Nobody in this story is under 18. If you are likely to be offended by explicit sex – that sort of stuff – then don't read it. It draws on my experience, and that of people I know, plus my over-fertile imagination.
Separated at eighteen-and-a-half! No, I never thought that was a possibility. I never for a moment entertained the possibility that marriage to Joss wouldn't work out. Bloody hell, I'd ditched the chance of going to Cambridge to get married to the bastard. And for what? To listen to his bloody heavy metal, smell his poxy pot smoke, and hear his incessant moaning about not having any money – for three months. Shit! The sex had been fantastic – at first. But then, I hadn't had much else, apart from a few fumbles behind the bike sheds.
Come on, Jenny, I thought, stop feeling sorry for yourself! I sat on the bed in my newly-found studio flat, and went through my options. I'd landed a job easily enough with my hot-shot 'A' levels, working in an insurance office for half-decent money, so that I could afford the flat. I'd try for university – though it wouldn't be a posh one – next year. Meantime, there was
the letter
to consider. I held it in my hand and read it for the third or fourth time. My father wanted to see me! After all these years. My first instinct was to ignore him. But something kept bringing me back to
the letter
.
My father had left my mother when I was five years old. Too young to know why, or be told properly. And I had never been told since. My mother met Raymond at a Bible Meeting, and he soon became my stepfather. We had a frosty relationship – he never ill-treated me, I have to say, but there was a lack of warmth, of humour, about him, that time never cured.
In
the letter
, my father explained that he had been remarried, living abroad, and later divorced. During his time abroad, he had been too distant geographically to get in touch, and he had also been nervous of causing problems for my mother and her new husband. He had heard about my marriage and subsequent separation, and wondered if we could meet? The tone of the letter was oddly nervous – at odds with my vague recollection of my father: I had a distinct memory of him once doing battle with my formidable grandmother in the car, culminating in her getting out at a bus stop. Nobody before or since has seen fit to argue with her. He had signed the letter 'Bob' – not 'Dad' but 'Bob' – as if he was ashamed of himself, worried about his status, or what? The letter came from Venezuela, and the envelope contained a photo. It was a photo of a bronzed, fit-looking stranger, lounging against a wooden rail of some sort. He had a faint smile on his lips and close-cropped, greying hair. He wore an open-necked beige shirt and tan chinos. Each time I read the letter, I sneaked an almost guilty look at that photo, for it carried with it a certain chemistry I didn't want to try and explain.
My colleague in the insurance office, Ben, had asked me out for a drink on that Saturday night, and, although still reeling from my separation, I needed to get Joss out of my system, so I agreed.
I took a bit of time getting ready, and had a good look at myself. Not too much damage, I thought, considering. I had kept myself in trim, despite the unpleasantness, and could still wriggle into my size 10 dresses, which pleased me. I prided myself on my long blonde hair, and kept it clean and well-trimmed, so that when I slipped into a little black velvet number and stepped into my favourite high heels, I just needed a bit of jewellery to complete the picture. 'Not bad,' I said out loud, just as the door bell sounded.
Ben took me to a nice country pub, where we had a light meal, a few drinks – Ben was good about drinking and driving, and stuck to low-alcohol stuff – then we wound up at his apartment, a state-of-the-art bachelor pad overlooking a park, where he wanted me to listen to his CD collection. (He really wanted to screw me, and knew that I knew it! - I thought I wouldn't mind if he did.)
I sat on his leather sofa, and looked at him a he cam into the room with coffee. He wasn't at all bad, I thought. Fashionably shaven-headed, and well dressed in casual tee-shirt and good jeans, he was OK. One of those moments ensued, when nobody knows quite how to make the first move, but when I went to look at his CD collection, I knew he would be right behind me, and the closeness did it. He snaked his arms around me from behind, cupping my smallish, firm breasts. I wore no bra under the velvet dress, and could tell he liked the feel of my nipples hardening under his fingers' manipulation.
He spun me around, and kissed me, lightly at first, then hard, probing insistently with his tongue, as I let my lips accept him in a mute invitation. I moulded my body to his, feeling him grow hard against me as his knee pushed my legs apart.
'Give me some air,' I gasped, pushing him gently away, and he led me to the sofa, where we sat down side-by-side.
