Memories Of A Summer Long Ago

Memories - by Sarah Jayne

Why?

Just three little letters, why?

Such a simple little question, why?

Why is the sky blue?

Why is the flame hot?

Why did I drug and rape my neighbour's teenage son?

************

I am an older lady.

Some would say, very old.

Three months ago, maybe a little more, I became unwell, I got a chest infection, and I was hospitalized for 8 days.

I needed help breathing, I was put on a ventilator, it was a scary time, very scary, and I became a little, maybe a lot, morbid, wondered if that was going to be the end.

It sounds a little cliched, but as you grow older, or at certain key moments, you sometimes reflect on your life, looking back, taking stock, how you will be judged when the time comes, were you a good person?

Was I a good person?

I don't consider myself as deeply religious, like most people I will say a little prayer, ask for help when I need it, hope that there is someone listening, someone to answer, but then I look at all the pain and suffering in the world, the poverty, this sickness, and ask how can that be fair?

Do I believe in the afterlife, in Heaven, Hell:

I suppose, in a fashion, I hope that there is a place the good people go, and a place for the bad.

Am I a good person?

The events of that summer were, are, part of my life, part of me, something that happened, something that I let happen, something that was my doing, my responsibility.

But was it my fault, or was I a victim too?

Do I feel guilty - at times, yes, I did it - I raped Nick.

But was it my fault, did I have a choice?

I know - that sounds stupid - of course I had a choice - but did I really?

I've played the events of that summer over and over in my mind for more than twenty years, and I still don't know.

My fault, or fate.

Nature, nurture, destiny, predeterminism - some or all of the above.

I need to try to explain what happened and why, in my own words, to tell my side of the story, to show, to prove, I am a good person, that I too was a victim, that a series of events occurred that were outside of my control, and led to an inevitable conclusion.

I need you to tell me, if I am a good person?

************

Finally, I am not an author by trade, I have never written anything like this before, and as I re-read it before posting I realise that at times I jump from the past to the present - all I can say is that in my mind, at times, the two are the same.

************

My name - Sarah Jayne Thompson, born 23

rd

February 1954, Oxford England.

My parents, both surgeons, my father specializing in heart surgery, my mother pediatrics.

Childhood - Very happy:

Memories of tea parties on the lawn with my nanny (Nanny Pat - who looked after me until I was ten), pony rides, holiday at our house in Scotland, walks with dogs, adventures.

Teenage years - Better than average:

My parents were well off, I went to a private school, I had a good education, although I wasn't particularly gifted. I was studious, and logical. Enjoyed Maths, Chemistry and Piano, because if you followed the rules, the formula, the score you always got the right answer.

Although my mother always told me I was beautiful, at every opportunity she had, I wasn't, but neither was I ugly - 5' 11" tall, usually plain short black hair, although sometimes I did let it grow longer, size 12, sometimes 14, 35-inch chest, I was just plain Sarah Jayne.

I had friends, girlfriends, no boys until the second year of college, what spare time I had usually involved Piano lessons.

College - 'A, levels in Chemistry (B), Pure Mathematics (A), Computer Science (A) and 'O' level in boys, if you know what I mean. I was eighteen the first cock I ever touched - Simon Wilkins, back seats of the Oxford Empire Cinema.

Were my parents disappointed in me:

Maybe, a little, but they never actually said it to my face. I'm sure secretly they wanted me to go into medicine, follow in their footsteps. They were always kind, supportive - "We just want the best for you, for you to be happy."

Late Teens, Ealy Twenties - Average.

Considered University - but it wasn't really my thing - and so I joined Barclay's Bank, High Street Oxford in 1973.

Marriage - Happy, confused, miserable, fucking lying bastard I hope he rots in hell:

I met Peter in 76, he was a customer at the bank. At first it was just transactions, paying in cheques, he was a salesman at his father's car dealership in town, then it was the odd comment, "How are you today", "I like your hair", "You're looking lovely today", "Would you like to go for a drink one evening". Drinks lead to Dinner, Dinner led to, well I'm sure you get the idea.

We married in July 78, went to Malta for our Honeymoon, my parents gave us some money, well a lot of money, so we could buy a lovely two-bedroom detached house on the outskirts of Oxford, it was like a fairy tale - 5 years later we were divorced.

Marriage - Years 1-3 - Happy, joyous, loving, everything a girl could dream of.

Marriage year 3 - STD:

It started with a slight pain when I peed, a slight burning sensation - I thought it was probably just a urine infection, which I'd had before, but after a couple of days it didn't clear up, so I went to my local Doctor, a lovely lady, Mary, she'd been my GP since I was about 10, very down to earth, very "matter of fact."

After a brief, and slightly painful examine, she told me I had an STD.

Rather stupidly "how" was the first question I asked.

I remember she reached out an took my hand, the look on her face, waiting for me to join the dots.

I had an STD, so I must have caught it from someone...

So, Pete must have an STD, and he must have caught it from someone....

So, Pete has....

I asked if this was something that could have laid dormant, maybe from my time in college - Mary shook her head, "Sorry this is an active infection."

It was just after four when I got home, just after five when Pete came into the kitchen, all smiles as usual.

"How has your day.." as a cup smashed into the wall beside him.

"You fucking cheating bastard."

Pete coming towards me, all innocent, "What?"

I try to slap him, but he backs away - "I have a fucking STD."

At this he stops, takes a step backwards, "Er, what do you mean?"

I move towards him, try to slap him again, but miss, "You fucking bastard."

More yelling (me), more swearing (me), I pick up a glass from the table, but before I have a chance to throw it Pete's running for the door.

"Get out, out, and don't come back."

Later that night I pack a bag, and ring my mum to say we've had a row and I'm coming over.

Next day I told them Pete had cheated on me, I didn't tell them about the STD - Mum said she always thought Pete was "shifty", Dad, bless him, said he'd go round and sort him out.

Pete left it 48 hours, but then the flowers started, letters, phone calls - he was sorry, he loved me, he was stupid, it was only once, it meant nothing.

It was two weeks before I spoke to him again, a month before I moved back home.

Next two years:

Pete had hurt me, and it took us a lot of time to get over what he'd done, but eventually things went back to their normal routine.

Marriage year 5 - a knock at the door:

It was just after Seven, there was a knock on the front door, Pete and I looked at each other - "Are you expecting someone?"

Pete answered the door, I was standing just behind him in the hallway - As Pete open the door I got a glimpse of a woman, Pete pushed me back into the hallway, yelling "NO" as he went through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

I could hear the woman yelling, Pete yelling, as I opened the door, she looked at me and pointing to the bulge in her stomach yelling "IT'S HIS.".

We divorced, sold the house and I moved back to my parents' full time.

Nov 17

th

1985:

I was still living with my parents, working at the bank.

Mum and dad planned to go up to Scotland for a few days, to close the house down for Winter, and suggested I go with them. It would do me good, but realistically being stuck with Mum and Dad and their drinking buddies for a week in Scotland didn't appeal.

It was a crisp Friday morning, I helped them pack the car - just after six A.M. - My dad was one of those - "Get away early to beat the traffic". I waved them off, and that was the last time I saw them.

An accident on the M1, black ice, freezing fog - multicar pileup, 5 killed.

Breakdown:

I honestly don't remember much about the next year - I had what the doctors call a full depressive nervous breakdown, I was in a "private Hospital" (or Loony bin as I called it) for 6 months, and then in care.

I was totally alone, and in a very dark place.

Slow recovery:

And it was slow.

I was lucky (if that's the right word). My parents both had life insurance, and as the only child I inherited the family house, and the property in Scotland, my dad had shares, and other monies, so that was never a problem, in fact I had to employee a financial advisor to help - bottom line, I was more than well off - and with sensible investment would never have to work again.

Rebuilding:

By 1990 I had sold the houses, and bought a three-bedroom bungalow in Oxon.

I was 36, alone, no purpose in my life.

I started to get involved with charity work, especially anything to do with local matters, I volunteered and then managed a local charity shop, I became a JP, I got involved in sponsor events, took up painting for a while, went to night classes, flower arranging, pottery, photography, involved in church events, I just found things to keep myself busy.

The big Four O:

I had a lovely garden party - 40 people, neighbours, friends - I was content.

Early 97 - Night sweats, mood swings, hormones, menopause:

I appreciate most people reading this (men) won't understand what this truly means. Feeling anxious for no reason, mood swings, from intensely positive to so depressed you can't be bothered to get out of bed, brain-fog, where you struggle to do the simplest things, and the hot flushes.

Nickolas (Nick):

My neighbours, on the left side as I looked out of my lounge window, Sue and Brian, son Nicholas, probably my closest friends, known them for 8 maybe 9 years.

It would have been April/May time, I was in the garden, mowing the lawn, a job I loved and hated, loved when it was finished, hated doing, I said to Sue I was thinking of getting a part time Gardener to help, and asked if she knew anyone, I was willing to pay the going rate.

"Oh, don't do that." she said, "I'm sure Nick would help, he's saving up to pay for driving lessons."

So that's how I started to get to know Nick, he'd come over every other Sunday, two hours work £25.

About Nick:

Just turned 19 a few weeks ago, in his second year at Art College, 5''11, very slim build, fair hair, very well mannered, quiet, shy.

After he'd finished work, he'd always clean and put the mower away, and come into the kitchen for a glass of my homemade lemonade, which he'd become very partial to, and after few visits I suppose he started to become more comfortable around me, and we would chat, mostly about college and Art, what his projects were, what he wanted to do when he left college, general stuff.

I'd see him some days as he walked to the bus for college, usually in the morning, he'd look and wave, I waved back, a few times, If I was going into town, I'd give him a lift.

Up until that point that was all, he was just my neighbour's 19 year old son, who helped with the gardening.

That was until the really odd dream:

Do you remember your dreams when you're waking up - I often do, usually they make no sense, I'm back at school and can't find my homework, or I'm falling from a height, or being chased. I'd read somewhere dreams were your brain trying to resolve issues your conscious mind couldn't, or something like that.

Was this a dream, a wish, a fantasy - whatever it was it was vivid in my mind as I started to wake - I was in bed with Nick and we were having sex, beautiful, loving, satisfying sex.

I was on the cusp of sleep and wake, just drifting I can clearly remember even today, a discussion in my mind, part of my brain saying" what are you doing, you're old enough to be his mother", the other part saying, "go for it."

Carefully, not wanting to spoil the moment I roll to the side of the bed, reaching into the bedside drawer, I take out Rodger, my purple pulsing friend, and return to Nick.

Through-out the day the dream kept returning, glimpses of me and Nick together, what it would feel like, I remember making a coffee and sitting at the kitchen table, and actually talking to myself out loud - telling myself not to be silly, but a seed had been planted, and you know what happens when seeds are planted - they grow.

Masturbation:

Women masturbate, men masturbate, postmen, policemen, teachers, truckers, doctors, nurses - everyone masturbates at some time in their lives.

It's not sinful, it's not unhealthy, it's not dirty - it may be messy, and sticky, but usually it's just a way of releasing stress and making you feel good, if only for a few minutes.

I masturbate, not every day, not even once a week, but sometimes, when the mood takes, when I just need a little high.

The following evening, I soaked in a hot bath, toweled my self dry, put on a silk nightdress, took Rodger, and curled up in bed waiting for Nick.

Nothing happened:

Not that week or the next, things just went on as usual, Nick visited my dreams less often, and during the day I kept myself busy, and put all thoughts of Nick away - or that's what I told myself.

The Kiss:

It was about a month later, Sunday, Nick had been working in the garden, doing the lawn, I had been out weeding, dead heading flowers, it was a beautiful sunny day, light breeze, I had the radio on in the kitchen, playing sixties hits.

Nick had just finished work, we were in the kitchen, and I made him a glass of lemonade, we were laughing at something, I can't remember what, he was standing in front of me as I reached up, put my hands on his cheeks, pulled him towards me and kissed him, hard passionately full on the lips.

The only thing I can tell you about the kiss is that it lasted for two seconds, three at most.

I felt Nick pull away.

Him - "What?"

Me "Sorry."

Him, almost stumbling as he backs away "WHAT?"

Me "Sorry."

Nick turning, almost running for the door, me calling after him "Nick sorry, NICK."

I'm stood alone in the kitchen - What the fuck had I just done, what should I do, should I go after him, what do I say, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

Minutes passed - any moment I expected Sue or Brian to come storming in, demanding an explanation - FUUUCCK.

Should I go round, try to explain, sorry but I've been having sexual fantasies about your teenage son.

Hours passed.

Nothing happened.

The next day, nothing.

Later in the week I saw Sue in the Garden, she waved, big smile, I waved back, clearly Nick hadn't told her.

Ten days passed, Sunday approaching, I'd seen Nick earlier in the week and waved, but he'd looked away.

Sunday, there was a knock on the back door, as I answered Nick visibly took two steps back, keeping his distance.

"I'm here to do the garden Miss Thompson," - Miss Thomson - He'd never called me that before, but at least we were talking, "Thank you Nick." I replied in my best, purely professional, and definitely no kissing voice.

When he was finishing, I made him a lemonade as always, he knocked on the kitchen door, normally he would have just come in, but not this time, as I opened the door, again he took a step backwards.

I smiled; it was sort of sweet, innocent.

I turned, and walked away to the back of the kitchen, "Nick, sorry, If I PROMISE never to do that again can we still be friends."

With that he smiled, I laughed, he laughed, and everything was back to normal, or I thought it was until the dreams returned.

Night after Night:

Have you ever had a bite, or a rash, and it itches, so you scratch it, and it itches more, so you scratch it more, and more and more.

Every night Nick would come to me in my dreams, and I came too.

I tried everything, cold showers, stopped eating cheese, drank hot chocolate before going to bed, eventually I made an appointment to see Mary.

I sort of explained I just couldn't sleep, she asked me a bit about what was going on in my life, blah, blah, of course I didn't tell her about Nick.

She said she'd prescribe some sleeping tablets, as she reached for her pad to write the prescription, I asked if I could have "the good stuff", something to just zonk me out?

She stopped for a second, then drew a thick line through what she had written.

She tore off the script and passed it to me, as I reached for it, she pulled it away.

"These are very strong, one, maximum two tablets immediately before bed, absolutely no alcohol, no driving for 8 hours after taking, preferably 10 hours, okay."

I smiled, "Understood."

The tablets, little green and yellow capsules, the first night I took two with a glass of water as I turned off the light, the bedside clock said 10:10, I remember 10:20 I was feeling warm, fuzzy headed, the next thing I knew the alarm was ringing in my ear, and it was seven o'clock, and no Nick.

The pills made me drowsy the next day, so that night I reduced to one tablet and slept fine, no Nick.

The tablets were working.

Dianne and Paul's Barbeque:

It was about a week later, Saturday - Dianne and Paul were neighbours, a couple of houses down past Sue and Brian, they were having a barbeque, celebrating their 20

th

Wedding anniversary, all the neighbours were there Sue, Brian, Nick, good food, good company and lots of wine and champagne.

I didn't drink much, a couple of glasses with the food, champagne with the toasts etc, and I left by 11:30.

I was in bed by 12:00, and could still hear the party, as I been drinking, and remembering Mary's advice I didn't take a tablet.

Different dream:

Nick below me - me on top - me fucking him, hard and fast, taking what I wanted.

Decision:

I couldn't go on like this every night, feeling the way I did, having to take pills to stop be thinking about Nick.

Reading through this now, in black and white, it looks insane, maybe it was, but at the time it felt right - I needed to fuck Nick whether he wanted it or not.

Plan:

Who, How, Where, When?

Who - Nick.

How - Part one:

Sex games and basic biology.

When Pete and I first met we had a good, varied, healthy, slightly kinky sex life.

I liked sex, he liked sex, we liked sex.

The first few months of our relationship it was a bit awkward, a bit tentative, a lot of nervous giggling.

Pete always liked me touching his cock, anytime day or night, give it a playful squeeze and it sprang into action.

We were both very open and honest about what we liked, both willing to "make the effort" to please the other.

We'd both had previous partners, so it wasn't like it was the first time.

We touched things, we licked things, we bit things, we sucked things, we just explored, tried things, seeing what we liked.

One morning, it must have been early in our relationship, before we married, I'd been awake for a few minutes, Pete was on his back, snoring quietly covered only by a sheet.

Gently I pulled the cover away, his cock curled up, also asleep.

Aren't cocks strange:

Prior to Pete I had touch eight - I don't know if that's good number, bad, average?

What has always struck me was how different they all were, different sizes shapes.

Pete's cock, when asleep, like a podgy sausage, when awake five- and three-quarter inches (we measured it a few weeks earlier), with a slight curve to his left.