Amanda?s Journey

Some of my reader have seemed to believe my past story were real. None of them were, they were fantasy. Maybe parts of them were real or inspired by real events but none were true stories. This story is based on someone’s real life, I can’t say it’s all fact, I didn’t take notes as she told it to me. I wrote it using my own voice, my own style, I didn’t want an interview. I wrote it because she wanted me to, I wrote it because she is an amazing person. I wrote it because she is strong, she has survived much in her life.

For the sake of brevity, I’ve condensed some parts, moving them along a quicker path then they really happened, but there is only so much that can be presented in a short story.

I was, as I hope most of you well be, intrigued by her life. Inspired by her strengths, saddened by her weaknesses. Sorrowed by her pain, joyous at her happiness. I to play a part in her life, a small part, one she gives more credit to then I deserve. One part I completely hate, and that is her description of my life partner’s ex. You’ll understand why when you read it. Perhaps, I’m the jealous type, Amanda isn’t the only one who’s described her in similar terms. I had to know, I had to find out, and they are right, she is all Amanda says she is. We went to see her perform, my love and I, I looked in my lovers eyes, I’m no longer jealous, I know where her heart is.

Amanda’s Journey

Life, at least as I see it, comes to us as one milestones after another, some little, some big, but there are certain of those that are defining. They determine the rest of our lives, who we see ourselves as, who we actually are. Lets call those moments A, B, C so on and so forth. How does a person get from say point A in their lives to point B. Could a small change in some event in a persons life cause point B to be something completely different. Or is a life predetermined, destined to that point, no matter what path is taken? I know not, all I know is I’ve had two of those defining milestones. The first was during my 17th years of life. I’ve arrived at my second in the year of my 37th birthday.

Christened Amanda on January 2nd 1965, my life had been quite unremarkable, that is until my senior year in High School. My parents, although somewhat conservative in their thinking, took an interest in myself, along with my 2 brother and 1 sister. For that matter so did my Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and Cousins. We were a close knit family, all born, raised and lived within a few blocks of one another, in the borough of Queens, New York City, New York.

A family of middle class working people, good people, moral people, good Catholics, no sandals to speak of, ok one, my Uncle, my mother’s sister’s husband, had an affair, been caught, chastised, then forgiven. Forgiven by everyone but my Aunt, everyone said she forgave him, but I could tell she hadn’t, she had this bitterness bottled up inside of her. I have no doubt that a divorce would have made her happier but divorce was not something my family even talked about much less did, the horrors, the dishonor. If I had an opinion on his having an affair, I don’t remember, but I did adore them both, more so my Uncle then my Aunt.

I don’t think my family had ever really faced dishonor, an affair is one thing, but having an unmarried Daughter, Granddaughter, Niece, or Cousin become pregnant at the age of seventeen, now that is dishonor. A stubborn, rebellious Daughter to boot. At least rebellious when it came to the father of her child. As you most likely have already figured out that Daughter is me. I had been the perfect child until I met Johnny. I followed the rules, did my chores without being told to, studied hard, getting almost straight A’s, dated only boys my father approved of, kept my curfew, which had been 11:30 p.m., except on those special occasions, prom, home coming, excreta when it would be raised to 1 a.m..

The truth is none of those things would have changed because of Johnny. They only changed because my father forbid me to see him. Johnny didn’t meet my father’s criteria for a suitable boy friend. He didn’t come from a good family, a Catholic one, he didn’t attend the right school, a Catholic school. I’m sure I’d been forbidden a lot of other things in my short life, but to forbid a boy, a boy I liked, a boy I couldn’t see passed his charm. I think not. To have reasoned with me might have worked, but my god, at seventeen I was just starting to feel myself a woman, I was just starting to feel my independence, I couldn’t be forbidden the boy I felt I loved.

In the end I rebelled, looking back I realize that I never loved Johnny, his attraction to me was, partly lust, mostly that he was forbidden. Johnny was wild, he was a trouble maker, he was irresponsible, the truth is he was a born loser, over the years he’s proved that. But none of that matter to me, I wasn’t suppose to have him, so I wanted him. I convinced myself, I was in love with him.

Eventually I gave in to my curiosity and desire to have sex. Johnny pressuring me to have sex, I’m sure, hastened that, but it had to happen sometime. I was, of course, totally unprepared for sex, I hadn’t been taught anything about sex, beside don’t, not at home nor at school, much less taught about protection. Perhaps I knew about condoms, perhaps I even knew we should be using them but what I didn’t know was how easily one could become pregnant. The very first mouth we started having sex I didn’t get my period, I really didn’t think much of that at first, I wasn’t overly regular at the time, anyway. But by the time my next period was do, I knew, I didn’t know much about my own body but I did know I was pregnant.

In a way, I think I was excited about being so, I was in love, I had Johnny. In my dream world, I just assumed Johnny would be happy I was carrying his child. We’d get married, we’d live happily ever after. Reality just isn’t a dream, Johnny was not happy, he wanted me to have an abortion. I couldn’t do that, I could not kill my unborn child. Even when Johnny gave me the choice of him or my child, I had no choice but to chose my child. That was the very last time I saw Johnny, he has neither inquired of nor seen our son, Michael.

I guess I could have run away, I was that afraid of telling my parents, but tell them I did. I let them run my life for the rest of my pregnancy. I agreed to put my child up for adoption, something even at the time of signing those papers I knew I wouldn’t do. School, I had to give that up, although if I’d have been going to a public school I could have continued, it was totally out of the question to have a pregnant girl walking the halls of a good Catholic institution. Condemn the sin but forgive the sinner, ya sure, my church would forgive a murderer before they’d forgive an unwed mother.

To make a long story short, I have a feeling this is going to be very long, I was booted out of my house shortly after the birth of Micheal, I wouldn’t give him up. After a short stay at my Aunts, the one who’s husband cheated, still did, there wasn’t a minute I was alone with him that he wasn’t trying to get into my pants, I found public housing. For the first three years, I worked two jobs waiting tables, I didn’t have any other skills. It was enough to make a person give up on life, sometimes I wonder why I didn’t.

Men, save for one man, one I’m not sure I looked at as a man, there were none in my life, I can’t say I hated men but I surely didn’t trust any. Of the four important men in my life, three had in my mind betrayed me. Johnny by leaving me, and by not wanting to be the father to my child. My own father because even against my mother’s wishes he kicked me out of my house, refusing to even talk to me. He not only kicked me out, he kicked me out with nothing, the clothes on my back, no money, no food for Micheal, nothing. If it hadn’t been for my mother going behind his back, arranging for my aunt to take me in, sneaking Michael’s and my things out of the house, then giving me enough money to live on for a while. I’m sure we would have starved to death.

Then there was my Uncle, he taught me that no matter how much a man professes to love his wife, he’ll cheat given the chance. Some well even cheat with their eighteen year old niece. No I did not! I have come to realize that my Uncle was more blatant then most men, but I still stand by my belief, most men well cheat. Perhaps that is a harsh judgment, maybe it’s all of us humans, maybe given the right person, the right moment in time, everyone of us becomes a cheat.

Even with assistance and working two jobs there never was enough money, I wasn’t getting anywhere. I wanted out of this life, I wanted out of public housing, the place was scary, it was not a place to raise a child. At first, I felt education may be the answer. With the help of my neighbor, who watched Michael so I could go to school at night. A wonderful woman, with a jerk for an ex-husband, who’d left her and her four children after twelve years of marriage. Another father who didn’t see his children, didn’t pay his child support.

It didn’t take long to get my high school equivalency, and start attending a junior college, where I was studying book keeping. Even with going to school, nothing seemed to be happening, nothing was happening fast enough. I was still stuck in that same old welfare world. A world of poverty, a world where others look down at you, even the clerks at the grocery store would give me this scum of the earth look when I’d hand them my food stamps. I needed out, I needed out now, not two or three years from now. The realization of this hit the third Christmas of Michael’s life, we didn’t have a Christmas, not a real one, not one with a tree, with family, no singing Christmas carols, and prayer of thanks giving, what was there to be thankful for. Aside from the few gifts my mother and Donald, the only man in my life, had gotten for Michael there weren’t any. A lonely Christmas, spent in a dump of an apartment, spent without family, with a Christmas feast consisting of ring baloney.

I’d had enough of poverty, more then enough, more then my fair share. Fair, if life was fair my building would have been empty, it wasn’t empty, there was a waiting list, mostly of women with children, a mile long. Not that there was a lack of men around, lazy no good men, men living off of what little the state gave some woman to live on. Lazy men who didn’t work, didn’t watch the children while his lady went out and earned some money, money he could then blow.

There weren’t a lot of options for me, the woman across the hall stripped for extra money, cash money, unreported income, money she needed to feed her drug habit. Really not a bad person, being a single mother, being in poverty had been her downfall, drugs her escape. She tried to be a good mother, she tried to break the habit, I know she did not want this life for her child, poverty, drugs, it doesn’t matter, she loved her child. If you have to point a finger, then first live her life. By far she wasn’t in the worst situation, some of the women I lived with turned to prostitution to fill their need, or some man’s need, for money, and not all of them were on drugs.

Either of those options seemed a viable alternative to me, yes it is that bad. I wasn’t hooked on drugs, I wasn’t run down, I looked good, I knew I could make money taking off my clothes. Enough I was sure to get out of this life. I didn’t know anything about being a prostitute, I sure knew walking the streets wasn’t the answer but I knew enough, I heard enough. I had been given some phone number, escort services, funny how we hide the turn nature of what these women do, services that others had used to leave this life.

Then there was my other option, the other man in my life, Donald, the one I said earlier that I’m not sure I had considered a man. Donald had been Johnny’s best friend. When Johnny had deserted me, Donald had not, he had gone to birthing classes with me, as my coach. He was at my side during Michael’s birth. He was the only man who took a true interest in Michael. He was also in love with me. Was I interested in Donald, yes, but not as a lover, as a friend, never as a lover. Nothing about Donald attracted me romantically or sexually. I didn’t play with his heart, I did not hide this from him, he knew my feelings.

He was more like the boy next door to me then a potential lover. He wasn’t bad looking, actually quite handsome in the face. He surely didn’t attract me physically, a bit on the chunky side, well a bit is an understatement. Much to gentle for my taste, a bit to eager to please. A man who did not excite me. A man, I was in love with, just not that passionate kind of love, the kind of love a woman should feel for her husband. But he was a man who wanted to marry me, a man who wanted to take me out of poverty, a man who wanted to be father to my child, and our children if I’d allow him to be. A man who could support me, he worked hard, he was willing to take risks and had. He had started his own construction company, although small, mostly remodeling, he had a dream that one day his company would be more then that. I believed him, I had faith in Donald, I trusted Donald, I felt lovingly to Donald, I wanted to mother Donald, of course that is not something I wanted to feel for the man I was to marry.

I think most of all I felt Donald would be welcomed by my father. He fit my fathers idea of a husband for me, he worked hard, he’d come from a good hard working family, he had supported his mother after his father had died, going to work at sixteen. But most of all his was Catholic. I shouldn’t have cared, I should not have even wanted to see my father again, much less wanting to be in his good graces again, but I did, I missed my father, I missed my family. I wanted Michael to have more family then just his Grandmother, I wanted him to have a Grandfather, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins.

Deciding Donald was the best of my three option, I accepted his offer of marriage. As I said earlier, he was the right man for my father. I was forgiven almost immediately by my father. He even wanted me to move back home for the remaining months before our wedding, something I refused to do. We had a church wedding, lots of guests, yes I wore white, my Grandmother’s wedding dress, although it had to be altered my Grandmother had been much bigger then I was. Our wedding was not extravagant, my parents didn’t have the money for that, yes they paid, it was only proper in my father’s mind. It was a wonderful wedding, I don’t know why but I was happy, I hadn’t been, I was that day. Maybe I’d never be able to love Donald with a passionate all consuming love but I did love him, a gentle quiet kind love. That day is one of those I’ll treasure forever.

That night was the first time we made love, I wasn’t consumed with passion, but I did find Donald to be more then just an adequate lover. His equipment much more then just adequate. I didn’t have an orgasm that night, but I should have, Donald knew how to make love to a woman, something Johnny had not. Something I’m entirely sure, I didn’t know myself. But there was no fire, there was no lust, there was no passion, not on my part. Johnny hadn’t had to know how to make love to me, his touch made me tingle all over, his kiss turned me to fire. I had orgasms with Johnny, I didn’t need to fake them or try to force them, they just were. When I touched Johnny, his body was hard, his body was muscled, his body felt wonderful against mine, his weight felt perfect. Donald’s body, soft, his flesh jiggled at my touch, his weight almost unbearable.

The next day we spent moving what few things I owned worth keeping, into a small apartment not far from my parent’s. It wasn’t much but it wasn’t public housing, I was off of welfare, I was happy. I was determined to be the best wife Donald could ever have. We didn’t have a honeymoon, Donald was in the middle of his first big project. Big, being of course relative to what he’d done in the past, small by most measures. His first job that wasn’t a remodel. He was so proud of himself, every night he’d take Michael and I to see his new building. The look on his face as he showed us was priceless, so full of accomplishment, so joyous, so confident. I knew I’d never truly love Donald, not as a wife should, but I knew he’d be a good husband, a good father and a good provider, I’d never face poverty again.

Donald proved to be all I felt he could be, a year later we bought our first house, a bit of a run down brownstone in the Chelsea area of Manhattan. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t dilapidated, we’d picked it, partly because I wanted to be further away from my parents, but also so we could restore it, it was our project, the first as a married couple. We did restore that house, we worked hard together, I pounded nails, I hung doors and did things I didn’t think I was capable of doing. Donald was gentle with me, took his time, showed me, taught me, helped me. Most of all he made me feel like I was doing as much as he was, that this was our home, our project. It was so much fun, I don’t think I ever felt as close to Donald as I did during that time in our lives.

But all truly good things come to an end, and our remodeling finally ended, we had a home. We had a place that was ours, a place to raise our son. Yes that had changed to, I now felt Michael was our son, not my son. Johnny, I didn’t have any feeling for him, whatever I had felt was gone. In a way I thanked him and pitied him. I thanked him for giving me the biological gift of my son. I pitied him because he’d never know how precious Michael was.

Our life, like most married couples became routine, I took care of Michael and the house, Donald worked. It was a better marriage then most, I think. Donald didn’t ignore us, didn’t put other priorities ahead of us. After Michael started school, of course a private school, just not a Catholic one, I became bored. There really was no need for me to work. I knew I didn’t want to wait tables again, the only thing I had ever done, but I needed something to do. I thought about going back to school but the idea really didn’t interest me. Finally I decided to get involved in a local woman’s right organization. Most of what we were doing, had to do with single mothers, help in collecting child support, lobbying for better laws, laws that really punished dead beat dads, laws that made it possible to track them down, garnish their wages, even put some in jail if all else failed, we lobbied for welfare reform, our biggest failure. I felt I could contribute, I’d been there, done that. I enjoyed my involvement, met a lot of people, started to have a social life separate from Donald’s.

It was that social life that changed my life, not as you may think. I started going out to lunch with other women, I started having women friends, something that had been lacking in my life since the day I left welfare. One day at lunch our conversation turned to our husbands, our married lives, then to our sex lives, not a description but the general state there of. The consensus around the table was pretty much the same, boring. That is when Gloria chimed in that hers had been that way to, that is until her and her husband had started role playing. It had started out as a joke, her dressing up as a cheer leader. But that night the sex had been marvelous, so they’d expanded upon that, the French Maid, the harlot, even a little dom/sub routine, and light bondage.

That was our Gloria, she just loved to shock everyone, and shock us she had, I didn’t dare comment, and I guess no one else did either, the subject was quickly changed to our children. I almost hate to say this but the idea intrigued me. Sex in our marriage was boring, at least from my perspective, it was at best a wifely duty for me. It wasn’t one I refused to perform, it was just one I avoided when I could. My feelings, my not being turned on by Donald had not changed. I had no dough that Donald had been a wise choice in a husband, I no longer looked at our marriage as just a way out. I enjoyed his company, he made me happy in so many other ways, sex was just not that important to me. I really had never had a great sex life, six or seven weeks with Johnny, hadn’t addicted me to sex. But I did carry some guilt because I knew Donald wanted sex more often then we had it. The only times I did really get turned on with Donald was when I’d build some fantasy around our making love. Maybe just maybe, role playing would make the fantasizing easier. If that worked we’d both be happier, I’d have some good sexual experiences, Donald would have sex with me more often.