When the mysterious ‘Woo Woo Man,’ JONATHAN takes on the thin strip of bramble-infested ground in the Blue Bell Street Allotments, veg gardener extraordinaire, ROSE, whose bedroom window overlooks his ‘small holding,’ wonders what idiot would take on such a project. When she ‘accidentally’ sees him chanting a bit of woo-woo and having a midnight wank under a full moon in his newly rotovated plot, she suspects his methods aren’t found in any RHS manual.
As watching his late night garden antics becomes more for voyeuristic pleasure than for sussing out sound horticultural practices, and as Jonathan’s garden grows more exquisite with every wank, Rose begins to wonder if there just might be something to a little sex woo-woo in the garden. But can she learn Jonathan’s secret without him learning hers, or will she be forced to come clean?
I appreciate a good garden way more than most, and I completely understand wanting to get onto the patch as early as possible – especially when it’s that time of year, when there’s so much to do and enthusiasm is running high. But it was midnight, for fuck sake! I had work in the morning. This was not neighbourly behaviour.
I was seriously considering giving him a piece of my mind or throwing something at him. But then he took off his shirt. He just slipped it right off over his head like it was something completely normal to do in the allotments in the middle of the night. The light from the streetlamp that shown across the alley behind my house lent just enough to the ambient moonlight that I could see his nipples bead to hard knots in the slight chill.
I like nipples. I like them a lot. I don’t care which sex they belong to, when they tighten and strain beneath a shirt, I get wet. I can’t help it. I can’t keep myself from imagining what’s causing those lovely, tense mini-erections – even if it’s nothing more than too much air conditioning in the frozen food isle at Sainsbury. Nipples are such a lovely reminder that we’re not nearly as in control of our biological functions as we think we are. And when someone is brazen enough to bare their nipples like roseate pebbles turned over in perfectly smooth tilth, well I’m completely in awe. And this man’s points were pink and stiff and yummy above rippled areole that made me want to touch, made me want to tweak and stroke and tongue, made me wish I had my binoculars handy.
It quickly became evident that it wasn’t the late night chill stiffening the man’s nips, at least not entirely. Before my eyes, he stepped out of a pair of ratty Birkenstocks and slid baggy cargo trousers off over his straight hips and the pillowed swell of his bottom. He kicked them carelessly to one side. Apparently the occasion had called for commando, and I didn’t have to endure more disrobing before I was treated to the full-on.