Part 1
It would be fair to say these past 12 months have been about the most stressful of my life, starting with the end of my 7-year marriage.
After I discovered my husband, as my mother far too gleefully pointed out, was a lying, cheating bastard. Not only had he been having an affair with a woman I worked with. But with a woman, I'd thought was my friend and he got her pregnant. He claimed he wanted to do the right thing by her and divorce me to marry her. Oh, and to pour salt into the wounds, he begged me to let him keep the house, as it was ideal for children.
That memory invokes the same anger and rage I'd felt. Closing my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, as my therapist had instructed me. One of the few things she'd taught me that stuck, that dwelling on those memories and feelings, only poisoned my mental and physical health going forward.
So I lost my husband, my home, a woman I thought was a friend, and my job. Technically, I quit my job, but I couldn't work next to a woman who's been sleeping with my husband. And apparently, everyone else knew.
My mother grudgingly allowed me to move back into my teenage bedroom, which for a 42-year-old woman was about the ultimate humiliation. Complaining that my presence ate into her privacy, but taking every opportunity to point out she'd told me not to marry him.
My friends were slightly more supportive, but not one of them didn't slip into our conversations at some point, that my husband was at least doing the right thing for his kid. Not what I wanted to hear, and there were days when I couldn't face getting out of bed. My mother was having none of that, dragged me to the doctors to get antidepressants, but I opted for therapy.
However, while listening to the hippy-dippy shit about cleansing my chakras, I came to a different realisation; I needed a clean break. A new location, new friends and a new job. Especially somewhere away from my mother.
I found a job in a town a couple of hours drive away and moved into a neat but tiny flat. My mother complained that I'd be too far away, and she'd never see me, but after her lack of support, I felt the far side of the moon was too close.
So it came as a surprise to discover my new location had a plus side for my mother. I was only an hour away from her older sister Aunt Elizabeth, and I could pop over to visit her every so often. I'd always liked Aunt Elizabeth, even if we rarely saw each other while I was growing up. According to my mother, the long drive was too much of a burden.
When I visited, I found my mother had struck again. She'd already talked to her sister and arranged that I'd 'pop' over every Saturday morning to take her shopping. In private I complained to my mother about her committing me without even asking. She managed to 'guilt' me into doing it, claiming my aunt wouldn't be around forever. My Aunt was in her late 70s and rather frail, her husband having passed away more than 5 years ago.
You could argue that being forced to look after someone else, stopped me from dwelling on my own problems. However, it was a difficult argument to accept when you have to force yourself from a warm bed early on a Saturday morning in December.
Over time I was starting to feel a lot better about myself. I enjoyed the new job and developed a new group of friends, mostly from work. They insisted that I join them in their regular social outing. They knew about what had happened and were very supportive.
Several had been divorced, if not in quite the same circumstances, and they insisted I get out of there and get back in the saddle. I told them it was too soon, and they agreed to let it lie, but not forever. When I was ready, they'd do all they could to help.
Around three months ago, while at the gym, I was surprised to catch myself idly watching the tight shorts of a man on the machine in front of me. It wasn't the first time I'd seen him or his tight shorts, but it sparked the first interest from my libido since I'd discovered my husband's infidelity, and perhaps the first true sign I was ready to move on.
Historically, I'd been fairly highly sexed, which my partners always appreciated. Any diminution of my sex life with my husband, I put down to our over-familiarity, and him getting older. In a rare moment of civility and candour, my husband had admitted his affair had nothing to do with being dissatisfied with me or our sex life. Instead, it was about him turning 47 and feeling old. Figuring, if he could boink a 30-year-old, it might somehow erase some of his years.
When I admitted I might be ready to start dating again to my friends, they were excited for me, but I was warned that the majority of the men looking to date a 42-year-old would be in their 50s and even 60s. Which came as a bit of a shock, and something I'd not considered,
I might not be a perky young thing anymore, but I looked after myself, eating well and exercising. I may have added a pound or two from my teenage weight, had a tiny bit of a belly, but most of it had gone to my bust. I'd gone from a 'B' to a 'D' cup over that time.
It seemed unfair, but all I got was laughter when I told my friends that. They agreed that an older guy would be good for a relationship. If I was looking for intelligent conversations, fine dining and exotic holidays. However, if I was just wanting sex, I should become a cougar. Which had everyone including me laughing like hyenas.
Shirley was one of the older divorced ladies. She had a good body for her age, but I knew she had fake tits. She admitted when she got divorced, she saw younger men at first, just to get back at her ex. Then she said she kept doing it purely for the sex. They were young, enthusiastic and very willing. She said it was almost doing a public service teaching these young men the ways of the world.
She did point out some downsides, though. Whilst they were enthusiastic and energetic, there would never be more to it than just sex. And usually, she'd have to pay for everything as they always seemed to be skint, which got another round of laughter and back-slapping.
I told them I wanted to take baby steps at first. So each of my friends offered to introduce me to someone they knew, and we'd go on a double date. It seemed like a good compromise, and I had a date with a nice enough guy who had just turned 40. He asked for my number, but he didn't really do anything for me.
However, before I could arrange a date with someone else, disaster struck, my aunt died.
Despite my mother having been a nurse in a busy hospital for over 30 years, she claimed it was too much for her to arrange the funeral and begged me to do it. I did my best, but afterwards, my mother castigated me for not inviting friends and relatives I'd never heard of. Her mood was brightened when she learned that she was the sole beneficiary from Elizabeth's estate.
Naturally, I was sad that my aunt had died, but also relieved from the burden of having to look after her. I could finally move on with my life, starting with getting myself a boyfriend of sorts.
I'd worked out, in the last 25 years I'd only gone without a boyfriend or husband for a week or two at a time. Ten months without someone to warm my bed, and other more interesting places, was far too long. I was even considering dropping my rule about no one-night stands.
However, again I was getting ahead of myself. My mother asked me to sort out Elizabeth's house before it could be sold, and I refused, telling her to get somebody else to do it. I didn't know how much she'd inherited, but my uncles had been a bank manager for over 30 years. So it couldn't have been peanuts.
My mother piled in with arguments, she wasn't one to waste money, when she had a perfectly healthy daughter to help. How ungrateful I was, and how she's never asked me to do anything for her before, and so on. Which was mostly rubbish, she even went as far as hinting that she'd see me alright afterwards. However, her final argument, and the straw that broke me, was how would I feel about strangers going through my most intimate stuff?
I remember standing in my Aunt's house, and the prospect of clearing it seemed daunting. Despite never having kids, they had lived in a three-storey house and filled it with good quality furniture. However, as I learned over the next few weeks, it was all so old fashioned nobody wanted it. Almost every evening, all my weekends and even a few precious holidays from work, I spent dealing with antique shops, auction houses and second-hand furniture shops.
After a month I'd only sold about 10%. Which earned my mother's displeasure claiming that I wasn't trying hard enough. And of course, that I did sell, I sold too cheaply.
I finally snapped, telling her everything else had to go to the tip or charity shops. I literally couldn't afford the fuel to keep doing this if she wasn't happy she should damn well do it herself. She was retired and had all the time in the world.
I think that was the first time I'd sworn at my mother. Instead of the tirade in reply I'd expected, she acquiesced, saying she'd be satisfied if it all went to charity shops. I was elated, but again I was getting ahead of myself.
It turns out most charity shops only stocked smaller items, like clothes and nick-nacks, not large pieces of furniture. However, I found one that was happy to take everything. So I arranged for a removals company to take the furniture there, while I would take all the smaller items myself.
So for the last four weeks, I've been waiting outside the shop every Saturday morning, with my car full of boxes and bin bags of clothes. Then watch the gaggle of old ladies running the shop, descend on their contents as if they might contain hidden treasure.
But today was the last day. The removal men would be here at my Aunt's house shortly, and the last of the items for the shop were packed into my car. The only three items that weren't going to the charity shop were two vases I rather liked, and I figured I'd earned, and an old tan leather suitcase I'd found in the attic.
Not that I wanted it, but I doubted if the charity shop would appreciate the contents. It seems my uncle had not been the upright straight-laced banker he'd always seemed. Inside was a collection of dirty magazines, some going back to the late sixties, and going through to the early nineties.
Some of the earliest were European imports and probably highly illegal back then. Not your standard nude pin-ups, but very explicit, showing open legs as well as penetration from fingers, dildos and occasionally a penis.
I'm no prude and between my ex-husband and former boyfriends, I'm pretty sure I've covered most of the Kama sutra. So the contents didn't shock me. However, porn had never been something I'd spent any time looking at. It was astonishing how fashions had changed, from what people thought of as sexy lingerie, through how much public hair was acceptable. And then in the later magazines, how inflated the model's breasts were with implants.
As I waited for the removal men, I realised that some of the magazines might be collector's items. There is bound to be someplace on the web I could try to sell them. As my mother had not been forthcoming with any recompense for my fuel, let alone my time, I'd sell what I could and keep the cash.
Carefully, taking a picture on my phone of each front cover, making a note of title, dates and the condition of the magazine. I started to go through the collection, only to realise I'd probably need to comment on the contents as well.
I was so engrossed in this, and getting a little turned on as I did it, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the doorbell went. Damn, it must be the removal men. Quickly stuffing the magazines back in the case and locking it, I let them in. Hoping nobody noticed how flushed I was.
We reconfirmed the details, they said it would be about two hours of work, and I left the keys with them. One of the men offered to carry the heavy case to my car, for which I was grateful. I just hoped he wouldn't ask why it was so heavy.
It was about 2:30 pm when I arrived at the shop, noticing this time only two elderly ladies were running the shop. As I placed the last of my aunt's possessions on the counter, I told them the furniture would be along shortly, which earned me a blank look. Fortunately, when they checked the shop's diary, it was written in.
