The Perfect Gentleman

Prompt:Write your story about a man recovering from a stroke. He is being treated in his home by a visiting nurse. She is beautiful, young, and knows that humor and a smile are great tools to increase the effects of the physical therapy and the medication for his conditions. They fall in love. As The Gentleman admonishes, be descriptive but try to use other than those vulgar words used to describe the acts the lovers engage in.

This is dedicated to the Gent's Speedy Recovery.

For a contest

The Perfect Gentleman

I had the whole summer off. That sounded great to a bystander who didn't realize that it meant no income.

So, as I did every year in June, I scanned the paper looking for a job. None of the ads fit my need of a three-month job. I guessed I’d have to lie again. I’d have to tell an employer that I was getting out of teaching and looking for something different. I hated lying.

But then my eyes stopped. Wanted for two, maybe three months -- gentleman recovering from stroke needs kind, cheerful attendant. No medical training needed, but applicant must be patient.

Bingo, just the right job! I called the number without pausing to think. It was only later, after I’d set up the interview, after I’d given the person on the phone my phone number, my name, and the other information they asked for, that I started worrying. Suppose the position was only a scam, suppose the stroke victim was really an axe murderer, suppose the woman I'd talked with was an identity thief or . . .

I had made the appointment for 11:00 that same morning. I washed my hair, dressed in a staid, but pleasant navy blue trouser suit, and donned just the right amount of makeup -- which in my case meant next to nothing. Okay, I frilled my lashes a bit, with a nervous and shaking hand, and I smoothed just the slightest color on my cheek line – I didn’t want the guy to think I was dead after all, although, even when I was finished, the paleness of my fearful face staring back at me looked frightful. I shrugged; at least the whiteness made my eyes seem large. The blueness of them was always a shock against the dark black of my curly short hair, but with the "ghost look," it was even more pronounced.

On the way out the door, I picked up the man's address, phone number, and the map I’d run off from the Internet. I called out for the cat to wish me luck. As usual, she didn’t even notice. She was curled up, sleeping on one of the kitchen table chairs, the one in the direct beam of the sunshine coming down through the kitchen window. "Great companion, you are," I told her, as I sighed and locked the door.

The patient’s house was in a pleasant district. He only lived a couple of miles from my street. Driving to his house would be very convenient, no matter what the hours he requested. I parked in front of his house, under an old oak tree. The leaves would shade my car, something that would be a definite advantage during the hot days of summer.

A woman met me at the door. I think she was the lady I’d spoken with. For some reason, her youth surprised me.

“Come in,” said the business-suited woman. She looked like a lawyer or a CEO. I wondered which, but I didn’t ask. It was none of my business.

She offered me a cup of coffee. That was nice of her. She didn’t have to, after all. I declined, but I appreciated her graciousness. It had relaxed the atmosphere, somehow.

“Tell me about yourself,” the woman said, after indicating that I should sit on the rather modern-looking white suede couch. My eyes took a moment to scan the living room. Neat, fashionable, and expensive -- someone had good taste.

I told Mrs. Sander the truth about having the summer off. I didn’t go into details about needing money. That was rather understood. Instead I told her about my second graders, and how I taught ESL for Adults Monday and Wednesday nights during the school year.

She had a lovely smile. She listened with a cordiality that was often missing in today’s busy world. Again I wondered if she were a lawyer. I was dying to ask. Somehow the question just slipped out.

“Are you an attorney?” I babbled when there was a moment of silence.

“Is it that obvious?” she laughed.

We exchanged a pleasant smile, and then she told me about her father, the man who’d so recently had a stroke. While she was talking, I listened, but my mind also fluttered about, taking in details that had nothing to do with the conversation.

I studied the Chinese horse sculpture sitting on an elegant bookcase. I analyzed Mrs. Sander’s makeup, her hairstyle, the expensive cut of her black suit. I savored the educated vocabulary of her speech and the loving way she spoke of her father and his condition. I was very impressed by Mrs. Sandor and decided that if I ever needed an attorney, she’d be the first one I’d call.

Throughout our conversation, of course, I continued to nod and say the normal polite words of condolence and understanding. My wandering thoughts were probably not even noticed, at least, I hope they weren’t. But when my eyes moved to study the picture behind her, a painting of her father, mother, and their long ago family, Mrs. Sander stopped, turned around to look, and said, “I see you noticed the family portrait. I was an only child -- very spoiled, I’m afraid. My mother passed away three years ago. My father has never quite recovered. He loved her very much, Shaara. I wish, sometimes, that he’d take the painting down, but he never will.”

She sighed then and stood up. “Come, Shaara; let me introduce you to my father.”

We walked down a long corridor. The lacquered wood flooring shone with the gleam that only real wood has. The Oriental carpet atop it was lush and thick. Rich scenes of Chinese dragons and nobles at court were woven into its pageantry of color. I felt like removing my shoes in respect for its artistry. If I had such a carpet I would never walk on it with anything but bare feet.

We reached the end of the hall, and Mrs. Sander opened the door. It was then I saw him. From that first moment, I liked him. He had only half a smile. The other part of his lips wasn’t able to lift correctly, but his eyes made up for it. The crinkles around them were warm and friendly. My heart for some reason beat faster, and I stood and stared at him, lost in the warmth of those laughing, green eyes.

“Sit down, my dear,” he said quietly with a slight slur of his words because the left side of his mouth didn't lift properly. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

My face must have reddened. I’m afraid I almost collapsed into the chair. I certainly didn’t sit with any grace or delicacy. What must he think of me? The thought made my face even hotter.

The man reached out for my hand and took it in his. “I have embarrassed you. I’m sorry.

"Shaara, isn’t it? What a lovely name. Tell me about yourself, Shaara. You're a teacher, aren’t you? Tell me about your students.”

He had such a quieting voice, a calming tone. Before I knew it, I was chatting away about my students, about how I wrote science fiction stories in my spare time, and about my silly cat. It was like I’d known John Paul forever.

By the time his daughter returned, he and I were already the best of friends. He’d told me all about his stroke, his stay in the hospital, his needs, and how he thought we’d get along just fine.

I went from interview -- to hired and on duty without ever a moment’s hesitation. It was as if fate had brought us together. John Paul and I had clicked so instantly.

Mrs. Sander seemed relieved. She ordered me to call her Danielle, gave me a quick tour of the kitchen, showed me John Paul’s medicines and his schedule, and more or less left me flying by the seat of my pants with a whole list of questions still on the tip of my tongue as she rushed away to her office.

When Danielle’s car backed out of the driveway, I returned to John Paul’s room and discovered that in the few minutes I’d been gone, he’d fallen asleep. His rather long hair, a distinguished gray-white, had fallen across his eyes. I wanted to brush those strands aside, to soothe his furrowed brow, but, of course, I didn’t. I quietly shut the door and made my way back to the kitchen to prepare some lunch for when he woke up.

Meanwhile, I read over the doctor’s orders. Then I heated some chicken soup I found in the refrigerator, cut up a papaya, a banana, and some green grapes for a fresh fruit salad, and fixed John Paul a healthy spinach leaf and mushroom salad with a sprinkling of mustard-honey dressing that I hoped he’d like. I prepared a pretty little tray with a cheerful yellow cloth napkin, added a rose from his garden and waited for John Paul to waken.

“Tomorrow I’m allowed to get up out of this darn bed to have meals,” he said. Those were his first words to me when I entered his room.

I smiled and nodded. “That will be nice for you, John Paul. Perhaps, if you’re feeling like it, you can even eat lunch outside. It’s a beautiful day today, and I’m sure tomorrow will be even prettier. I saw that you have a table and chairs on the porch of your backyard. Would you like to eat out there tomorrow? “

He studied his meal, groaned at the salad, and dug into the fruit. He didn't answer me about future lunches in the sunshine.

“While you slept, I walked about. Your roses are lovely. Are you the gardener?”

That brought the color to his cheeks. In between bites, he regaled me with tales of his gardening. I learned more about tending roses than I could ever hope to use. I thought about my poor, struggling rose garden at home and sighed. Maybe, just maybe, I could use some of the tips he was telling me.

John Paul pushed aside his unfinished meal and grabbed my hand. “All right, tell me, pretty lady. Why the sad look?”

I described my weedy-looking bushes with their orangish spots and powdered mildew. The difference between John Paul's rose bushes and mine made me want to cry.

“I can’t see you very well, sitting over there,” he said abruptly. “Come sit on my bed. Surely, you’re not afraid of me, are you? I’m not about to seize you in my arms and kiss you, much as I might like to. I’ve been cautioned about that kind of thing, remember?”

He was joking; I saw the twinkle in his eyes, but, no matter what he said, of course, it wasn’t appropriate for me to sit on his bed. However, I moved my chair closer.

He laughed at my refusal. I never realized how musical a laugh could be. I was enchanted by his.

Later on that day, we played cards. John Paul could hold them with his right hand; his left hand was, as he said, “dead in the water.” It lay limply at his side.

John Paul taught me how to play a bit of Poker, and then after prying into my personal life and discovering that I was Quaker, he teased me incessantly.

“You don’t gamble, smoke, swear, or drink, little Shaara. What do you do for fun?” Always his eyes were twinkling. I only smiled.

When Danielle came back that evening, we discussed all the practicalities that she’d left the house without detailing. She said she’d stay with her father for the rest of the week during the nights, but that she wanted to hire someone to come in after that. “My husband is very understanding,” Danielle said, “but he’s going to start feeling left out if I don’t give him some quality time.”

We giggled over that like two good friends. Danielle asked me to do the rest of the interviews so John Paul could have that night helper. I agreed. Danielle and her father were the kind of people you automatically wanted to help, no matter what they asked.

So, for the rest of the week, between conversations, card games, meal servings, and a little bit of cleaning, I interviewed applicants for the night shift. John Paul rejected every one of them. Yet, he gave me no reason. I couldn’t understand it.

Danielle was, of course, not happy about that. “Father, you are being unreasonable,” she told him. “I can’t stay with you beyond this week. You know that. I do have a husband, and we need to hire someone to spend nights with you. You can’t expect Shaara to be at your beck and call 24 hours a day.”

This conversation was happening in the living room on the white suede couch where I’d sat for my interview. Although I was in the kitchen preparing dinner, I heard it all, including John Paul’s response, which made me blush.

“I won’t have anyone but her. Why can’t Shaara just spend her nights here?“

“Father, you’re being difficult. Of course, she can’t sleep here. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Hogwash. I see nothing wrong with it. Ask her.”

“No. Shaara has her own house, her own life.”

What life? I wondered. A cat? Roses that mildewed and withered? Nobody needed me. That was the sad part about it. Over the summer, when my students were gone, when the other teachers were vacationing with their families, it always hit me how alone I was, how empty my life felt.

The discussion in the living room quieted after that, or perhaps I tuned it out, thinking over my own life. I was checking on the fish baking in the oven, when Danielle came in.

“Mmm. Smells good. Wish I were staying for dinner,” she said.

“There’s plenty,” I told her, smiling at her with the warmth I felt for her continued kindnesses.

“Green beans, carrots? You’ve gotten my father to eat vegetables ?”

I laughed. “No card games for him unless he eats his vegetables.”

“You’re great with him. You know that, don’t you? I can't thank you enough,” Danielle said, as she stood in front of the refrigerator filling her glass with ice water. She pushed the button for a couple of ice cubes and then pulled out a chair, “Shaara, could you sit for a moment, please?”

I turned the oven off, covered the fish, and sat down beside Danielle.

“John Paul told me he fell yesterday, and that you had to help him up. You don’t have to lift him, Shaara. Call Sam, that’s our next-door neighbor. He’ll help.”

I looked down. My fingers were twining around each other like restless snakes. I knew what was coming. I stilled my hands and waited.

“Did you hear John Paul’s words just now?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry: I couldn’t help. . .

“Of course, you couldn’t; I’m not accusing you of eavesdropping. I meant . . . I think you know what I mean. Do you want to stay the night? I’d pay you to stay with him a double-shift. . . “

“You don’t have to do that. . .” I said, blushing. Darn I hated that. Pale skin shows every mood, every emotion.

“You mean, you’d consider it? You’d be willing to spend nights here?” Danielle asked.

“John Paul is a gentleman, and I think he needs me, right now. Yes, I’ll stay. I’ll have to go home and feed my cat every day and water my roses. . .”

“Of course,” Danielle laughed. “Bring the kitty here, if you like, but you’ll still need to go get your mail and water your roses.”

And so it was agreed. I left after dinner. I picked up the day's mail, watered my sick-looking roses, suitcased some clothes, put my cat in the vet carrier, and more or less moved myself into John Paul’s house.

The spare bedroom suited me just fine. The window opened up onto the garden. When I slid the window so the screen could let in the air, the fragrance of roses permeated the room. I breathed in the sweetness and smiled.

The weeks traveled by, and John Paul’s complexion became less yellow. Part of that, I felt was due to his lunches in the fresh air in the backyard. He was walking more, too. Everyday we’d tour his garden, picking roses, talking about their needs while he gave me lectures on what I was doing wrong with mine. His cane was hardly needed – usually only for those shaky rises from a sitting position. He fell only once during that time, and again I was able to help him up, though, by then, he hardly needed my support.

John Paul's speech was growing more distinct, too. The slight slurring of words that I’d first noticed grew less, and even his left hand which had once been almost useless, now held the cards of our daily Poker games.

Things were going well all around. Although he was, as always, a perfect gentleman with me, his rages at his stroke condition had tapered, and his moodiness was noticeably improved.

I drove him to his weekly doctor’s appointment and was told that he could now have a bit of fat in his diet.

“Steak once a week,” John Paul cheered. I frowned teasingly. I was a vegetarian, so I didn’t share his enthusiasm for dead cow.

Danielle had gone out of town for the weekend, and I was just about to prepare the promised meal of steak when John Paul hobbled into the kitchen. He was walking without his cane. I wanted to cheer him on, but I was afraid. I silenced my worry and just smiled at him.

“I’d like to take you out to dinner,” he told me. “I have an all clear from the doctor to go out to eat. Will you let an old man be your date tonight?”

“Who’s old?” I joked, but he saw the sincerity in my eyes.

I nodded yes. “How should I dress?”

“Fancy, of course,” he smiled. “You’re a first class lady. You deserve the very best.”

It sounded like a fairwell dinner to me. I nodded again and went off to my room to slip into something appropriate.

That night was splendiferous. We laughed and chatted, completely comfortable with each other due to our weeks of close proximity. After we dined, John Paul took my hand, and then he asked me to dance when the orchestra struck up a slow melody. Once more I was concerned, but I said nothing. John Paul danced, like he did everything, superbly.

The one dance turned into several, and then he kissed me. It wasn’t a long or mushy kiss. I wasn’t embarrassed because he was making it into a public spectacle; it was just a sweet, lovely moment. My heart flipped and began to race.

“Ah,” he said. “You’re not cold after all, my little Quaker.”

His words, of course, made me blush. I pressed my cheek to his chest. He held me there, warmly, securely. Then we danced one more dance before we headed home.

When we reached the house, in my nervousness, I said “Good night” to him almost abruptly. But John Paul didn’t permit my running away like that.

“No, Shaara,” he said, reaching out to take my hand. “It wasn’t a good night. It was a wonderful night . . . for I have fallen in love with you.”

My eyes darted upward, meeting his. I think my mouth dropped open slightly. I know I blushed again. My face burned with the heat of his tender regard.

He smiled down at me. The same laugh lines that had made my heart take flight the first time I’d seen him, launched me once again into the fast zone. The floor began to spin. I sagged, and he sat me down in a chair.

“My beautiful Shaara,” he said. “Tell me how you feel about me. Am I too old for you to ever love?”

I sprang up. His face had wrinkled into a hundred lines of worry. Breathlessly, I caressed each one of them with the tip of my fingers. “John Paul, please, don’t say that. I already love you. I’ve loved you from the very first moment I saw you. Didn’t you see that? Didn't you feel it inside you?”

Our lips met then. They spoke more than words could say. And then, John Paul walked me silently to my room. At the door, he stopped, “I think you should leave tomorrow evening, my dear. I can no longer promise to be the perfect gentleman with you.”

“I don’t want you to,” I said, and I took his hand and pulled him into my room. I moved cautiously, carefully with him that night. It was the first time for me, but John Paul still allowed me to set the pace. He lay back and gave instruction only as needed. Our night was not athletic. We did not heave and grunt and grind, but love is beautiful, no matter how it transpires.

I first kissed the hand John Paul felt ackward about. I kissed the rest of him as well, starting with his chest of graying hairs that were staunchly trying not to shiver and quiver. I licked the lips that tried to steal my mouth for the sweet, deep kisses we both desired. I sucked the tongue that thrust and bucked, and then I moved down, tasting, teasing, testing, and tormenting the skin of his neck, his nipples, and his groin.

He groaned, of course, and I delighted in it. I knew then that my inexperience wasn't going to mar his pleasure. I traveled his shiver, and wherever he quivered at my touch, I tantalized him with a flick of tongue, a warm breath, a soft kiss. John Paul groaned frequently, and my body felt each moan of his, deep inside me. I hungered for them. I grew wet with the thought of what I was doing to John Paul's body.

I traveled back up on the left side and allowed him to kiss me deeply, moving beyond all thinking until I, myself, could almost do nothing but quiver and shake. And then, I drew away, pulling up and back, staring down into his dark, hot eyes.

"Do we dare?" I asked.

John Paul breathed in panting little breaths. "If you stop here, my little Quaker, my heart will halt completely."

I nodded. I couldn't have that. I slid off and rearranged my body. My lips drew near his rocket ship. He was propelled and ready for launching. The sight of him, rocking and throbbing, set me on an even higher flame.

"I'll be your outer space," I cried out. "Feed me with your power."

My lips descended; my mouth opened. I inserted his rocket before it could blast away. It slid in easily, willingly.

John Paul moaned again, a strange sound for rocket propulsion, but it revved up all my motors. I played a bit, teasing the heights of him, letting him feel the different stratas of love. I blew like the winds of the air, I squeezed like the friction of atmospheric entry, and then I clamped down hard and pulled him deep inside my sucking vacuum.

And all the while, I watched him, alert to his breathing, listening to his exhertions, calming him when needed, stimulating him when his tension lessened a bit. Then, I released and inhaled, released and inhaled. His enthused rocket bobbed merrily in the stream of passing.

"You are driving me wild, Shaara," he gasped. "Don't stop. Never stop, my darling girl."

I paused only a moment to stroke. The outer chamber of his ship was by that time a pulsating geiger counter of excitement. I bathed its outer shell with cooling lips and soft, gentle kisses. I wet it down again, covering it with delight. With pride, I saw that the rocket had grown even larger under my careful tending.

Then, with one final goodbye tug, I reversed direction. I held the beautiful ship in my hand, sliding it in a direction that would benefit both of us.

"Any commands, Captain?" I asked him.

John Paul tried to laugh, but I was still massaging. Once again, his groans were anything but laughter.

"It's time, Shaara," he said as my hand sent his rocket up and down, up and down more quickly. Sparks were flying from his organ of flight. They made my hand slippery. I bent to clean him up once more.

"Shaara, have mercy on an old man, my dear," he begged.

So I slid his ship into a different berth. It was a tight fit, having never owned a ship before, yet it was a willing harbor for his spaceworthy vessel. Moist and flexible, my safe port stretched to allow the full size of his rocket.

I'd climbed atop, but there was a slight resistance when I attempted to push down. For a moment I was stopped in the middle of my desires. Pain broadcast my warning gasp, but John Paul's rocket had no intention of stopping. His hands sprang out to hold my body in place. (I noticed that his stroke hand, had no difficulty securing my waist in place. I smiled briefly at its improvement.) Then when I would have lifted up slightly to ease my discomfort, John Paul took the captain's seat. He rammed me down hard on his rocket, and thus it pierced into the border where no man had ever gone.

I cried out, and John Paul stopped. "Ah, sweet Shaara. I didn't know," he said. "In a moment, it will be better."

More gently then, his rocket once more began to move within me. My pain went away, and my need to feel him deep inside me drove me to lean back. With a final thrust, John Paul was cleared for total entry. Back and forth, in and out, he drove his ship, using all thrusters to increase the pleasure.

I rose and fell, finding some inner direction that I'd never known. "Oh," I cried out.

"Yes, Shaara, yes," John Paul answered me.

His words drove me on. I rode that ship into a night of ecstacy. Science fiction was never that good. I slid and unslid higher and higher, deeper and deeper. Time lost meaning. Space lost existence. Only the ship, the hot, hard ship centered me.

John Paul cried out, "Harder, Shaara, harder."

"Ooh," he groaned when I obeyed his command, and from somewhere in the depths of me, the answer came back. "Ooh," I sighed, an inch from tears of wonder. "Oh, John Paul. I didn't know," I cried, and he responded.

"Yes, it's so good. A little faster, Shaara. A little faster."

And then we cried out together, "Ooh," moaning and groaning with delight and with the delicious flavor of our shared flight.

I paused at one point. I didn't want to, but John Paul was breathing so hard, it scared me.

"Are you all right?" I asked worriedly.

"I've never felt better, Shaara. Ride me, my little Quaker, ride me."

So I started again, and we worked that rocket back and forth, in and out, and round about in the realms of inner and outer space. No astronaut has ever reversed and forwarded quite so much. But it was a lovely trip, that in and out projectory. Until at last the rocked plunged upward one last time -- one heavy, spirited thrust, and at last it burst into lovely tremors of sweetness.

The explosions of John Paul's triumph were accompanied by loud gasps of pleasure. "Shaara, oh, my God, Shaara!" he said, and I knew I'd pleased him.

His cries of happiness with the ricochet of his vibration sent my rockets off into tiny detonations of that same delicious, painful joy.

"Aah," I cried out, and for a moment after, I just sat there, frozen in disbelief, staring at John Paul as he watched me, his smile of contentment curled around slightly open lips. He reached out and brought me down to lie on his chest. His hands fondled my breasts, teasing nipples that were already bulging from the remnants of our lust.

My body felt numb, and yet so lusciously satisfied. I sighed heavily. John Paul kissed my hair and breathed warmth down my neck. I tingled from his passion. "I love you," I said, not being able to hold it back a second longer.

"I hoped you'd say that, Shaara," he said, and he slid me up toward him so he could kiss me more fully.

When the kiss ended, he raised up my chin and said, "I adore you, my beautiful lady, and I'm madly in love with you, my passionate little Quaker. Will you marry me?"

John Paul had made me unbelievably happy. Of course, I said,"Yes."

And then we were kissing once again, and fondling, and the rocket was lifting up. . .

But neither of us were in a hurry to launch the fireworks again. We continued to kiss and play, in a quiet mode. But those pleasures that our afterburners brought burned almost as brightly as thrusters.

We slept in each others’ arms that night, and only my kitty’s joining us sometime in the early morning disturbed our slumber. John Paul was eager for a rerun when he came awake and found me beside him, soaring bravely once more.

So the poor kitty fled, and we re-entwined again, me on top, John Paul in the lower realms of space. Slowly, we played our space symphonies, and afterward, lay spent, falling asleep without disconnecting.

I dismounted later when I felt us slide apart. Then, with my arm across his chest, listening to the sound of his soft, contented snores, my eyes closed, and together we slept until the morning's light filtered through the pale white curtains of my bedroom.

We flew to Vegas later that morning. In a quiet chapel we tied the knot. Then, because of my stance on gambling, we returned without playing a single slot machine and were back in time to greet Danielle as she flew into LAX.

We never had to tell John Paul's daughter a thing. She took one glance at us, darted a look at my ring, and threw her arms around me. “I am so happy for you both,” she said. “I prayed that you would fall in love. You're perfect for each other.”

I sold my house last month to someone who doesn’t like roses. He tore them out and put in a swimming pool.

At our house, John Paul tends our roses, and sometimes, I help, but in spite of that, they still bloom copiously.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~