I used to live in a funky little farmhouse in New Hampshire with my late husband, an obstetrician/gynecologist from the Midwest whom I adored. I was in my late 20’s and my 30’s then. Across the street from our house was a sizeable French Canadian family with a passel of rowdy, adolescent boys. The youngest of the Lajoie boys became my “handy boy”; little Tommy did chores around our house when he was eleven. He would mow the lawn and stack the firewood and trim branches, because my husband was away at the hospital a great deal of the time. Tommy was an adorable, sweet boy with very blond hair and bright blue eyes and freckles.
My beloved husband died suddenly when I was 37 and I was bereft. I had a bigger farm then, fields and vegetable gardens in Hopkinton. Tom was in his late teens then, and he came back to help me with the upkeep of the farm. He was a hard worker. He plowed the gardens and mowed the fields and felled trees for firewood. He was always courteous and sweet. He used to arrive at the farm on a tri-cycle motorcycle he had built out of an old VW bug with a chopper front.
One day Tom asked me if I would go with him to the Loudon motorcycle races. This surprised me, but I declined, saying I was a grieving widow and didn’t think it would be appropriate. Besides, I couldn’t really picture myself riding on the back of a homemade chopper with a boy half my age. Not after what I’d been through.
Tom told me he was going away to the Pacific Northwest to work as a whitewater guide. I was sad to see him go, and for some reason I gave him an Egyptian ankh earring I had, to take with him. The ankh represents “forever.” I told him to wear it to keep him safe. I didn’t see Tom again for almost ten years.
In my mid-40s, I decided to end a long, self-imposed sentence of celibacy (well, long for me anyway). As soon as I made that decision, men started coming around like moths to a candle flame (amazing how that happens…must be pheromones). There were three men; one was probably, in retrospect, a charming serial killer; one was a crazy, very screwed-up artist; and one was a wealthy insurance company president who had a summer home on the ocean near mine on Contention Cove in Surry, Maine. I decided to go for the safety of wealth.
The CEO was supposed to pick me up with his yacht at my little cottage in Surry. I was planning to go to his island for the weekend. As I stood on the bank overlooking the cove, there was a tremendous storm brewing. The sky darkened and opened up with a frightful gale. I realized the sea was way too rough for him to make it to my shore.
I thought, “This is odd, I wonder what this is all about.” I turned to go back inside.
At this moment, a beat-up black pick-up truck pulled into my driveway. A gorgeous blond, bearded man stepped out. I stood frozen in my tracks.
I said, “Tommy?” He grinned that beautiful smile that I would recognize anywhere. Tears sprang to my eyes, how wonderful to see him again! As we hugged, I noticed he was wearing the ankh.
We picked mussels from the shore and cooked them in garlic and wine and sat in the wind on the beach eating them. Tom looked at me with those ridiculously soulful blue eyes.
He said, “I’ve been in love with you since I was eleven. Is it safe to love you now?”
My own eyes widened in realization of what was about to happen.
I said, “Good timing, Mr. Lajoie.”
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The CEO called the cottage the next morning and said the storm was over and that he would come get me now. I said that I had “company.”
He paused, and then sounded angry, he said, “Well, that was fast.”
I said, “Yep. Dark Horse at the eleventh hour…won by a nose.”
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Several days later, when we came up for air, I smelled coffee brewing and bacon frying, so I jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. I grinned to see Tom standing buck-naked in front of the funky old white porcelain electric cook stove that came with the camp. He was frying bacon. He has such a great ass. It is high and round and solid. I couldn’t resist. I leaned over to kiss his butt. When I did this, his penis made contact with the metal strip that rimmed the top of the stove.
What we didn’t know at the time was that the stove had a serious electrical short. A vicious electric shock shot through his unprotected phallus. He roared and reared back. That fabulous, muscular ass made solid contact with my nose.
I heard a definite “crunch” and started seeing stars. “OWWWWWW!”
I wailed pitifully, “Oh god, Tom, I think you may have broken my nose!”
As it turned out, my nose was only bruised; it got a little black and blue. More bruised was our dignity.
That is how I got the fabulous new 6-burner GAS cook stove that is in the cottage today. I highly recommend it—electric penile shock therapy.
Moral of the story: Never cook bacon naked.
Postscript: Carol Leonard and Tom Lajoie have been together for eighteen years. They were married on the summit of Mt. Cadillac at sunrise eight years ago…although Tom says it feels more like eighty.
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