Accident

There was a sliver of good fortune with the accident. It happened just a few days after I completed my spring final exams, my first year of college. A week earlier and I would have been completely screwed.

Out of that last test, I just wanted to run out all the tension, to run to exhaustion, then to sink into a comfort of complete rest. I did it for two days and was going about it on a third, a day before leaving campus. I concentrated everything into speed, nothing else, oblivious to everything but the strides--oblivious as well to the miserably pocked concrete. That's what did me in, another Third World roadway in the USA. Maybe it was best that my arms, extended, broke the fall, absorbed all the momentum. Maybe that's what prevented serious internal injuries, serious facial injuries, but at the price of fractures in both hands, severe lacerations on the fingers of both hands.

Again, however, there was that fortunate aspect. Here I was, casts and dressings on both hands, still a bit of pain, able only with great difficulty if at all to attend to my own needs--but projected to recover fully before the start of the fall semester. There was also the good fortune of medical insurance to pay the bills for treatment. But what could I do; how could I pass the summer? Both parents worked and I might be an impossible burden. There was a rehab allowance in the insurance. A rehab facility? The thought was a horror, and I probably didn't qualify anyway. But there was some allowance for home needs.

The answer was volunteered, not requested of her: Eileen. Eileen, the much younger sister of my mom, lived on her own, around a hundred miles away from us. She had a fairly spacious two bedroom, two bath apartment, the spare bedroom barely used. Ever since covid she worked remotely at home full time, using a den as a home office, not the extra bedroom. I saw her three of four times a year, usually holidays. We were friendly, but not really with a much developed relationship. However, she was my mom's baby sister, a loyal one. She was, she said, the perfect solution to this problem, one that would be no trouble at all, indeed an opportunity to know me better.

"Sander, I'm so sorry this happened to you."

That's what she said when she arrived at the house to pick me up. I was packed and ready to go. After the brief visit home, now goodbyes to my parents, my suitcase was put in the trunk of her car; we were ready to go. She opened the passenger door for me.

"Need a hand to get in?"

"No, I'm okay."

"Well, I'm not sure about the seatbelt."

She pulled it out, extended it across my chest and buckled it.

***

Eileen's reticence, her determination not to breach my dignity was clear.

"Don't worry. I can pretty much handle things."

In the few early days and the prior days, I wore elastic band gym shorts, nothing underneath, and a button shirt, easy to put on (pullover impossible) but obviously impossible to button. The one thing I could eat on my own without too much hassle and mess was subs, my staple then and continuing. It was possible to pee without assistance, sort of. It was not that hard to work the shorts down. Then I could pee. Getting the shorts back up, however, was an arduous challenge. I persisted on day one.

That first night she brushed my teeth. I felt her tenseness but also solicitude. She washed my face. We went back to my bedroom, where she had pulled back the covers for me.

"Is there anything else that you need?"

"No."

She pulled up the covers over me.

"If you need anything, call me. Good night."

The next day reality presented itself: poop. I explained what I needed.

"Call me when you need me."

I did and, painfully tentatively at first, she wiped and cleaned me. The icy reserve, the embarrassment, that stressed and constrained us both, was slowly melting.

***

I don't think I was that much of a daily hassle. Boredom was alleviated and nearly my every trivial request instantly attended to by my new "girlfriend," Alexa. My mealtime staples were small bowls of soup, that I could handle on my own, and endless subs. I soon decided to lose the shorts; I normally wore nothing below a front button shirt. I could easily pee on my own and had enough dexterity to throw a cover over myself at other times. This facilitated other necessities. Before bed, Eileen unbuttoned and removed the shirt, so that I could sleep unencumbered. In the morning she was now able to wash me reasonably, with soap as needed and a washcloth. She remained reticent in where she still was hesitant to wash, but she kept me clean. Then would she put on and button a fresh shirt.

In those days I don't think I was too high maintenance, or so at least I thought and hoped. Alexa gave me what I wanted to view, read, or listen to. Around noon Eileen took a break from work and we had lunch, usually delivered subs. She insisted on hand feeding me occasional fruits and vegetables that I couldn't prepare or eat myself without a major and messy effort. Late afternoon, we'd usually go for a walk. In preparation, she would dress me, properly--not gym shorts, underwear, that she insisted on, and then long pants, socks and real shoes, not slip-on slippers.

These walks became more and more a staple, her left hand hooked across my right arm at the elbow. You don't have to hold onto me; I'm okay. Brave words; that's just where my hand needs to be, she said. So that's the way we walked, until soon it became completely accustomed. Eileen was no dummy. She was a digital subscriber to the New York Times, Washington Post, and New York Review. She insisted that I begin to read each of them. I did not want to disappoint her; I had Alexa serve up each for me. When we walked, she would ask what I had read, giving her own views in each case. There was little she did not read; I could see that remote work really suited her. I began to think that what Eileen needed was a lot more than was in this town.

***

When Eileen would come to wash me in the morning, it came that I would just to lie on my back, arms out at the sides. It was easiest for her that way; I could bask in the comfort of the warm washcloth. I could feel it, the warm washcloth, caressing my face, covering and encircling my closed eyes, my forehead, my cheekbones, gently covering my neck before coming back to my chin, my lips. So too did I feel the same touch on my arms, lingering on my chest, my nipples, going down in long and slow strokes to my pubic bone, then to one side and the other of my hips, slowly making a circular arc, up one side, across my collarbone, back across the pubic bone to the other side. Deliberatively, she would rinse the cloth in the small tub of warm water she brought with her. With the now newly warm washcloth she would take and encircle my dick, moving the cloth upward from base to the glans. Then, holding my dick up onto my belly with her left hand, with her right her fingers would pull slightly on my inner thighs a bit, telling me so spread them wider. Now with that right hand bearing the warm cloth, she would hold and encircle my balls and all my scrotum, bringing the cloth all the way to my perineum, then slowly up. Her left hand would unbind my dick and place it back down, then slowly run the washcloth back over its top, starting from the pubic bone. She would continue in a similar way from my inner thighs, slowly all the way to my ankles, which were covered and caressed with the cloth, then in the same way, caressing the balls of my feet and my toes. With a wonderfully soft towel she would dry me, long strokes beginning at the forehead going all the way to the toes, until every surface that had been touched with the cloth was now similarly touched again with the towel. A hand nudging at my hip now would tell me to turn over. The cloth would linger, massaging my shoulders before moving in sinuous strokes past my hips, over my buttocks, covering the soles of a foot, finally holding onto the toes. When all these surfaces had been touched, she would tell me with a hand to spread my thighs a bit, so that she could reach the inner surfaces. Finally, spreading my buttocks, she would with observed care apply the cloth from the perineum on up, neglecting no part of me. I would be dried with more soft massages. Hands would bid me to turn over again, then to sit by the side if the bed while they placed slippers on my feet. We would walk to my bathroom, again a hand placed around my elbow, as in our outside walks. "Open," she would say, my profile to the mirror. The toothbrush in her hand then would enter my open mouth, the soft bristles against my gums and teeth, feeling the same gentle, thorough, caressing touch that all my skin had felt moments before. She would swipe my lips with another towel. A brush would come across my hair. She would apply warm shaving cream to my face and then, carefully, a razor, barely needed but still another mark of her meticulousness. She would wash and dry my face. It felt touched and known. Then, once again with her hand encircling my arm, we would return to the bedroom. She would bring the sleeves of a shirt past my dressings and casts, then buttoning it. "Now it's time for breakfast." She would make me warm coffee in a travel cup with a straw, feed me cut pieces of orange, sometimes summer cherries, sometimes buttered toast. Soon thereafter, clearing all the dishes, she would say "Time for work," disappearing into her den office. There was no way she would neglect her responsibilities; I wouldn't see her again until lunchtime unless I had a special request, something I always avoided. It was just Alexa and me.

***

"Ready for a road trip?"

She usually had some activity planned for Saturday, something to break the monotony of my affair with Alexa. That afternoon we drove to a state park about a few hours away. We planned to walk the perimeter of the small lake, surrounded by low dunes. That day the lake was a turquoise gem, on a day with a blue, blue cobalt sky. As we approached the shore, I felt tempted to navigate a small dune. Eileen's grip on my arm increased; she pulled me back to the asphalt path.

"No sir! No falls on my watch."

At that moment, as she held me so securely, I thought of an image that Alexa had served up (based in fact on Eileen's counsel): the album cover of "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan." There walked Dylan, impossibly young. Holding--securing--embracing his arm at the elbow, a blissful smile, was his girlfriend, Suze Rotolo. It was she who was the worldly one, a political activist, devoted to poetry and arts. She was more than a girlfriend, a lover: she was his muse, his mentor, who sent his sensibilities in new directions, who inspired some of his best love songs. Here now as I walked with Eileen, she was holding onto me in exactly the same way.

***

That Sunday we both slept in, the kind of wonderfully comfortable sleep earned by a hike of four hours from the day before. We'd eaten a little, both then collapsing into bed, deferring all else to the next day. Now the mid-morning sun was streaming into my room. There came Eileen, fresh in clean shorts and tee shirt, carrying her basin of warm water.

"We were both rank. I could take a shower. It's time to rescue you from rankness."

She pulled aside the blanket and I was covered by brilliant sun.

"So rank, but so fair."

Her fingers applied the washcloth to my face, tracing, defining, knowing, each feature. I felt this in my face and it radiated all the way down.

Oh, how can, how can you ask me again

It only brings me sorrow

The same thing that I want from you today

I would want again tomorrow

I could feel her knowing hands as they limned my collarbone, acquiring the knowledge of every ridge of bone. The cloth circled, in like fashion probing and cleaning every square millimeter of my arms. With deliberation, now in circular strokes, she made arcs from chest to pubis, then in circles of ever decreasing radius.

"Wait, Sander. I want to touch and clean better, closer."

She turned to the bathroom, returning soon with scissors, razor, and lather.

"I'm going to take this away."

Carefully, she began to trim my pubic hair to shorten it, then applying lather. Observing very deliberatively, she made short, careful strokes, leaving smooth skin. She lifted my dick hiding it up with encircled fingers of one hand while she shaved away any hair at the base. I spread my legs as she took my balls in her hands, carefully to shave completely every hair. She worked with the meticulousness of a jeweler placing dozens of tiny gems in an elaborate setting. Working down to the perineum, she made every surface smooth and exposed. She then made a careful examination, aided by the sunlight falling upon me, to be certain that she had missed nothing.

She put aside the razor. With both hands she surrounded my balls and dick with the cloth, holding and massaging the cloth to remove any remaining lather. Then, for what seemed minutes, she held me like this, her hands encircling but motionless.

She took away the washcloth and stood, rapt, looking at me, my throbbing erection.

"You are so young, so beautiful!"

The dam began to give way. Her hands fell upon my belly, then next her lips, kissing me from belly to the base of my dick, over the now smooth pubis, her hands upon the sides. Then she took my rigid dick into her mouth, hungrily probing and registering every ridge and regularity, her tongue in a frenzy.

The dam gave way completely. She threw off her top, then, just as quickly, her shorts and panties. She was wet, so wet, and ravenous. She threw herself down to ride me, panting, her breasts raking my chest as she heaved herself back and forth. Her arms held me, grasped me, tighter and tighter, as our connection became deeper and deeper, an embrace more and more complete with this beautiful passionate woman.