Caring for a loved one
I had always admired those who gave up so much to care for a loved one at home, especially with little or no support. And those who visited their loved one every single day once full-time nursing care was needed. I got to know their problems more intimately when my mother, who had come to spend the rest of her life with us — hopefully in happiness and contentment — gradually succumbed to a type of dementia that caused depression and paranoia.
She was in her late eighties and I was not surprised that she would forget things occasionally, but we soon realised it was more than that. She became quite aggressive if we did not accept her false or confused statements. I realised something was seriously wrong when, after a friend had left the house, she told me that her visitor was a spy and had been taking notes.
I helped her to dress in the morning: apart from being severely arthritic and needing a helping hand, left to herself she would empty the wardrobe, complain she had nothing to wear and give me too much hassle.
‘No blouses, Mother? Look — one two, three…’ and I would count all the way to fifteen. But not one would be acceptable. To get things moving, I would sometimes make a trip upstairs to my closet, choose one of my best blouses and run downstairs again. I would find her pulling out the rest of her clothes from her wardrobe.
‘No good,’ she would say to my offering. ‘It doesn’t match my skirt.’
Well, it was good to know she still had good taste, but it would be some time before she was finally dressed for a little trip in my car.
’Where’s my walking stick?’
She refused to acknowledge either of her two walking sticks and so I bought her another one and wrote her name on it.
Of course she would not use it. Apparently, the chap next door had stolen Mother’s walking stick. Next-door being the ’Woolpack Inn’ in Emmerdale! (As in the television programme, which she watched avidly.)
I then began to notice how she appeared to live inside the television, instead of merely watching it. She was with the actors, not with us. When a consultant came to assess her, the television took on a new role: it was watching and recording her movements – spying!
Her paranoia deepened. Her carer was in tears when I arrived home. My mother had poured her cups of tea down the plughole saying she was being poisoned.
Then her depression deepened and we had to watch her very carefully. I found her with her tights tied tightly around her throat. Then I found her looking for knives to cut her wrists.
I tried to reach inside her mind to let her know that we loved her but she was unable to receive either my words or my prayers.
‘Hypocrite! Hypocrite!’ she would scream.
At other times she would yell that she was going to burn in hell and me with her.
No longer able to recognise me, she tried to drag me out of my study saying I did not belong there. ‘Gladys will be angry!’
Unable to control me, she went to the front door and yelled for the police.
I had to make sure all doors were locked and the way upstairs gated — a fall was not what I wanted. There was little sleep at night: I caught her tugging at electricity wires because she was convinced the boiler was about to explode. I heard a crash one night and ran downstairs to find her half-naked in the hall, and broken glass scattered over the kitchen floor.
The doctor gave me sleeping tablets for her but it was impossible to get her to take them. Finally, she did have a fall requiring pinning of a fractured femur close to her hip. She did not appear to be in physical pain, her mind was worrying that ‘all’ would be revealed that night on television.
‘You’ll never forgive me,’ she said, ‘I told them you did that abortion, and that our Janet had been caught shoplifting, and Bill had stolen the Kohinoor and ruined America.’
I was in despair. How did such dreadful things enter and torment her mind? She even told the hospital doctor that she was going to be on television, and he believed her!
The torment went on unabated when she entered a nursing home. The few coins in her purse she said were counterfeit, and she was going to be punished. She would not let me take them off her hands; she had it in her head that she had to go to prison. Incarceration, punishment and hell were constant themes.
My heart was bleeding for the mother I loved but whom I could not help in her dreadful ordeal. I knew hell and damnation were part of her upbringing in the mining town of Alfreton. School lessons were reinforced at home: it was part of the culture when she was a young child at the beginning of the twentieth century.
I remembered my mother raising her hand at an evangelical service I had taken her to many years before. The preacher had felt called to pray for anyone seeking forgiveness and salvation in the name of Christ. While eyes were closed, hands could be raised. Afterwards folk protested because such things had long been dispensed with at their chapel. But I had felt her arm move upwards: surely the Holy Spirit was indeed working in that place, and yet…
Release came for her soon after Christmas in the year 1991. I knew she had been feeling poorly and I stayed with her after she had been put to bed. I always visited her every day and on each occasion would hold her hand. Maybe she did not know who I was but that did not matter: I had always hoped and prayed for a connection of spirit with spirit. I believe in the power of God-given love to heal the broken-hearted.
It was getting late and I was very tired. It had been a harrowing time for me in my church ministry and, along with my other duties, I still had a funeral to prepare for — my fifth in four weeks. My mother appeared to be asleep. I kissed her forehead and quietly whispered, ‘I have to get some sleep now. I’ll be back tomorrow. Goodnight, Mother.’
Her eyes remained closed but her lips opened.
‘Goodnight, Luvvy.’
Luvvy, was the name she called me before her illness. My eyes were wet with tears of joy!
Luvvy was the last word she was to speak. She died the following morning.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sad but true
We were sitting in the café drinking coffee.
"Look, there's your old friend John," said my companion, looking out of the window.
I followed his eyes. Yes, there indeed was John. He was about to cross the road with his partially-sighted wife in tow. Tears rose to my eyes. The person that I knew so well as a man of letters, writer of esoteric articles on Eastern religions, known for his brilliant mind and ability to explain complex issues, in every respect had the dishevelled appearance of a 'down and out.'
I knew the impossibility of going out to say hello. Being suspicious of anyone speaking to him, he would resent it as an intrusion into his privacy. The last time I saw and spoke to him proved this to be so. He told me of visitors prying into his personal life, offering help that was not wanted, and appeared to be afraid that do-gooders would take over his affairs and threaten his independence.
That he and his wife were coping, could be in no doubt. After all, there they were, doing their shopping, while many couples in their mid-eighties were either housebound or in residential care. I knew people were concerned about them but did they need to be? In the past I have visited many elderly people unhappy because they have been put into care. This couple still have each other, and that is worth more than an army of do-gooders coming round and taking away that which they are still able to give each other, however poor that mutual assistance may appear to be.
So why should I be sad? Should I not be rejoicing in their independence? I guess it was the shock of seeing a proud man looking such a scruff. But also because I knew from talking to him during the past year or so that his memory is not what it was. Forgetfulness can put people into danger.
I would like to visit them for old times sake. But now that he is paranoid about visitors calling, will I too be resented?
"Look, there's your old friend John," said my companion, looking out of the window.
I followed his eyes. Yes, there indeed was John. He was about to cross the road with his partially-sighted wife in tow. Tears rose to my eyes. The person that I knew so well as a man of letters, writer of esoteric articles on Eastern religions, known for his brilliant mind and ability to explain complex issues, in every respect had the dishevelled appearance of a 'down and out.'
I knew the impossibility of going out to say hello. Being suspicious of anyone speaking to him, he would resent it as an intrusion into his privacy. The last time I saw and spoke to him proved this to be so. He told me of visitors prying into his personal life, offering help that was not wanted, and appeared to be afraid that do-gooders would take over his affairs and threaten his independence.
That he and his wife were coping, could be in no doubt. After all, there they were, doing their shopping, while many couples in their mid-eighties were either housebound or in residential care. I knew people were concerned about them but did they need to be? In the past I have visited many elderly people unhappy because they have been put into care. This couple still have each other, and that is worth more than an army of do-gooders coming round and taking away that which they are still able to give each other, however poor that mutual assistance may appear to be.
So why should I be sad? Should I not be rejoicing in their independence? I guess it was the shock of seeing a proud man looking such a scruff. But also because I knew from talking to him during the past year or so that his memory is not what it was. Forgetfulness can put people into danger.
I would like to visit them for old times sake. But now that he is paranoid about visitors calling, will I too be resented?
Monday, September 22, 2008
When Angels Lie... a critical episode
When Angles Lie by Richard L Gray (aka Gladys Hobson) Magpies Nest Publishing. Second edition: When Angels Lie by Gladys Hobson pub. AG Press
This is a crucial point in the story... The Rev. Paul Stringer's secretary has fallen in love with him but being spurned (she does not know that he is gay) has run off… apparently into the arms of her boyfriend.
… When he opened his eyes, the fire was no more than a few glowing embers. He went wearily to bed. As he was about to close the curtains, he looked out of the window towards the church. There had been a shower and the lamp in the lane was lighting up the raindrops on the dark trees of the churchyard. It was half an hour off midnight and it would not be long before the church became a hive of activity. He knew the bishop would be looking at him favourably — on the surface he was a successful minister. But in his heart he was only too aware of his shortcomings.
He gripped the curtain to pull it across the window but then stopped. Something had caught his eye — light was coming from the windows at the east end of the church. Had a switch been left on or had someone broken in? Thieves and vandals could do serious damage; he couldn’t just forget about it and go to bed. Groaning with annoyance, he pulled on a jumper and trousers and ran downstairs.
He picked up a torch and looked for his church key. It wasn’t where he kept it. A key that size could not be slipped into a trouser pocket and forgotten. Where was it? The only thing he could think of was that Angela must have it in that big shoulder bag she carried around. She probably thought she might need it when she delivered the pamphlets late afternoon. When she found the church open and occupied, she would have left her father or Doreen Briggs to lock up. He only hoped the key hadn’t reached the wrong hands. Apart from the damage that could be done, his churchwarden would make sure he would never hear the last of it!
Locking the vicarage door behind him, he hurried to the church. As he entered the porch, he heard music coming from inside. The key was in the lock. He carefully opened the door and stepped inside. What he saw and heard made him sick to the heart.
Under the spotlights, a couple were copulating on the altar. Clothes and bottles littered the chancel. Music was coming from a disc player. But what horrified Paul most of all, was that above the usual grunts and moans of ecstasy, he heard Angela shouting, “Paul, don’t — not that — you’re hurting me!”
This is a crucial point in the story... The Rev. Paul Stringer's secretary has fallen in love with him but being spurned (she does not know that he is gay) has run off… apparently into the arms of her boyfriend.
… When he opened his eyes, the fire was no more than a few glowing embers. He went wearily to bed. As he was about to close the curtains, he looked out of the window towards the church. There had been a shower and the lamp in the lane was lighting up the raindrops on the dark trees of the churchyard. It was half an hour off midnight and it would not be long before the church became a hive of activity. He knew the bishop would be looking at him favourably — on the surface he was a successful minister. But in his heart he was only too aware of his shortcomings.
He gripped the curtain to pull it across the window but then stopped. Something had caught his eye — light was coming from the windows at the east end of the church. Had a switch been left on or had someone broken in? Thieves and vandals could do serious damage; he couldn’t just forget about it and go to bed. Groaning with annoyance, he pulled on a jumper and trousers and ran downstairs.
He picked up a torch and looked for his church key. It wasn’t where he kept it. A key that size could not be slipped into a trouser pocket and forgotten. Where was it? The only thing he could think of was that Angela must have it in that big shoulder bag she carried around. She probably thought she might need it when she delivered the pamphlets late afternoon. When she found the church open and occupied, she would have left her father or Doreen Briggs to lock up. He only hoped the key hadn’t reached the wrong hands. Apart from the damage that could be done, his churchwarden would make sure he would never hear the last of it!
Locking the vicarage door behind him, he hurried to the church. As he entered the porch, he heard music coming from inside. The key was in the lock. He carefully opened the door and stepped inside. What he saw and heard made him sick to the heart.
Under the spotlights, a couple were copulating on the altar. Clothes and bottles littered the chancel. Music was coming from a disc player. But what horrified Paul most of all, was that above the usual grunts and moans of ecstasy, he heard Angela shouting, “Paul, don’t — not that — you’re hurting me!”
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Joy of Acceptance
It is a wonderful thing when a publishing editor likes your writing and is prepared to take a chance by adding it to their titles. Stonehedge Publishing has done just that. Awakening Love by Gladys Hobson is now available as an Ebook - presently at Mobipocket, in a few days available at all Ebook sites.
Royalties from this book and its sequels (published in the USA) are promised to Badge Of Life (a USA organisation) so I am hoping it sells well for more reasons than my own self-esteem!
Yes, there is considerable joy in knowing that my book is accepted, for the book is part of me. It reflects a lot of my early struggles as a young woman in post-war Britain. But, I hasten to add, I had no sexy ruthless entrepreneur helping me in my career as a designer, nor did I have the sexy love-life of the heroine! But the factory setting is authentic as is the Nottingham scene. Washday was similar to my home, although my mother did most of the washing in the back yard. I too was naive but incredibly shy with it. In those days sex was a no-no subject and weird tales got around. Hitchcock kept his sex scenes to symbolism, such as trains entering tunnels! But I was too dim to realise that anyway. Later on, 'Duel in the Sun' with Jane Russell was almost banned. Good heavens! The woman was wearing a low-cut blouse, and not only that but, I seem to recall, she stepped into bed to warm up the feverish hero! Poor lad, I think he was dying but Jane was 'heap good medicine'! She had the right equipment before hot water bottles were present in the Wild West!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Checkmate - beg. of Chapter Two of unpublished novel
Checkmate if the third book of the the Awakening Love trilogy (Seduction by Design is the second book,)
Chapter two
Rob found her, as June’s domestic said he would, under the overhanging trees of the natural woodland that grew by the side of the lake. He had followed a long path, threading his way over the extensive lawn and through the sweet-scented flower gardens and colourful shrubbery, until he arrived at the deciduous trees. The beech, oak, ash and chestnut were resplendent in their summer glory. The grassy slope by the water’s edge was a very private place, some distance from the house. She was sitting on a rug with a pencil in her hand and a sketchpad on her knee. But she wasn’t working: her gaze seemed unfocussed and her mind far away.
June appeared to be in another world, and he wondered if he might be there with her. How he bitterly regretted the rough sex he tried to have with her… was it four or five years ago? How time flies! If only he’d accepted it was Charlie’s child she was bearing, things would have worked out so very differently. She might still be part of his business ventures and, as everyone knows, one thing always leads to another….
Even so, although Charles had forbidden him to be alone with her, he had at least accepted her continuing to do a few sketches each season. Meeting occasionally to discuss her ideas was essential, but it wasn’t enough: her design potential was wasting away. Not only that, he wanted her body as well as her creative flair. For, in spite of all the women on offer, she was still the only one he lusted after. And he was pretty sure that deep down, she wanted him too.
And here she was, all by herself even though both she and Charles were expecting him to call that afternoon. In spite of having put on a little weight she was looking very provocative. The shape of her firm large nipples stood out from under her gypsy blouse and the sight was quite intoxicating. Her feet, and what he could see of her legs, were bare and he wondered if her long flowing skirt hid the fact that she was naked underneath. He smiled: he might make a lot of money from producing high quality lingerie but, as a mere male, he was all for women desiring bodily freedom.
‘Hello, June,’ he said softly; to speak louder would have been a violation of the peaceful scene.
She was startled by his sudden appearance. ‘Rob! I didn’t see you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Golly, is it that late? I forgot the time. But surely you must be early? Yes, at least half an hour.’ Flustered, she began gathering her things together. ‘This is dreadful. I came here to get my thoughts together. I haven’t even changed, for goodness sake.’
‘You look all right to me.’
‘Nonsense! I look quite wild.’ She stood up. ‘I really must get back to the house and tidy myself up. These clothes are most unsuitable for a business meeting.’
‘Dressed like a nymph of the woods? What could be more suitable for an arboreal setting on a sunny day? But I guess we must have our meeting inside. …Charles not home yet?’
‘He’s at work. Very busy today.’ She began picking up her things. ‘We can have our meeting on the terrace. Much too nice to be inside on a day like this.’
‘If you’re sure it’s okay to be alone, that’s great.’ He took the blanket from her and spread it out. ‘In that case, might as well stay here. It’s quite inspirational.’
He threw his jacket and briefcase on the ground, loosened his tie and sat down on the rug, offering her a place by his side. She hesitated a moment and then gracefully lowered herself sideways to him. He could sense her nervousness. Fear about her work? Or was it excitement of what might happen between them? He was only about twenty minutes early, so why wasn’t she in the house getting ready for his arrival? Because she was in an ideal setting and dressed for what she hoped would take place? Intriguing! He felt his masculinity rising to the occasion and had to force himself to think of the business he’d come to discuss.
He opened his briefcase and took out various papers and fabric samples.
‘I noticed the two little ones with your sister in the conservatory. Where are the others?’ he asked, wanting to know how long they had before they were interrupted.
‘Rosie is teaching, of course. David and Peter are sailing; making the most of the good weather before going back to Cambridge. Jimmy is at school.’
She had her head down, looking intently at the swatches of fabric. Did she know what was on his mind? Of course she did.
‘I was hoping to see James today.’ Why would she persist in calling their son Jimmy?
She was handling a piece of finely-striped, woollen fabric; feeling its texture while looking at a sketch. ‘He’ll be home just after four. My daughter’s picking him up. He can join us for a cup of tea in the conservatory.’ She glanced at him almost shyly. ‘That is, if you can stay that long.’
‘Of course. But what about Charles?’
‘Charlie won’t mind. He won’t be home until this evening.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Of course, he knows you’re here today.’
‘Really?’
She smiled nervously. ‘Yes… I guess he’s prepared to trust you after all this time.’
‘But can I trust myself?’
Clearly, she was aroused by his presence: her voice had a slight quiver to it and, although she was trying to hide her feelings, her bright hazel eyes were sparkling excitedly. He watched her body respond as he gazed intently at her legs and upwards to her breasts; her nipples were actually hardening into stiff peaks beneath the fine fabric of her blouse. She couldn’t help herself. Obviously, she wanted him, needed him, badly. Charles not man enough to satisfy her? Or was she merely bored by mundane living and needed a bit of excitement in her life? Probably both.
Meeting with her during the past few years had been strictly business, and he’d always been the perfect gentleman. He couldn’t be otherwise with someone always present. She may have thought she was over his captivating ways, but he knew better. Of course, part of her — the reasoning mind — wanted him to get on with business matters and go. Even so, her adrenaline had started to flow and the darker side of her nature demanded the sexual stimulation of his presence. He had seen and felt it so many times before. Overpowering her inhibitions was the thrill of the chase.
Chapter two
Rob found her, as June’s domestic said he would, under the overhanging trees of the natural woodland that grew by the side of the lake. He had followed a long path, threading his way over the extensive lawn and through the sweet-scented flower gardens and colourful shrubbery, until he arrived at the deciduous trees. The beech, oak, ash and chestnut were resplendent in their summer glory. The grassy slope by the water’s edge was a very private place, some distance from the house. She was sitting on a rug with a pencil in her hand and a sketchpad on her knee. But she wasn’t working: her gaze seemed unfocussed and her mind far away.
June appeared to be in another world, and he wondered if he might be there with her. How he bitterly regretted the rough sex he tried to have with her… was it four or five years ago? How time flies! If only he’d accepted it was Charlie’s child she was bearing, things would have worked out so very differently. She might still be part of his business ventures and, as everyone knows, one thing always leads to another….
Even so, although Charles had forbidden him to be alone with her, he had at least accepted her continuing to do a few sketches each season. Meeting occasionally to discuss her ideas was essential, but it wasn’t enough: her design potential was wasting away. Not only that, he wanted her body as well as her creative flair. For, in spite of all the women on offer, she was still the only one he lusted after. And he was pretty sure that deep down, she wanted him too.
And here she was, all by herself even though both she and Charles were expecting him to call that afternoon. In spite of having put on a little weight she was looking very provocative. The shape of her firm large nipples stood out from under her gypsy blouse and the sight was quite intoxicating. Her feet, and what he could see of her legs, were bare and he wondered if her long flowing skirt hid the fact that she was naked underneath. He smiled: he might make a lot of money from producing high quality lingerie but, as a mere male, he was all for women desiring bodily freedom.
‘Hello, June,’ he said softly; to speak louder would have been a violation of the peaceful scene.
She was startled by his sudden appearance. ‘Rob! I didn’t see you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Golly, is it that late? I forgot the time. But surely you must be early? Yes, at least half an hour.’ Flustered, she began gathering her things together. ‘This is dreadful. I came here to get my thoughts together. I haven’t even changed, for goodness sake.’
‘You look all right to me.’
‘Nonsense! I look quite wild.’ She stood up. ‘I really must get back to the house and tidy myself up. These clothes are most unsuitable for a business meeting.’
‘Dressed like a nymph of the woods? What could be more suitable for an arboreal setting on a sunny day? But I guess we must have our meeting inside. …Charles not home yet?’
‘He’s at work. Very busy today.’ She began picking up her things. ‘We can have our meeting on the terrace. Much too nice to be inside on a day like this.’
‘If you’re sure it’s okay to be alone, that’s great.’ He took the blanket from her and spread it out. ‘In that case, might as well stay here. It’s quite inspirational.’
He threw his jacket and briefcase on the ground, loosened his tie and sat down on the rug, offering her a place by his side. She hesitated a moment and then gracefully lowered herself sideways to him. He could sense her nervousness. Fear about her work? Or was it excitement of what might happen between them? He was only about twenty minutes early, so why wasn’t she in the house getting ready for his arrival? Because she was in an ideal setting and dressed for what she hoped would take place? Intriguing! He felt his masculinity rising to the occasion and had to force himself to think of the business he’d come to discuss.
He opened his briefcase and took out various papers and fabric samples.
‘I noticed the two little ones with your sister in the conservatory. Where are the others?’ he asked, wanting to know how long they had before they were interrupted.
‘Rosie is teaching, of course. David and Peter are sailing; making the most of the good weather before going back to Cambridge. Jimmy is at school.’
She had her head down, looking intently at the swatches of fabric. Did she know what was on his mind? Of course she did.
‘I was hoping to see James today.’ Why would she persist in calling their son Jimmy?
She was handling a piece of finely-striped, woollen fabric; feeling its texture while looking at a sketch. ‘He’ll be home just after four. My daughter’s picking him up. He can join us for a cup of tea in the conservatory.’ She glanced at him almost shyly. ‘That is, if you can stay that long.’
‘Of course. But what about Charles?’
‘Charlie won’t mind. He won’t be home until this evening.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Of course, he knows you’re here today.’
‘Really?’
She smiled nervously. ‘Yes… I guess he’s prepared to trust you after all this time.’
‘But can I trust myself?’
Clearly, she was aroused by his presence: her voice had a slight quiver to it and, although she was trying to hide her feelings, her bright hazel eyes were sparkling excitedly. He watched her body respond as he gazed intently at her legs and upwards to her breasts; her nipples were actually hardening into stiff peaks beneath the fine fabric of her blouse. She couldn’t help herself. Obviously, she wanted him, needed him, badly. Charles not man enough to satisfy her? Or was she merely bored by mundane living and needed a bit of excitement in her life? Probably both.
Meeting with her during the past few years had been strictly business, and he’d always been the perfect gentleman. He couldn’t be otherwise with someone always present. She may have thought she was over his captivating ways, but he knew better. Of course, part of her — the reasoning mind — wanted him to get on with business matters and go. Even so, her adrenaline had started to flow and the darker side of her nature demanded the sexual stimulation of his presence. He had seen and felt it so many times before. Overpowering her inhibitions was the thrill of the chase.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Short extract from Seduction by Design... Gladys Hobson
Seduced by a Woman in Love… a short extract from Seduction By Design, (Sequel to Awakening Love, (by Gladys Hobson) shortly to be published as an E-book by Stonehedge)
A message had been pinned on the little noticeboard by his stairs door. He took it over to the light. Evidently, June had phoned to say she would be staying in London and it would be Monday before she arrived home. After five weeks on the continent with Watson, she was giving the man a weekend in London! Didn’t she care for him at all? He decided he could do with a bit of company, and he knew where to find it.
Helen was ready for him. She had brought the fire back to life and the room felt warm and cosy. She offered him a drink. He refused alcohol and just had soda water. She poured herself a large gin and lime and swallowed it straight down. Slipping off a silky shawl that covered her bare shoulders, she lay down on the thick rug in front of the fire and propped herself up on feather cushions from the sofa. Then, stretching herself like a kitten, she motioned to Charles to join her. ‘Come right here, Charlie. Join me in the firelight glow.’
He took off his jacket, threw a cushion the other side of the fireplace and sat down, leaning on an armchair behind him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Her soft pouting lips, big baby-blue eyes, and blonde hair framing her face like an angelic halo, belied the rest of her appearance. From the neck down, she was incredibly alluring. Her heavy breathing was exposing her breasts in a most provocative manner. The slightest movement and her shimmering skirt creased further up, revealing bare shapely thighs beyond her stocking-tops. If the blend of contrived childlike innocence and femme fatale was meant to seduce him, it was certainly having its effect.
‘You look fantastic, Helen. Quite irresistible.’
Sensuously, she ran a moist tongue along her parted lips. ‘Then why resist?’ she whispered. ‘We both know why you came back.’
‘Helen, I….’
‘Don’t say anything, Charlie,’ she said, creeping towards him like a cat. ‘Let your lips do the talking.’
He kissed her open mouth, savouring what he had been missing since June had left the country with Watson. It felt good. Soon, Helen rolled back her head, encouraging him to caress her neck. He lapped up her sighs of pleasure and responded to her every move. She began stretching backwards, deliberately allowing her breasts to pop up from the boned confines of the dress. His mouth followed the dictates of her desires and his own unruly urges.
‘Unzip my dress,’ she whispered, turning on her side and lifting an arm. ‘That’s better,’ she said, standing up and letting the dress fall to the carpet in a glistening pool. Rolling her hips in a provocative manner, she stepped out of her skimpy knickers. Wearing just her black stockings, pretty blue garters and high heeled shoes, she posed in front of him. ‘Now it’s your turn, Charlie.’
But he was too fascinated to move. All evidence that she was a true blonde had been removed. She was soft and smooth as a juicy peach.
‘Come on, Charlie,’ she said, starting to unbutton his shirt. ‘I’m waiting.’
The shirt was thrown aside. He hesitated to go further. A bit of petting was one thing, but once he was undressed there would be no holding back.
‘Helen, I don’t think—’
‘Better not to,’ she cut in. ‘Are you being coy, Charlie?’ Dropping to her knees, she quickly unbuckled his belt. ‘Let’s see what you’re trying to hide.’
‘Helen, please….’
The zip ran smoothly down.
A message had been pinned on the little noticeboard by his stairs door. He took it over to the light. Evidently, June had phoned to say she would be staying in London and it would be Monday before she arrived home. After five weeks on the continent with Watson, she was giving the man a weekend in London! Didn’t she care for him at all? He decided he could do with a bit of company, and he knew where to find it.
Helen was ready for him. She had brought the fire back to life and the room felt warm and cosy. She offered him a drink. He refused alcohol and just had soda water. She poured herself a large gin and lime and swallowed it straight down. Slipping off a silky shawl that covered her bare shoulders, she lay down on the thick rug in front of the fire and propped herself up on feather cushions from the sofa. Then, stretching herself like a kitten, she motioned to Charles to join her. ‘Come right here, Charlie. Join me in the firelight glow.’
He took off his jacket, threw a cushion the other side of the fireplace and sat down, leaning on an armchair behind him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Her soft pouting lips, big baby-blue eyes, and blonde hair framing her face like an angelic halo, belied the rest of her appearance. From the neck down, she was incredibly alluring. Her heavy breathing was exposing her breasts in a most provocative manner. The slightest movement and her shimmering skirt creased further up, revealing bare shapely thighs beyond her stocking-tops. If the blend of contrived childlike innocence and femme fatale was meant to seduce him, it was certainly having its effect.
‘You look fantastic, Helen. Quite irresistible.’
Sensuously, she ran a moist tongue along her parted lips. ‘Then why resist?’ she whispered. ‘We both know why you came back.’
‘Helen, I….’
‘Don’t say anything, Charlie,’ she said, creeping towards him like a cat. ‘Let your lips do the talking.’
He kissed her open mouth, savouring what he had been missing since June had left the country with Watson. It felt good. Soon, Helen rolled back her head, encouraging him to caress her neck. He lapped up her sighs of pleasure and responded to her every move. She began stretching backwards, deliberately allowing her breasts to pop up from the boned confines of the dress. His mouth followed the dictates of her desires and his own unruly urges.
‘Unzip my dress,’ she whispered, turning on her side and lifting an arm. ‘That’s better,’ she said, standing up and letting the dress fall to the carpet in a glistening pool. Rolling her hips in a provocative manner, she stepped out of her skimpy knickers. Wearing just her black stockings, pretty blue garters and high heeled shoes, she posed in front of him. ‘Now it’s your turn, Charlie.’
But he was too fascinated to move. All evidence that she was a true blonde had been removed. She was soft and smooth as a juicy peach.
‘Come on, Charlie,’ she said, starting to unbutton his shirt. ‘I’m waiting.’
The shirt was thrown aside. He hesitated to go further. A bit of petting was one thing, but once he was undressed there would be no holding back.
‘Helen, I don’t think—’
‘Better not to,’ she cut in. ‘Are you being coy, Charlie?’ Dropping to her knees, she quickly unbuckled his belt. ‘Let’s see what you’re trying to hide.’
‘Helen, please….’
The zip ran smoothly down.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
When Angels Lie — gay sex and true love
Writing for the joy of it can take many forms. I experienced considerable pleasure writing When Angels Lie. I used a few of my own spiritual experiences plus emotional experiences of rejection (At one time, I was working in the church doing many jobs usually associated with clergy at a time of dispute over a woman's role in church ministry) I had to get into the shoes of this lovely young man (a hard-line Evangelical) who fell in love with another priest (a well-thought of liberal) , and sense the trauma of his situation. The following is a quotation from Andrew O'Hara's review of the book:
"Although the two priests determine to keep their personal affair confidential, they learn that suspicions are quick to arise in this small community. Confused by the rebuffs of the parish’s most eligible bachelor, local women begin to grow increasingly suspicious of his often repeated vow of bachelorhood. Worse, the enmity of the church warden, the jealousy of a woman spurned and the sexual escapades of two teenage lovers in the chapel are twisted into a scandal that threatens to expose not only the relationship of the priests but destroy their many accomplishments in the church."
You can read more of O'Hara's review and see all the links to where either version (UK or USA) can be purchased by clicking on Wrinkly Writers.
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