Mowing the lawn is a pain in the grass.
A friend of mine said that the summer we were both 13. All the boys our age in the neighborhood had been promoted to lawn mowing duties that summer, in some sort of WASPy suburban New England equivalent
of a Bar Mitzvah. For the first couple of months, it was kind of exciting, being able to operate machinery that we had heretofore been forbidden to touch. By the end of August, however, it had become a boring chore and we thought my friend's comment was both insanely hilarious and utterly original.
I continued to mow the lawn all through high school and during the summers when I was home from Oxford. I was more than happy to leave the chore behind me when I began living in an apartment full-time.
However, Dana and I bought a house shortly after we found out she was pregnant with Melissa, which means I've once again acquired a lawn. I'm about the same age, now, that my Dad was when he turned the grass cutting duties over to me. Since my only child is a tiny toddler daughter, rather than a strapping teenage son, the job is mine.
I could hire somebody to do it, of course; it's not like we don't have the money. But I learned something the very first weekend we lived in this house -- the smell of freshly cut grass combined with the sight of a sweaty, shirtless man is an *incredible* aphrodisiac for a certain redheaded female federal agent. So I mow my own lawn; the pain in the grass it gives me is more than offset by the pleasure provided to certain otherareas of my anatomy.
I've finished the front, the sides and about a third of the back. I can see Scully and Melissa looking out at me through the sliding glass doors. Melissa views mowing the lawn as performance art; she'd rather watch Daddy cut the grass than an episode of Barney. I catch Scully's eye and strip off my T-shirt. I can see, even from here, the way she gulps and licks her lips. I cut off the mower and motion for them to join me as I sink into a lawn chair. Melissa walks barefoot across the newly mown lawn, practically dancing with glee. Scully comes out carrying a big plastic tumbler full of lots of ice and iced tea. I grab it and gulp it down without stopping to come up for air.
"Daddy?" Melissa says, climbing into my lap.
"Night-night?" she asks touching my bare chest.
I understand her confusion. I'm usually the one who rocks her to sleep and I'm usually shirtless when I do it.
It's a ritual we initiated when she was a newborn, because Scully claimed the skin to skin contact would help us bond.
"No, Melissa, it's not time for night-night," I reply. "Daddy's just hot."
"Lissa hot!" she announces and tugs at her own T-shirt. Scully reaches over and pulls it off, so that Melissa is now clad only in her diaper.
"Mommy hot?" Melissa asks.
"No, Mommy's not hot," Scully replies with a smile.
"Frohike and I would disagree," I whisper pulling Dana down into my lap alongside Melissa. We've got one of those lawn chairs that stretches out like a lounger, so there's room for both of them on my long legs. "I think Mommy is *very* hot."
"Well, maybe I am," she whispers back, while tracing a finger down my chest and belly to the waistband
of my shorts. "But I don't think taking off my clothes would help cool me off; at least not while Melissa's
still awake. Besides, I'm not sure Frohike still holds that opinion."
I chuckle. Frohike's attitude toward Scully has changed a great deal in the past couple of years. As soon as Dana and I got married he quit commenting on her sexual attractiveness. The first year, I think it was more out of respect for me and our friendship; he probably still *thought* she was hot, just didn't feel it would be an appropriate sentiment to share with her husband. As soon, as she got pregnant, however, his
feelings practically reversed. He seems to feel that only a pervert would be sexually attracted to a woman who was pregnant or a mother. Which, from a psychological standpoint is sort of interesting. . .and may explain why Frohike himself is an only child.
"Well, you still turn me on," I assure her. "Especially dressed the way you are today." Dana is wearing a tight white T-shirt, sans bra, and a pair of very short blue jean shorts. The shorts are old; she had them before Melissa was born and now they're so snug on her that she has to leave the snap at the top undone when she wears them. She kept trying to get rid of them, and I kept putting them back in her drawer, until we finally reached a compromise. She'll wear them around the house and in the backyard and in front of me and Melissa only. She won't wear them out front, even just to run out to check the mail, and she won't wear them when anybody else is around, even if it's just Maggie. That's okay. I love the way the material hugs her ass.
"I guess I'd better go ahead and finish," I say reluctantly.
"Come on Melissa, we need to go back inside, so Daddy can mow some more," Scully says, clambering off
my lap herself, then scooping Melissa up.
"Daddy mow," Melissa agrees.
"You can come back out again when I'm finished," I assure them. "Only next time bring me a beer."
"Okay," Scully nods.
The rest of the late afternoon and early evening passes in a pleasant haze. I consume a couple of cold beers as Dana and I play with Melissa in the backyard. Finally we wander back inside to have a simple supper of
sandwiches and pasta salad.
Scully and I are both horny as all get-out by this point. She spent the last couple of hours taking deep breaths of the newly mown grass, staring at my bare, glistening chest and occasionally licking her lips or letting out these almost inaudible whimpers. I spent most of that same time period trying to grab her ass whenever she bent over.
Despite our desire for each other, however, we're in no rush to hurry Melissa off to bed. While my work schedule isn't anywhere near as crazy as it was during my days on the X-Files, I still log a considerable number of hours on the job. I really enjoy the time I spend with my daughter and don't want to deliberately cut it short. Besides, anticipation can be fun.
"Come on, Melissa, bath time," Scully announces.
"Bath!" Melissa hollers, trying to tear off the tape from her diaper. One thing I've learned since becoming a father is that the supposed aversion kids have to bathing is a lot of hooey. Melissa *loves* taking a bath.
She'd spend hours in there if we'd allow it.
Scully's the main one who actually bathes Melissa. I just wander in and out of the bathroom, watching them
splash and play and giggle. I especially like the way Scully's T-shirt is clinging to her now that it's wet.
"The wet T-shirt look is a good one for you, Dana," I say as she finally lifts Melissa out of the tub.
She smiles at me. "Well, the no-shirt look is a good one for you, Fox, so I guess we're even."
Scully takes Melissa down the hall to get her nightgown on, read her a story and say her prayers. Then she brings her back downstairs, places her in my arms and kisses her goodnight. I almost feel that I'm too sweaty and grungy to rock such clean, innocent angel, but Melissa doesn't seem to mind. She must be tired, though; she's asleep by the end of the second lullaby. I carry her upstairs and lay her gently in her crib.
Okay, Daddy-duty is over for tonight. Now I can take care of my "duties" as a husband. I'm not sure exactly where Scully's gone to. I peek into our bedroom, half-expecting to be waiting there for me naked, but she's not.
I wander back downstairs and find her in the kitchen, bending down to load the dishwasher. I come up behind her and grab her as as she straightens up. "Want to adjourn to the bedroom?" I ask, holding her tight and leaning over her shoulder to talk directly into her ear. For good measure, I nip lightly at the lobe.
"No?" I echo, surprised. Scully's not a tease. She knows I want her; my arousal is pressing up against her
ass. And I know she wants me, too; after three years of marriage I know when she's turned on and she's
been revved up for the past four hours or so. . .ever since I first stripped off my shirt.
"I just thought. . .maybe. . .we could go out in the backyard," she suggests. "Take advantage of that nice, newly mown lawn of ours."
Hot damn! I thought I was turned on before, but this is better than I expected. Despite our years of absolute professional equality, Scully and I are pretty conventional about sex stereotypes when the subject is actually sex. Generally speaking, I'm the one who initiates things and suggests innovations. So when she
comes up with a new idea, I always agree with it.
"Want me to go get a blanket from our bed?" I ask.
"No," she says again. "I just want to be out on the grass."
"Let's go," I say.
We run outside, holding hands. I quickly scan the yard for nosy neighbors or hovering UFOs, but the coast
seems to be clear. The night is lit only by a crescent moon and a sprinkling of stars. Technically speaking, I suppose if any of our neighbors came outside and hung over their fences they could see us, but that's a chance I'm willing to take.
We tumble down to the grass and I climb on top of Dana, kissing her long and deep. One thing I've learned is that once she makes an initial suggestion for something a bit different, a wave of shyness sets in. From that point on, I need to be the aggressive one.
I run my hands over her breasts and her ass, while she caresses my back, chest and arms. Neither of us is in
a mood to prolong things. We've been engaging in a mild form of foreplay for the past few hours -- stealing
kisses, making innuendos, bumping up against each other. Any more stimulation, for either of us, and we might not even make it to the main event.
"How do you want me?" she asks, gasping for air as I kiss along her neck and collarbone.
"On your hands and knees," I reply. If we're going to be getting it on in the backyard, we might as well do
it doggy style. Besides, it's one of my favorite positions anyway.
Scully clambers up into the position I've suggested, and I push her shorts and panties down 'til they're almost to her knees. Her shirt I push up but don't remove. I unzip and free myself, but then I pause for a moment. I stroke her ass and gently push her thighs a bit farther apart. I reach one hand around to tickle her breasts a bit. Finally she turns her head to look at me and the expression in her eyes is almost feral. "Mulder, please!"
I could tease her a bit more, but my sense of smell is overwhelming me. The scent of newly mown grass combined with Scully's arousal is too much to withstand. I slide in and groan.
She lets out a moan. I begin moving, keeping her steady with an arm wrapped around her hips, supporting my weight with my other hand planted on the ground. She's rearing, panting and chanting my name. After only a few minutes, she begins to pulse around me. As often happens with us, her orgasm triggers my own.
We sprawl on the ground entwined with each other, blades of grass sticking to our sweaty, naked skin. I feel like I'm in a jungle rather than a backyard in suburban Maryland.
After a few minutes, I rouse myself and put my clothes back together, then help Scully redress. We go inside and stumble up the stairs, strip again, then fall into bed.
Scully conks out immediately. I'm relaxed and content, but I find my thoughts drifting to thoughts of Melissa Samantha's later years. If she turns out to be an ultra-feminine little girl, like her namesake aunts, that's fine.
I'll happily attend dance recitals, put butterfly barrettes in her hair and stay up until 4 a.m. on Christmas Eve constructing Barbie Dream Houses.
And if she turns out to be a tomboy, like her beautiful mother was as a child, that's fine, too. I'll happily teach her to play baseball, take her to football games and help her hunt for frogs. But there's one area of our family life that's going to precede along strictly traditional gender lines: mowing the lawn is always goingto remain man's work.
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