Grampy Taught Me Everything I Know!

This whimsical story is written from the point of view of a loving lass raised in a semi-reclusive lifestyle. Naïve yet highly prone to an overly active imagination, she discovers the joys of nudity among her grandpa's garden produce. She regales us with how she became so enamored with gerontophilic love, the love of the elderly as opposed to someone her age. Her grandfather is that love, in this case. He uses his vegetable garden education to teach her some life facts.

Our protagonist begins her story by recounting the impact of loved ones lost in a tragic accident days before her twelfth birthday. It is a light brushstroke of how she came to focus so intently upon Grampy. Her budding sexual awareness, at eighteen years of age, leads her to explore her grandfather's garden and...well, you know how this will end! This is Literotica...after all! So, of course, she explores her beloved Grampy's 'cucumber.' Several scenes include a vivid imagination of Indian wind spirits coaxing her to explore her inner self. There is no truth to this story, by the way.

Kenjisato, a voluntary Literotica editor, provided a keen eye for corrections needed in this storyline. This story reads so much better for his efforts!

The content of this story concerns an imaginative eighteen-year-old girl's coming of age. She masturbates with garden vegetables and yearns for more, eventually planning to seduce her grandfather and explore what sex is like. She gets a taste of cunnilingus as a prelude for further adventures with him--and the vegetables! There are some 'F' level vocabulary words used!

My paternal grandfather is the wisest, kindest, and most generous person in the universe. He taught me practically everything I know! Even my mom and his only son, my dad, said so! It had to be true then, just like they told me!

Blessed with beauty, smart as Einstein, and sweet as grandma's homemade apple pie, is how he describes me to everyone who doesn't already know me. Daily, I reveled in the truth of my grandfather's conviction. Even though it was a truism, it consumed me, down into the palpitating depths of my growing love for him!

Every time I saw his shiny dome, his Santa Claus beard, and his belly, I felt it tingling from the tips of my nips, right down to my painted toenails. I just knew every word from his lips was a slice of truth, dripping with ice cream and sprinkles. My heart would flutter like flowers springing from the ground after the spring rains when his bright smile greeted my loving eyes. I love my grandpa...' to the moon and back,' just like my Grandma May used to say. I loved her that much, too!

She and Grandpa had meticulously planned their bucket list: retire early, travel the world, come home, and turn the four acres behind their manicured retirement home into a prize-winning vegetable and floral garden. Grandpa, I was told, would manage the veggies, and Grammie would tend the flowers, cutting them and selling them at the roadside stand. Grandpa had meticulously designed the stand, and my daddy was going to help build it when they came home from their journey around the world.

Of course, they didn't need the money! Grandpa had wisely taken care of that! The roadside stand was just a sideline for helping them stay active and mobile. As for the flowers, they would give Grammie chitchat time with passers-by. Knowing her, she would have just as likely painted her sign "Flowers! A Dozen for a Smile!" and given them away to anyone kind enough to stay a while and talk about anything at all.

Those grand plans came crashing down on the day before my twelfth birthday. Grammie had a doctor's appointment that morning. Daddy volunteered to take her, as he was all thumbs with a hammer. [Grammie had confided in me that my Grandpa's building genes had inadvertently skipped my daddy.] You see, Grandpa was busying himself in our backyard, next door to his home, building a new swing for my next afternoon party. Mom was bustling about the house with preparations, and my daddy was, as Grammie used to say, 'About as helpful as teats on a boar hog,' whatever that meant! When hammering a nail, he would inevitably hit the wrong one! Boy, I learned a lot of new vocabulary over the years; whenever he chanced to swing a hammer at something involving a nail!

For example, I learned the 'F' word from one episode as he wound up with a blackened thumbnail after that effort. Mom really got after him for that! I had the impression from then on that the 'F' word was only associated with pain due to getting your nails hammered. Of course, it didn't, but I got that lesson-learned correction much later from the kids at school. Not that I went to 'regular school.' That happened much later.

Dad and Grammie rounded the bend at the old railroad crossing. The signal light was out. People figured Daddy and Grammie were so busy gabbing or laughing about something that they missed seeing the train being so damn, damn close. It was a closed casket affair. When no one was looking, I tried to peek, but the top wouldn't open.

My swing set didn't get finished that month. My twelfth birthday came and went; without the party or presents. I recall their solemn, sleep-deprived faces and the tears in Mommy's eyes while I sat in the church pew next to them. As I looked up, Mommy and Grandpa looked like they had aged twenty years each. I couldn't even get a smile out of either one of them--forever, it seemed--as the months passed. I was a bit worried about Mother during that time. The doctor told me Mom was in shock, still setting a plate for Daddy each meal. He said she would eventually get over that. Grandpa didn't fare much better, spending his time sitting in his Adirondack-style rocker on the back porch looking up to Heaven.

There were two rockers side by side: one for him and Grammie's rocker, with her unique fluffy cushion, close enough still to hold hands by his side. When Grammie was still alive, I'd lay across from them in the wooden porch swing. It was suspended by rope from the porch rafters and stretched out upon it, and I would soak in my grandfather's tales. They held me entranced through long, balmy summer evenings and long into many mild autumn nights. He always listened earnestly to my childish bantering and waxed philosophically on my thoughts as though I were an adult. He taught me about life on that back porch. Grammie, of course, would correct some of his more errant thoughts, but just those she thought might leave me with some wrong, indelible impressions on life. Both of them made me feel equal, made me feel special, and most of all, made me feel loved.

Long after grieving for Grammie and Daddy, he missed them terribly. But most of all, he missed Grammie, I could tell. He talked to her still; I knew that. Because sometimes I would be coming around the side of the house to check up on him. I'd hear his animated conversations. The first few times I heard him, I flew to the corner, rounding it with a giant smile. 'Grammie must have come back!' I thought from all the mirth in Grandpa's chitchat. But, turning the corner, I saw her empty chair and his faraway gaze, looking into the heavens. It took a few times for me to understand that, like Mom, he was clinging to memories. Glancing skyward, he once said she was up there. Grampy knew everything! So, I guess he knew she could still hear him speaking. If he sat outside and was loud enough for her to hear him, he was sure she and my daddy were attentively listening.

Over the next six years, turning eighteen, I grew wiser and emotionally stronger. I began to grasp the effects of the devastation of that loss of mother and son in a singular swing of death's scythe as he collected two beloved souls. Grandpa's teasing nature, which had lapsed over those years, gradually crept back into our conversations. We became confidants, even co-conspirators, and I came to him with all sorts of questions about everything--including boys in particular. He was always frank and non-judgmental. Besides, he knew everything!

With Mom, I wasn't having that particular discussion about boys! She skirted that aspect of life. Especially the one about how it felt for a boy when he put his...well, you know. I had only asked her once, and she flew off the handle as though I had robbed a bank; or something! That I thought about a penis 'F'ing me was preposterous to her. This was brought about, no doubt, by her French-Canadian Québécois society upbringing. She had been steeped in Roman Catholic beliefs. Yet, she married my daddy, and as Grampy often quipped, 'Your daddy ain't no damn Catholic!' Those conversations about boys wouldn't happen if my mother had her say! And she wouldn't, under any circumstances, hear another word about it!

My one conversation on the subject with her ended with, "Do you 'F'ing understand me, young lady!" By eighteen, I understood the usage of 'fucking' and some of its associated terminology. I didn't have to be told not to ask her twice any longer. After all, I had much of Grandpa's wisdom absorbed by then!

Grandpa became my 'go-to resource.' After all, he was the wisest and most honest person I had grown to love and appreciate for his candor and ability to keep secrets. Especially those about boys' and girls' feelings about...maturation and procreation and all the various associated terminology!

You see, I was home-schooled for seventeen years. Hence, my life was more akin to a cloistered nunnery, not that I was garbed or isolated in that fashion. I was separated just enough to acquire my mother's Canadian-French accent and secluded enough to miss out on many everyday childhood interactions. Having been raised with few outside contacts, I was also shielded from the norms and folkways of teenagers my age. As an intellectual on par with Christopher Langan, Grandpa had a lot to do with that aspect of my life. So, you can tell why I felt so enamored with his wisdom and intellect. Grandpa was more about the hows and whys of natural selection, laws common to humanity, and the rise and fall of governments. His tutelage included the fundamentals of plutocracy, Socratic reasoning, and many field trips to museums, libraries, and ice cream parlors.

Nearly everything in education, Grampy said once, could be tied back to ice cream, and that was why we spent so much time studying every nuance of ice cream in all its flavors! [Although now, as I think about it, this might have been somewhat tongue-in-cheek. When you are young and impressionable, your mind may not pick up on those nuances.]

On the other hand, Mom focused on math; her areas of knowledge came from her accounting background. However, when I turned eighteen, Mom felt it prudent to have me enroll in a regular high school environment; preparation, she said, for enrolment in college. Honestly, I think it was because her limits in mathematics didn't extend into trig, calculus, or chemistry that one should have taken before college enrolment. All of those were crammed into my one-and-only year in the public school system as a senior in high school. It wasn't too hard, though; what Mom didn't address in mathematics growing up, Grandpa did. He was the wisest man I know!

As a reference for that, for instance, a hateful girl at school, shortly after I turned eighteen, told me, "Stupid bitch! You probably don't even know how to fuck yourself! Just get your Canadian-French face out of my fucking face, fucking bitch!" I turned and left her ranting as I strolled away from the school lockers that morning. You see, her boyfriend had stopped to talk to me, in a flirting way, that morning before class. I wasn't up to 'code' on boyfriends and flirting. I wasn't sure what flirting was at that point since I'd only been at school for a week. Clearly, that upset her probably as much as my accent did; and certainly as much as getting a thumbnail blackened by a hammer was my guess from the number of 'F'ings in her tirade. Mom would definitely have given her an 'F' for foul language usage!

I repeated those mind-jarring sentences several times, hoping to, later, remember them contextually in conversation with the wisest man I know! He would have the correct interpretation of her rant and probably would know precisely how a girl could 'fuck herself.' That was a new term in my limited 'F' word vocabulary. It was also the first time I'd heard it expressed in the imperative command form.

I recall that my English teacher, my Grandpa, said, "When reading an imperative sentence, it will always sound like the speaker is bossing someone around." I thought the locker bitch was very impolite to address me that way! I'd never even introduced myself to her! Then too, my mind quickly flipped the question; if a girl could 'fuck herself,' did that mean it was the same for a boy; could he 'fuck himself?' And what would'that' look like?'

"Something on your mind, Kiddo?" Grandpa asked as I slid into Grammie's rocker without my usual smile and laughter that afternoon. I was still puzzled, perplexed; you might also say, earlier that day, about my encounter with the locker bitch.

"Yep," I sighed.

"Out with it then." His words were just so perfectly spoken, with just the right timbre. No condescension, no accusation, no rant. Perfectly adult-like, from a wise man, just as my Daddy and Mommy said years ago.

"It's got some 'F' words, so still okay, Grandpa?" I said, between pursed lips. 'F' conversations still left me shy and mildly embarrassed, even in discussions with Grampy. Though they were becoming less so, at each point, the 'F' words kindled some discussion points between us.

"Just you and me, kiddo, and the blue sky," he mused.

"Hum, then maybe not, if Grammie can hear them," I murmured as I exhaled, thinking maybe this wasn't a good idea after all.

"S'okay, Grammie knows many words, even the 'F' ones. She was in the Army, you know. Lay it on me, sweetheart!"

"S'okay here goes!" I responded with the string of 'F' words from the bitchy girl at the school lockers; I got it quoted perfectly! I laid it on him, recollecting it as, "Stupid bitch, you probably don't even know how to fuck yourself! Just get the fuck out of my fucking face, fucking bitch!" I also added contextual clues about her boyfriend and the flirty locker scene for Grampy's edification. Then lapsed into silence, watching the profound thought process reveal itself as Grampy shifted in his rocker and pondered the complex puzzle of words.

Grandpa frowned for just a moment. Taking out his pipe as he did so and lit it. He postulated, taking a couple of puffs, "Sounds like she is pissed at her boyfriend and took it out on you, instead."

"You think, Grandpa?" I grinned. See! I knew he would have the answer! She wasn't madat me! After all, I didn't even know the bitch, let alone have been able to 'piss her off,' as Grandpa noted.

Gramps added, "Sure, that's how I see it, anyway. How about, the next time you see him, tell him his 'bitch' is having a bad day, and she's too shy to ask him for a good fingering after school to help her get off."

"Won't she be mad because I talked to him again?" I asked earnestly, wondering if it was just that simple a solution. Most things take a bit more to resolve, so it seemed.

"Not likely," Grandpa wryly remarked as he took another puff from his pipe, "a girl with a guy's hand in her panties isn't going to get mad at anyone! Especially if he's helping her get a good send-off! Who knows, she might reciprocate and make him just as happy."

"Okay, then," I added another mental note column to follow up on that when I returned to school. "Now about the other thing," I asked, noting my following conversation with the catty locker bitch from memory.

"Which is?" he asked, taking a couple of puffs off his pipe with a little mischievous grin turning up at the corners of his lips.

"How does a girl...fuck herself?" I asked, hopefully thinking Grandpa had a wise answer for a very sheltered girl.

As it turns out, his response was something I was already experimenting with in bed at night anyway. Except, I hadn't associated it with the 'F'ing word yet.

Grandpa walked me out to the garden as he explained the 'how to' process, selected a small cucumber about eight inches long, and handed it to me. He chose another and proceeded to use his pocket knife to shape it. Amazingly, by the time he was done, it was transformed into a penis shape--similar to the one in the encyclopedia set in my bedroom. Except, this one was not drooping! It had a few refinements, Grandpa said, as he pointed out some ridges he carved along the shaft. He left a few inches of unpeeled skin at the opposite end from the gland.

"Unpeeled for a better grip," he remarked. The cuke felt slippery on its peeled surface, similar to the lubricity I found oozing from my mons late at night when my fingers explored my depth!

"Ah ha!" I acknowledged, as the light bulb switched on in my mind. I now understood how a 'girl could fuck herself.'

"Here," he said, "See how I made the first one? Now, peel the other cucumber tonight, but not so your mother sees you, then put it in a zip lock bag and take it to bed with you. I think you can figure out how to use it. Just replace your fingers. Got it?" He cocked his head, with a grin widening across his bearded face.

I could tell, from the look on his face when he saw my giant grin, that I got it! As we walked toward the garden gate, I bit the gland off the cuke and enjoyed its fresh taste. It brought a groan from Grandpa as he remarked, "Kiddo, be careful! When you meet a real one of those, you can't chomp into it like that! Lick it like ice cream instead, okay?"

"Sure thing, Grampy!" I giggled. At that time in my life, I didn't associate with Grandpa's new creation and why you couldn't just bite into a cuke with such relish. But seeing the pained look on his face was certainly fun as I munched away on that cuke that afternoon. You would have thought, by his expression, I had just bitten into a dill pickle or a lemon, for goodness sakes!

"By the way, come get a new one from the garden every day you need to...' fuck yourself.' They get slimy, so don't bother reusing them. Oh! And please, recycle the used ones in the compost bin. Make sure your mother never finds it, right?" he said with a smile.

"Grampy," I ventured another question as we strolled toward the gate, "So, just how does a boy...you know?"

I watched his lips curl into a toothy grin. He took the other cuke from my hand and, holding one end with his left hand, slid his right hand up and down the cuke. I got the picture! Although I didn't know about the grunts and groans of boys, he explained as he demonstrated the motions. Gramps said it was about the same for girls. I put that together with his demo and imagined how my imaginary boyfriend felt with his 'pickle' sliding into me as I would slog the slippery cuke into myself with increasing ferocity each night.

I became an 'early to bed' person, yet still tired when I appeared at breakfast each morning. Mom proffered to me that I needed more vitamins. In turn, I asked her if they came in six or seven-inch lengths and got a puzzled, "No," in response, as her head cocked and her eyebrows raised in a wondering expressive grimace.

I shrugged, leaving it at that.