You should steal the gardener.
Go to your allotment one warm evening when the sun is setting, bathing the allotments in a warm, golden glow. Just by coincidence it will be when her gardener goes down. Your light cotton dress will allow the sun to stream through it, giving a hint of your thighs, calves, the hint of a nipple and what lies beneath.
Take a bowl to the water pump. Hold the handle lightly, but firmly and gently pump away, making that water rise and cascade down into your vessel. Your long, soft, slender fingers curled around that hard shaft. All the while the gardener is hidden behind the current bushes watching you....pump, pump, pump....pump. It is a hot night, and his lips are getting dry.
When the bowl is full, swish you hair over your head and wash it in this cool water. Flick it over your shoulders to dry, letting water run as riverlets, down your body. Gently rolling down your neck, your collar bone. He sees a single drop, caught in the setting sun, gently rolling down between your breasts, and he wishes he was there.
Move over to that pumpkin. Stroke it. Caress it. Feel the sun's warmth on your finger tips. You notice your dress is damp now from the water bowl. There is nobody around. It won't hurt to slither out of your dress and drape it over the pumpkin to let it dry. And you do.
As it drops to the floor you remember how it had been too hot to wear underwear. So there you are au natural like Eve. You go to grab a fig leaf, but you realise there are none there, only some rocket leaves and well, they're just not your size.
Politely, the gardener emerges from behind the current bushes with a rhubarb leaf. That will do. As he holds it out to you his hand brushes yours. It's electric. The connection is made. He is yours.
Just as the sun starts to dip behind the horizon, your neighbouring plot-holder arrives in the allotment.
But the gardener is now trimming your bush. And hers shall be trimmed no more.