Pat's Lover

Now, I can assure you that I am not the sort to foist blame for my actions on to another person. On the other hand, and in this case, I think my husband Edgar was in part responsible for what happened.

Before getting to the important aspects, let me introduce myself, and treat you to a little of my history.

I am generally known as “Pat,” Pat Cooper that was. Like many people, you might assume that Pat is a contraction for Patricia, Patria or suchlike. You would be wrong. Parents, who should have been locked away in a mental institution, named me “Petronella”.

Should any one wish to bring about a sudden end to their earthly existence, then try calling me, “Petronella,” or for an especially painful demise, “Pet.” To all, except my husband Edgar, I was “Pat,” and nothing but. I will explain about my name and Edgar shortly.

Edgar and I had been married for twenty-two years, and if you want to know, that put both of us into our forties.

In the first three years, we manufactured two children, Wendy and Edgar the 2nd. Both have long departed the family home, Wendy to a distant city as a nurse, Edgar the 2nd to an even more distant university to study law.

At the opening of my story I was suffering from what used to be quaintly called, “The Empty Nest Syndrome.” To compensate for the departure of my children, and more practically, the lack of any skills that anyone wanted to pay me for, I volunteered like mad. Red Cross, St.Johns, Rotary, the local Church, these and many others fell victim to my volunteering.

Edgar and I were left to occupy a four bed room house with lounge, family room, play room, kitchen and the rest of the usual. We considered moving to smaller premises, but somehow didn’t get around to doing anything about it.

Thinking of “doing nothing about it” reminds me of my love life with Edgar.

I married Edgar on the “rebound.” As I said, I don’t blame others for self-induced problems. At eighteen, I had an affair with a married man. I knew he was married with children but I just went ahead anyway. When crunch time came, he suddenly found he preferred his wife and children to me.

Crash followed crunch. I went around for months in dark despair, then met safe, secure Edgar. You might say it was a case of crash and grab. I seized upon that poor mild and stable fellow with all the verve of a drowning man (or woman) clutching a straw. We married.

With the experience of a truly fervent and uninhibited lover in my curriculum vitae, I can hardly claim that bedtime games with Edgar had ever been what I would call, “stunningly passionate.” Edgar’s idea of sex was to stick it in, off load an excess of semen, pull out, roll over, and go to sleep. Orgasm for myself was something I had to attend to solo after Edgar had given his less than inspiring performance.

You might have noted my use of the past tense. There is a particular reason for that.

Around the fifth year of our wedded bliss even this desultory sexual offering diminished until it reached vanishing point, and masturbating became an even greater factor in my life.

For those interested, my favourite way to masturbate was to put on thin shorts without panties and go cycling. The clitoris and vagina are rubbed by the bike's saddle, which brings me to orgasm. I actually devised a little gadget to fit to my saddle to give extra pressure where I wanted it. I often wondered what those people I passed on my bike would have thought if they knew that I was masturbating publicly. Of course, one problem with this method of masturbating was orgasm time, when I had to stop because my steering became erratic.

One of my troubles was inertia. I mean this not simply in the common usage of the word to mean plain laziness. I use it in the more scientific sense of an object in space, once impelled in a certain direction, continuing in the direction it has been shoved until a new force impels it in another direction.

So, there I was, five years into marriage, sexually pent-up, and playing the happy families game with Edgar and the two children.

In other words, “I did nothing about” my situation, just as Edgar and I did nothing about changing houses when the kids cleared off.

I might have sought my gratification with someone other than Edgar. There were a couple of reasons why I did not do this. The first was that my one experience with a married man had left me somewhat paralysed when it came to seeking gratification in the same manner again.

The second reason is one related to self-image. Despite the fact that I did notice men turning round to take another look, I gave myself no high score in the beauty stakes. Thus, I gave no thought to seeking an unmarried man, believing they would be more interested in someone younger and unattached. How wrong can you be?

I did go as far as chatting with a few female friends about my intimate problem, and as far as I could make out from their evasive answers, about fifty percent of them were in the same predicament. This being so, I surrendered to what I perceived to be the inevitable, and made love with my vibrator and bicycle.

To bring about any change in my situation, I needed a big force to overcome my inertia by giving me a hefty shove in a new direction. Unwittingly, it was Edgar who provided it.

Coming home from work one day he began, “Honeeeey…”

Oh God, how I hate that form of address, especially when he uses his whining voice. Whenever he calls me “Honey” in that tone, I know he is about to ask me something he knows will be disagreeable to me.

He has two other forms of address for me; “Dear”, when he wants to put me down, and “Darl’" (Darling), as a sort of general purpose title that has lost all its original meaning of one who is especially beloved. I believe he has all but forgotten that I have a name.

So, back to Edgar’s entrée:

“Honey, you know we’ve got three bedrooms we aren’t using now…”

Thinks: “Yes Edgar, I know we’ve got three bedrooms we aren’t using, and I’m wondering why I’m not using one of them instead still bedding with you.”

Aloud: “Yes Edgar?”

“Well, honey, I’ve had an idea about what we can do with one of them.”

Thinks: “Oh, hell, what’s he coming up with now.”

Aloud: “What, Edgar?”

“We could take in a lodger, honey.”

“We could what?”

“Now don’t get upset, dear. It’s just a suggestion.”

“A suggestion that we run a boarding house?”

“Not really, dear.”

“What gave you this idea?”

“Well, you see, dear, we’ve got a young fellow joining us at the office from one of our country agencies. The manager was asking us if we knew of anyone who could give him somewhere to live…just temporarily, dear, until he gets settled.”

I should perhaps explain that Edgar had risen to be under manager for an insurance company – he’ll always be and “Under” something, he’s that type – that has agencies in many country centres.

Edgar went on, “He wouldn’t be much bother, honey, and you could keep the extra money.”

Trust Edgar to think of the money.

“You cook for two now, honey, cooking for three wouldn’t make much difference, would it?

“And do the extra cleaning and washing as well, I suppose?”

“Only for a little while, honey.”

“What do you know about him? You said he’s young. He could give us all sorts of problems, you know what our son was like.”

“According to our manager he’s a very bright young chap, and he’s about twenty-five. It really would be a help and keep me sweet with the manager.”

“Yes,” I thought, “trust Edgar to try and sweeten the boss.”

Never the less I was beginning to relent. Perhaps it would be a change to have someone young around the place. It might brighten up life a bit.

“What’s his name?”

“Jeremy Clarke, would you believe,” Edgar said in a derisive voice. “ With a name like Jeremy he sounds a bit of a wimp, don’t you think?”

“Sounds a nice name to me. All right, let’s meet him, and then decide. He might not want to board with a middle-aged couple.”

“I knew you’d come round, darl. I’ll let the manager know tomorrow.”

“I haven’t ‘come round’ yet, Edgar, so be careful what you tell the manager. When does this Jeremy arrive?”

“I’m not sure, darl. The manager will know, but I’m off on country branch visits for four days, but I’ll telephone you from the office before I leave. By the way, will you pack for me – enough for four days - darl.”

“Yes, master,” I thought perhaps a trifle unfairly, “I sometimes wish I could pack enough to keep you away for the next twenty years.”

Aloud I said, “Right.” I had performed this packing service for him many times, and supposed I’d be doing it until the day he retired.

I packed, and Edgar departed next morning in cheery mode, as he usually did on the country branch visits. I often wondered what there was about country branch visits that caused him to be so buoyant.

A couple of hours later Edgar rang to say that Jeremy would be arriving six days hence, and he would bring him home from work to effect the introductions. He ended the call with that generally meaningless phrase, “Love you”, and rang off.

Over the following days I found myself with mixed feelings about our potential lodger. On the one hand, I was apprehensive about what he might get up to – late nights, sneaking girls in, smoking pot in his bedroom. On the other hand, I fantasised a handsome, lively fellow who would bring sunshine into the usually rather shadow life we lived.

Reality of course, also occurred to me. As I have already related, the extra cooking, cleaning, bed making and washing, and no longer feeling free to roam about the house in a state of semi nudity.

Perhaps Edgar was right, and Jeremy would be a wimpish fellow and dull like many insurance people are. “Ah well,” I thought. “Wait and see.”

After four days, Edgar returned home looking rather fit and tanned. “How does he get a tan visiting country branches,” I wondered, not for the first time.

The day of the Jeremy manifestation arrived. As the hour for his epiphany drew near, I found myself taking extra care about what I should wear. I changed three times, and was still not satisfied that I presented a desirable image. Likewise my hair and makeup.

The problem was, I didn’t know what image I wanted to present:

1. The fearsome, “We don’t allow no carryings on ‘ere, “ landlady.

2. The charming middle aged, “How nice to meet you,” lady.

3. The sexy, “You and me’ll get on just fine, kid,” female.

None of these images seemed to sit on me comfortably.

I thought, “I’ll just be myself,” but telling yourself to be yourself is like other people telling you to “just be yourself,” it leaves one floundering as you try to remember what yourself is.

I ended up settling for nothing in particular, and when Edgar arrived with Jeremy, and introductions were carried out (“Darl, this is Jeremy. Jeremy, this is my wife Pat”), I simply opted for, “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Jeremy?” To which he replied in courteous tones, “Coffee, please.”

Surveying the in flesh Jeremy, I saw no sign of Edgar’s predicted wimp. Jeremy stood about six feet three inches tall. I sought for a description of his physique, and came up with “Adonis,” the handsome god loved by Aphrodite.

Later I was to learn that Jeremy’s favourite sport and one that he played and did not simply watched, was rugby.

For those unfamiliar with this game, I shall explain: The game does involve a ball, but it plays little part in the actual contest. The main thing seems to be to break as many noses, arms, legs, fingers and ribs as possible, and to knock out teeth. No armour plating is used, unlike the knights of gridiron football. Rugby players emerge, clad only in shorts and shirt.

Followers of rugby will realise that I know little of the game, but I believe the winning side is the one that still has a man standing when “Time” is called.

I must say that Adonis – I mean Jeremy – showed no signs of the battering physical violence of his chosen sport, and when he smiled, which he did often, his teeth were white and unbroken.

In short, Jeremy seemed very masculine.

Along with his physical qualities went an easy politeness, and as I was to learn later, a readiness to be helpful. Among his other virtues he always made his own bed and helped with the washing up, activities totally unknown to Edgar.

This first meeting with Jeremy had a two-fold effect on me: the first was a warm carnal quivering. The second was, I felt an aging frump in his presence. I was not sure which of these responses alarmed me the most.

After the initial introductory salutations and the presenting of coffee, Jeremy opened the conversation.

“It’s very good of you to agree to take me in like this, Pat. I wasn’t at all sure where I was going to stay. I didn’t fancy a hotel or motel, and boarding houses are pretty poor places these days. I much prefer the home atmosphere.”

I didn’t know I had agreed to “take” him in. That was supposed to be for discussion. But that’s Edgar. He takes everything for granted, including me.

To be fair, however, I certainly was not inclined to refuse Jeremy house room. This young man was far too appealing to let go. He touched my female sensibilities, and brought to mind long lost memories of someone else – someone before Edgar.

So, arrangements were discussed and agreed upon, and financial matters settled. Jeremy seemed delighted with his room and the fact that he had his own bathroom and toilet. Thus, the three of us were satisfied, each in their way. Jeremy because he had a “home atmosphere;” Edgar because he had his own way and would keep “sweet” with the boss; me because I would have what I believe is referred to as a “young hunk” around the place for a change.

At first, as is common in such situations, we were all politeness and careful speech. It is the process of feeling one’s way into the other person and finding out what is acceptable and unacceptable. Another way of putting it is, to discover how much of one’s worst side one dares to show.

Quite quickly we passed out of this “careful” period and became increasingly open in relating to each other. Just how much of Edgar and I Jeremy saw as our “worst” sides is hard to tell, but Jeremy only seemed to improve on further acquaintance.

It became noticeable that he related much more to me than to Edgar. With me, he spoke of his parents, especially his mother, and of his brother and sister. In part, this relating to me might have been because Edgar preferred watching the sitcoms on television in the family room, while Jeremy and I talked or read in the lounge.

Actually, Jeremy had been invited to use the television set in the games room more or less for his private viewing, but he made little use of this, clearly preferring to be with me.

I told myself that this was because of the affection he had for his mother, and missing her, found a substitute in me. I felt there to be nothing objectionable in this apparent maternal attachment.

I discovered no signs of drug abuse by Jeremy, and he was always moderate in his use of alcohol. On Saturdays and some weekday evenings, he went off to his game of rugby, and thankfully, he always returned with nothing more than some bruises.

One thing did emerge to trouble me a little. There were no signs of a female in Jeremy’s life. Like many women, I did not believe it possible for a man to manage without a woman, despite the bedtime evidence to the contrary with Edgar. I did wonder for a while if Jeremy was gay, but there was no sign of a man in his life either, apart from his rugby mates and work colleagues. I finally concluded that Jeremy was of a kind that could get along quite well just masturbating, which after all, was what I had to do.

Since I have mentioned masturbating, I might as well confess that quite soon after Jeremy’s arrival, my masturbation-induced orgasms had him as their central fantasy. For one who was trying to be the maternal substitute, this was somewhat disquieting.

Another disclosure I may as well let you in on was my growing tendency to joke with Jeremy. By that, I do not mean simply the telling of funny stories. My jokes were of the double entendre variety. You know the sort of thing I mean. The joke that may be a joke or may have a more serious content lurking within, and that possible content usually being sexual.

I suppose it could be said of me, I was “leading him on.”

I would draw attention to certain physical aspects of him or me. On occasions, I passed Jeremy scantily clad in his underpants, and noting what looked like his more than adequate manhood, I would comment how cute he looked.

On the other side I would remark that some time he really would have to see me in my bikini and find out what an old lady I really was. This was of course, a ploy to get him to tell me that I couldn’t possibly look like and old lady, which to my satisfaction, was his usual response to those sort of remarks from me.

Often this back and forth bantering went on in front of Edgar. He took no particular notice and this gave the raillery pseudo innocence. After all, it could not be serious if I said it with my husband present, could it?

Edgar continued to go away on his visits to the country branches, and it was noticeable that during the period of his absence, Jeremy and I became more sombre in our relationship. I suppose it was a sort of defensiveness that said that it was all right to flirt while Edgar was around, but highly dangerous in his absence.

Originally, Jeremy was only supposed to be with us until he “got settled.” I had never asked how long “getting settled” would take, but Jeremy’s time with us came to extend over a year, and still there were no signs of his departure. I did wonder from time to time just when Jeremy would leave us, but it was with a feeling of disquiet because quite frankly, I did not want him to go, I was enjoying his presence in my life too much.

I was still trying to tell myself that Jeremy could not possibly be sexually interested in a woman my age, and after all, he was of an age to almost be the son I might have had with my pre-Edgar lover. That being so, I continued to tell myself that my interest in Jeremy was entirely maternal.

As you my reader will no doubt be quick to tell me, I was lying to myself, and I knew I was lying. My frequent feelings of sexual arousal when he was close, and his presence as my fantasy during masturbation, clearly demonstrated my failed attempts at self-deception.

Worse than the straightforward sexual attraction I felt for him, I knew myself to be in love with him.

That Jeremy had never demonstrated openly any feelings of sexual attraction towards me, was my last line of defence. When our conversation strayed in the direction of matters sexual, and especially when it referred even remotely to a possible attraction between us, Jeremy would pass it off with a laugh and a joke.

There came a time when I was considering telling Jeremy to leave. A battle raged inside me. I wanted him to go because the sexual tensions in me had reached the point where I was becoming irritable and snappy with both Edgar and Jeremy.

Edgar, in his usual bland, unobservant and probably disinterested way, wrote off my irascible behaviour as “early menopause.” He even suggested that I go and see the doctor to find out if there was any medication that might, as he put it, “fix” me up.

If only Edgar could have known how far off the mark, he was!

In the struggle to come to terms with my feelings, I tried many ploys. On the one hand, I tried to keep Jeremy at a distance with a sort of aloof peevishness. On the other hand, I sought to draw his attention to me.

I would wear a dress with a very loose neckline and no bras, and leaning over in front of him, try to display my breasts to him. For all that they had suckled two infants, my bosom was still in good order, and often-caused men to take another look.