I was sweet on Abe, and kept pairing us up for church tasks. He asked me to distribute the monthly parish publication to congregation members, and arranged for Abe to drive me round one evening. After we finished, I went into the church to put the unused copies in the office, and Abe followed me in.
“You owe me a reward for helping you!” he said.
“Oh yes, and what do you suppose that is?”
My reply was incautious. He grabbed me and spun me round with my back to the cupboard, and kissed me hard. It wasn’t a very romantic or arousing moment. Before I could gather my wits, his hands were on my breasts, kneading and mashing them. It didn’t feel good. I pushed him away and ran out, laughter in my ears.
He kept telling me I should lose my cherry before I went to college, so I would be ready for the boys there, and he was the man to take it for me. My response was to tell him to get lost, but it seemed to have little effect.
Not surprisingly, what with my mother’s state of mind and my involvement in the church, my schoolwork suffered, and it began to look as though it would be harder for me to graduate from high school. So it wasn’t a question of losing my virginity before going to college — I wasn’t likely to get there. Even if we had the money, or I could get a job and work myself through college, my mother would not let me go and it did not seem as if she could cope without me.
So I got a vacation job at Jackson’s Mow & Grow — a large garden centre on the outskirts of town. It was thanks to old Mr. John Jackson, whom I knew as a leading member of the church, although he was now pretty much retired and most of the day to day running was done by his grandson Luke. I really enjoyed it, from manning the shop tills to watering the stock to plant culture in the greenhouses.
Then just before I graduated from high school, my mother got sick. She developed severe abdominal pains and fever, and the doctors diagnosed peritonitis from a bowel rupture. She failed to respond to treatment and within a week she had died.
So there I was, just turned eighteen, now completely dependent on myself, with no near relatives to help, no close friends thanks to my restrictive home life, and no money. I somehow got through the immediate issues of bereavement and funeral, found that she had actually been organised enough to make a will in which she left me the house, and it turned out there was a savings account which I hadn’t known about — close to ten thousand dollars — but she had stated it should be used to cover all the funeral expenses, and the balance went to the church. I was left with the current account with just a couple of hundred dollars, but at least no debts.
So now I had no worries about where to live, but no money and serious worries about pretty much everything else. By the time all this was done, school had finished, so I never went back. I went instead to see Luke, and he offered me a full time job at Mow & Grow, which I eagerly accepted — not much money, but enough to enable me to keep the house and still eat.
Fast forward four years to the spilt cup of tea. I mentioned it to Marijka the following day whilst we were at the potting bench potting up begonias for the forthcoming Spring rush.
“I usually make myself a mug of good old fashioned English tea to drink in bed with a few minutes of reading before I go to sleep. Well, last night I managed to throw it all down my front — I was carrying my book and the mug out of the kitchen and caught the sleeve of my nightie on the kitchen door handle, and splosh! Tea all over me and the floor, and to make matters worse the mug smashed and the book fell into the tea puddle. I was lucky the tea had already been standing for a few minutes otherwise I could have been scalded! Took me ten minutes to mop everything up. Then I had to change my nightie, but I’d only just put a clean one on, the old one was in the dirty washing basket and my only other one was still in the wash. I had to go to bed with nothing on! Luckily I was so tired I was asleep in minutes.”
What I hadn’t mentioned is that I had never done this before, and it felt very illicit, like I had secretly done something bad.
“Lucky you!” said Marijka, “I always sleep nude. It feels so much better! You should carry on like that and see if you don’t agree.”
It came as no surprise. Marijka was modern, liberated, confident, lacking inhibition — all the things I was not. A Dutch girl, she was in the States on a gap year after finishing university whilst she decided what career to pursue, staying with an uncle who lived locally; and despite being older than her, I felt so much less mature and experienced. However, she was fun, enthusiastic and never seemed to be down, and we got on really well.
“Well, I don’t know… I somehow feel more comfortable in a nightie.”
Actually, it had felt really good — cool, smooth on my skin, and very sensuous. When I woke in the morning with the alarm buzzing, and I realised with a shock I was still naked, it had felt… exciting. But I had leapt out of bed and into my dressing gown to head to the bathroom for my morning shower. It was when I got out of the shower and was towelling myself dry, I thought: why was I so scared to walk a few feet to the bedroom with no clothes on? I was alone in the house, no-one could see. What was I afraid of or embarrassed about? Indeed, what would be the consequence of not wearing my dressing gown?
And so, when I finished drying myself, I left my dressing gown on the bathroom door and walked back in the nude. It took some self control not to cover myself with my hands and scamper back: irrational fears take some time to get over.
When I said I felt more comfortable in a nightie, what I really meant was I felt uncomfortable about not wearing a nightie.
“It just seems more free and unconfined and — well, sexy to be naked in bed,” said Marijka. “But then I like being naked around the house too, for the same reasons.”
“What about your uncle?”
“Oh, after he caught me out a couple of times coming home when I was naked, we’ve come to an arrangement — Dirk likes it too so now we accept each other nude.”
This would take a bit of mental processing. Marijka was tall, stately, blond, very attractive; her uncle Dirk was middle-aged, shorter, balding, I suppose reasonably fit and not bad-looking, but even so, to go around naked in front of him…
“Well, as long as you don’t forget and strip here… Bert would have a heart attack!”
Bert was the general maintenance and fix-it man around the garden centre. Fifty-ish, portly and nervous, especially around women. Marijka giggled. “It’s almost worth it to see his reaction! If I could manage it without getting fired!”
“Perhaps you could get Francine to do it — she’s more his type!” Francine was regularly on the tills, a large black lady, kindly but loud and assertive, and Bert was clearly terrified of her. One of the four till positions had a dodgy power outlet so the till regularly cut out: Francine would be heard bellowing “Bert! Bert! This dang cash register don’t work again!” and Bert would rush up, flustered, and mutter about cables or water or something. “I don’t care! Fix it!” she would exclaim, with a wink to anyone nearby. Even Marijka was a little intimidated by Francine. She had patiently and repeatedly explained the pronunciation of her name, which roughly rhymed with “Ma Raker”, but Francine kept lapsing back to “Mary Car”, so Marijka gave up and accepted it.
Before we could develop this theme any further, however, we were interrupted by Luke, who swept in and demanded, “Hi ladies, have either of you seen any of the bug sprayers? The large ones, the rucksack style.”
“No, sorry Luke,” we chorused. “Didn’t Jimmy have one to spray the roses out the back?” I added. “Thanks, I’ll ask him,” and out he swept again.
“Now that’s someone I could strip for,” said Marijka, “and judging by your reaction I think you could too!”
I blushed. Luke was very nice and very good looking, not that I’d ever stand a chance of attracting his attention.
“Don’t forget Luke is spoken for — that heiress, Keiron Sangster…”
She was ‘posh American’ from a wealthy family with several ranches in the area. Always impeccably groomed, poised and haughty. She certainly didn’t seem to me to be the sort of woman who would settle with a practical, down to earth local businessman like Luke.
“Well, am I right?” Is he part of your late night fantasies?”
I felt a bit flustered. Now I knew how Bert felt.
“Well, I don’t — er, haven’t given it any thought,” I finished lamely. I wasn’t sure where this was going and hoped I could head it into more comfortable territory. “Have you heard when the wedding is scheduled for?”
“They won’t get married, they don’t fit — she will seek out someone a bit more — how do you put it — aspirational!” For a Dutch native, her English was sometimes better than mine.
Unfortunately the ploy didn’t work. “So who do you fantasise about in bed?”
I was a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Well, I don’t — er… I’m not sure what you mean?” I was lost.
“You know, when you are feeling hot, when you let your fingers do the talking?”
I realised with a start she was talking about masturbation. I blushed even more obviously. I had been brought up to believe that masturbation was wrong, sinful, un-Christian.
“Well, I don’t — er…” I felt I was repeating myself. “I mean, I haven’t — er –”
“You don’t play with yourself? Why not?”
“Well, it doesn’t seem right, I was brought up to think it was wrong…”
Marijka snorted. “What’s wrong with it? If you can give yourself an orgasm with no man involved, no-one to get emotionally tense, you can imagine yourself with anyone on the planet — well, not someone old, fat and smelly, obviously — then why wouldn’t you? It’s a fabulous feeling, better than alcohol! You aren’t doing any harm to anyone, how can that be wrong? Give it a go, Eve!”
Fortunately for me, before I could dig my hole any deeper, Luke came back and got me to help him put a stock delivery away whilst Marijka continued with the potting on.
I thought about this in the evening as I was preparing to go upstairs to bed. What was my hang-up exactly? Indeed, did I have one — perhaps I was just being ‘proper’? I remembered how I felt more free and comfortable in bed nude, and how hard it was to walk across the landing from bathroom to bedroom in the nude. But I thought, no-one can see, why should it be wrong? Why should enjoyment of nudity be sinful if you are alone? I took my nightly mug of tea upstairs — fully clothed and carefully this time — set it down on the bedside cabinet, took a deep breath, and got undressed. This evening, instead of rushing to get my nightie on (well, I still didn’t have a clean one anyway), I dropped my underwear into the laundry basket and walked over to the mirror on the wardrobe door.
I hadn’t really looked at myself in the mirror naked for… well, probably ever. I saw a reasonably fit and shapely young woman, with a bush of brown pubic hair, shapely breasts — not very large, not small either — and quite prominent nipples. Should they be that hard? Don’t think they are normally… I wonder why?
I turned one way then the other, looking over my shoulder at my reflection. Seems ok, not supermodel territory, but nothing to be ashamed about. It still felt a bit naughty, but I couldn’t think why it should be.
I felt a bit emboldened. I opened the bedroom door to saunter down to the bathroom, and did my usual evening toilet. When I came back to the bedroom, I took a sip of my tea and realised I’d left my glass of water on the kitchen table. What the hell, I thought, and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. I forced myself not to hurry. Here I was, naked where I’d never been naked before. I walked around the kitchen, noting the feel of air gently breathing on my skin. I went over to the kitchen window. It looked out onto the back yard, with my vegetable patch. It was deep into dusk and I realised the kitchen light was on and it would be easy to see in. There were only a couple of upstairs windows of the houses on the next block visible, and they were dark.
Suddenly the light came on in one and I could see a man coming into the room. I squawked with fright, clutched at my boobs and groin, and scuttled out of the kitchen. Then I remembered the water, reached around the door and felt for the light switch, and edged slowly round the door as my eyes adjusted to the dark. I scampered to the table, grabbed the water, and rushed out and up the stairs.
I dived into bed, turned the light off and pulled up the covers. My heart was still pumping. Had he seen me? Then I thought, and what if he had? Would he think me dissolute, a harlot, or — wait a minute — would he be turned on? I realised that despite my panic, I was actually exhilarated, and that my nipples were again hard, and I had a funny sensation in my groin. I thought I’d better lie still and let my heart rate get back to normal, and try to direct my thoughts back to less distracting topics. And soon I drifted off to sleep and dreamt of Marijka standing in the garden centre shop naked, ordering me to take my clothes off too, and the other staff standing around chanting “Off! Off!” until I woke with a start.
~~~~~~
It was a few days before I got to chat with Marijka again, as we were going through the vegetable module pots — squash, zuccini, sweetcorn and so on — checking and thinning the seedlings to ready them for sale.