Paul's Notebook

This rather lengthy 'story' involves a somewhat neglected mother who finds her future in the form of her son. It is written from the female perspective. As I am not a woman I sincerely hope I haven't offended any of the fairer sex in my writing.

There is absolutely nothing in this 'story' that is remotely connected to reality, although there exists a state named Wyoming somewhere in the American west.

For some reason I like this 'story.' I hope you do as well.

Feel free to provide feedback, positive, negative, or otherwise via comment or email. I can't get better if I don't know where I'm weak.

Paul's Notebook

"Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction." ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Chapter 1 The Good Girl Rules

Who can say why an otherwise sane, rational woman who had nearly everything would risk everything for the one thing she lacked? I know I sure can't.

What I do know is I wouldn't change what happened for anything.

My name is Nellie Slaten and during the late spring of 1983 I was a 47 year-old, married wife and mother of two, and my whole life I'd been wearing a mask -- a façade of wholesome primness that had been foisted on me by my mother and father.

Born on January 13, 1936, in Park County, Wyoming, just outside Cody, I grew up under the direction and tutelage of a Baptist preacher and his wife -- herself a daughter of a Lutheran minister -- and I learned early that I was to be, first and foremost, a Good Girl.

And I learned the Good Girl rules:

2. Good Girls don't swear.

3. Good Girls don't raise their voices in anger.

4. Good Girls don't date -- at least unchaperoned.

5. Good Girls don't smoke, and they certainly don't chew, tobacco.

6. Good Girls don't skinny dip with the boys.

But first and foremost, the biggie, numero uno, number one on the Good Girl list was: Good Girls would never dream of engaging in sex -- whatever that was -- before marriage and get pregnant -- whatever that was -- thereby bringing shame to her family and her church.

It is hard for six year-olds to fathom the language of adults.

Sex was a taboo subject in my parent's home. The few friends that were viewed as appropriate for me to associate with wouldn't discuss it either. When I was in my early teens and tried to broach the subject with my mother, I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that Good Girls didn't talk about sex.

Great; rule number 7.

I tried to talk to my father about it, and although he was willing to discuss sex in euphemisms, his embarrassment and clumsiness only served to deepen the mystery.

So I grew up a Good Girl. I did what was expected of me and made my parents proud. I strove to be proper in thought, word and deed -- and, for the most part, I was successful.

The problem was that I sensed, long before I left home to start my own life, I really wasn't a Good Girl at all. I felt something inside of me that was completely contradictory to the Good Girl Rules.

-

I attended an all-girls parochial school and, after graduating in 1954, I was accepted at Bob Jones University in South Carolina -- the only school my parent would agree to allow me to attend and pay for -- where I studied English Literature and Education.

I was acutely aware through much of high school and my entire college career that something burned inside me; something hot and powerful and alive. I wasn't able to identify it and it confused me. It was something that, on the one hand, terrified me to the core, and on the other, created a powerful excitement in my belly.

But Good Girls weren't allowed to feel such things and so I fought against the feelings that were such a mystery. They didn't go away, exactly, but I was able to keep them bottled up and I certainly didn't act on them.

It was while at Bob Jones that I stepped out of my Good Girl shoes for the first time. During my freshman year I was in need of money and my roommate suggested modeling. I went with her to a studio in downtown Greenville and 'let' her talk me into modeling underwear for an east coast department store chain. She didn't exactly need to twist my arm.

I loved seeing my pictures in the newspaper ads. The pictures were from the neck down and grainy and not exactly risqué so I didn't feel the need to tell my parents. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

After graduating from Bob Jones, I returned home to Cody, Wyoming and taught high school English and History at the same high school I had matriculated from.

I was 22 and my parents were proud.

A year later in 1959 I met David Slaten and was just about swept off my feet. After a year of dating, I agreed to change my name.

My parents were glad that David was extremely handsome. They appreciated that he was a gentle and kind man. They were happy that he was well-educated and would be able to provide for me. But most of all they were overjoyed that David had found his calling in the pulpit. Like me, David had come from a long line of evangelical preachers. He had heard the call and followed in his progenitor's footsteps.

David was 34, almost eleven years my senior, when we were married in my father's church in June, 1960.

-

David's congregation was 150 miles to the south of Cody in Riverton. He was well-loved by all the church members, the female half of whom, I'm sure, were infatuated with him. When I was introduced to the congregation the first Sunday after our brief honeymoon, I could see jealous rage in many of the ladies eyes.

David was theirs! How dare I? An outsider, no less! I could see it in their faces and demeanor. It positively leaked from behind the forced smiles. I could hear it in their whispers.

While the congregation didn't run me out of town on a rail, they didn't exactly embrace me, either. David assured me it would just take time until they got to know me. I wasn't so sure when I overheard one of the women call me 'the scarlet harlot' in a grocery store.

I stayed quiet. David wanted me to become active in the church and head up the ladies committee but I declined the invitation and decided to fly under the radar to avoid upsetting the female portion of the congregation even further than they already were.

Riverton was a picturesque little town that was ideal for raising a family, which we immediately began to do. We hadn't even been married a month when the rabbit died. Nine months later, in the spring of 1961 our daughter Sarah Rebecca raged -- no other word suffices -- onto the scene. She was followed two years later by her brother Paul Matthew.

Where Sarah's delivery had lasted an arduous and painful eighteen hours, Paul eased into the world after only thirty minutes. When the nurse laid him in my arms he looked up at me, smiled and reached up to touch my cheek with his tiny hand. Sarah had peed on me during our first meeting.

David and I had planned on many more children, but during Paul's delivery, the doctor found benign cysts on my uterine walls and recommended a partial hysterectomy. The baby factory had been shut down early, throwing a wrench into our plans for a large family.

-

Over the following years, life meandered on as it usually does, and, for the most part, it meandered on well.

Gradually, grudgingly, the congregation began to accept that I wasn't going to corrupt the church and began to warm up to me. Bonnie Hardt, one of David's lifelong friends and church treasurer, helped in that regard by convincing the rest of the congregation that I really wasn't the spawn of Satan.

David and I watched in amazement as our children raced through childhood into adolescence and then puberty seemingly overnight. It was as though Sarah was one day pulling the hair off of her Barbie or the wings off a fly and the next I was trying to help her understand her period. One minute Paul was playing with Tonka trucks in the backyard and the next it seemed we were helping him pick out high school clothes.

Sarah and Paul were polar opposites. Sarah was, to put it kindly, a plain girl. She was a carbon copy of her paternal grandmother. She was short and heavyset with plain features, chronic acne and lifeless blonde hair.

If Sarah's physical characteristics had been her only problem, there would not have been a problem at all, but she was difficult and angry and loud. She had a truly ugly personality and family counseling didn't help. I loved her, but it was difficult, and, as much as it pained me to admit it, at times I almost couldn't stand to be around her.

Paul, on the other hand, was perfect in almost every aspect. He had my auburn hair, large green eyes and olive complexion. Paul was a masculine me. He was sleek and feline and breathtaking, but more importantly, he was consistently sunny and happy.

Our children were so different from each other it was difficult to believe they came from the same gene pool. David once, in frustration over something destructive that Sarah had done, speculated that perhaps the hospital had accidentally switched her at birth. I had considered the possibility years before but there was no escaping her resemblance to David's mother.

Where Sarah was a little dim, Paul was exceptionally bright. Where Sarah was stodgy and dull, Paul was dynamic and active. Sarah was a dark gray rainstorm to Paul's warm beam of sunshine. Sarah was angry and depressing; Paul was always happy and smiling and his laughter was infectious.

Our children's spiritual lives were as dissimilar as their personalities.

Sarah had grabbed hold of her faith and held onto it with unyielding conviction. Her unwavering faith and stoicism in her beliefs could have been authored by her father.

Paul was more like me. He was filled with uncertainties about his spirituality and unsure about everything related to religion in general. He believed, but there was nothing chiseled in stone about his beliefs.

David and I loved them both and tried to be impartial, but Sarah held me at arm's length and wouldn't let me in no matter what I tried. Once when she was 9 I was given a glimpse of how deep her anger ran.

I was washing the dinner dishes and Sarah was sitting at the table watching me. Suddenly, out of the blue her features clouded over.

"How come I can't be like you, Mom?" She demanded.

"I'm sorry, honey." I responded somewhat hesitantly, "What do you mean?"

"Pretty." She snarled, "How come I can't be pretty like you instead of looking like Gramma Ethel? It's not fair!"

"Oh, honey, beauty is only skin deep." I soothed and added, "You're beautiful in your own way. If you like I can teach you how to fix your hair different and a change of diet will help you lose weight."

She responded by slamming her bunched fists into the Formica tabletop and bursting into tears of rage. "It's just not fair. Paul looks like you. Even Daddy isn't ugly like me!"

She pushed her chair back violently and stormed up to her room.

"Sarah..." I cried out, my heart aching for her.

-

Paul, on the other hand, was perfection personified. As much as I tried to avoid it, I was drawn to him and we developed a special closeness that was obvious to everyone.

Paul was gregarious and outgoing and people were attracted to him by a natural magnetism. I noticed that, even as a little boy, people, women and girls especially, couldn't keep from touching him. He tolerated such invasions of his personal space with good humor while never actually inviting them.

Our son was funny and quick-witted and charming. He possessed a genuine kindness and compassion that made me swell with pride. Paul brightened up my life in so many ways it was impossible for me not to love him. He could make me laugh at the drop of a hat and it warmed my heart to see him smile.

Paul had been blessed with the best physical characteristics David and I had to offer and was truly gorgeous to look at. Lithe and graceful, he was very easy on the eye in all respects. When Paul was eight, David and I were approached by an agent for a modeling firm and inquired whether we would consider letting Paul model children's clothing for their agency. Although we were firm in our refusal -- I hadn't told David of my brief excursion into the world of modeling -- it demonstrated that my admiration for Paul was not just a mother's pride.

By the time he was 10 years old I could see glimpses of the man Paul would become and I couldn't help but adore him. By the time he entered high school, Paul was already breaking hearts. A strict diet and a rigorous exercise regimen fueled by competitive fires sculpted a lean, healthy, masculine physique that kept his female classmates ever hopeful and his male classmates slightly jealous. He was absolutely the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life.

Paul enjoyed art and loved classical music -- he frequently accompanied me to the opera or museums -- but he wasn't effeminate by any stretch of the imagination. He was just more...refined than his peers.

His bookshelf held works by Walt Whitman, Thomas Hardy, Mark Twain, and Hawthorne, among others, while his friends were buying up Marvel and DC Comics.

Sarah struggled and sweated to bring home Cs and Ds. She was required to take remedial grammar and math classes and barely kept her head above water despite my best efforts to help. Paul, conversely, was able to maintain a perfect 4.0 throughout his academic career with little to no effort.

Life was good, if just a little sedate, until the summer of 1978. That summer, between Paul's sophomore and junior years, was pivotal for me.

That was the summer I found the book.

Chapter 2 The Book

I wonder now, with the distance of time, if my life would have continued unchanged and perhaps a trifle boring if I had never found the book at all.

My life in the mid and late 70's was just about perfect.

We lived comfortably in a small Victorian house on the edge of Riverton proper. We had a small yard surrounded by the obligatory white picket fence which held the obligatory apple and pine trees.

Early on, David put his foot down and wouldn't hear of me working, so I became a very good homemaker and tried to be a good mother to my children.

I had nearly everything I needed or wanted and thanked God for my good fortune at every opportunity.

Only one thing was missing.

Sex.

It was only hours after our wedding night that I finally identified the feelings that had haunted me throughout high school and college. When first I took David to our marital bed I definitively knew that the alien sensation I had suppressed for so long was lust.

Initially I felt shame and disgust with myself. After our first coupling as a couple, while David slept, I knelt in prayer and begged for forgiveness. I wept when, on our second night together I could feel the same sensations coursing through my veins just as hot as ever.

David didn't have the same problem. He was old school and sexual intercourse was for procreation. Period. Beyond creating offspring, David had no interest in the intimate side of a relationship. He was a decent and gentle man -- although he was occasionally neglectful -- but sexual intercourse, as far as he was concerned, was for one purpose only.

When the baby factory closed its doors for good, there was no real point in engaging in the act, according to my husband. David had the church and me and the kids and he didn't need anything else. He wasn't able to do anything about biological urges, though, and so, about every other month or so he coupled with me for release.

There was little passion in our 'lovemaking.' The missionary position was the standard and David wouldn't hear of anything else. David would climb on top of me in the dark, pump his hips a few times and empty himself into me. He'd immediately apologize for his weakness and roll off of me.

I honestly believe that David didn't know our sex life did nothing for me. His sexual education had been roughly the same as mine -- essentially non-existent.

Each time I tried to bring up the subject I was kindly turned aside and when I tried to inject fire into our bed at night I was informed that it was inappropriate and that it was hard enough to fight temptation without going out and inviting it into our home.

Semi-risqué lingerie that I purchased specifically for the purpose of seduction had almost caused me to be tossed out of the house. It was the catalyst for the first real fight between David and me.

I refused to throw away the lingerie per David's order; without his knowledge it was relegated to a box on the shelf in my closet.

Because of Sarah and Paul, I took what he infrequently gave and lived a life of sexual frustration. Almost all other facets of my life were wonderful, so I was able to deal with the one area that wasn't.

Until the day I found the book in the Riverton bus terminal.

-

I was waiting for the bus at the station. David and Bonnie had attended a weeklong conference in Denver and were on their way home. Sarah was being Sarah. 16 year old Paul was off fishing with his friends Norman and Andrew.

The bus had been delayed. Absentmindedly, I picked up a book that had apparently been abandoned by another passenger. The front cover had been ripped off. The title was 'Good Neighbors' and I idly began flipping through the first few pages.

I was shocked at what was inside the paperback and hurriedly put it back where I had found it. I could feel my entire body flush and my hands trembling. I stared at the book out of the corner of my eye as if I could wish it away.

A few minutes passed and I was able to get control of myself. I looked around the terminal. Nobody was paying any special attention to me. The stationmaster occasionally glanced my way, but didn't appear to be doing anything but her job. I knew that I should have resisted, but my curiosity was piqued. My hand slowly slid along the smooth, tush-worn oaken bench and retrieved the book and changed my life forever.

The novel was adult-themed and graphic, describing sex scenes between a cheating wife and her neighbor. It was explicit in every detail. The author painted lurid visual pictures with words and language. I watched in my mind as the characters engaged in almost every conceivable sex act a man and woman could engage in.

It was nasty and dirty and repellant and I couldn't stop reading. I had never encountered anything like it. I wasn't even aware that such things were permitted to be published. I wasn't completely naïve -- I was aware of pornography -- I just never knew about that sort of erotica.

The book described some of the things I had silently begged David to do with me, along with a great number of activities I had never even dreamed of.

I was on fire. I was trembling uncontrollably and I was shocked to discover the front of my cotton panties were wet and my nipples were erect. I felt ashamed at my reaction and twice walked over to the garbage can to dispose of the book. Instead, I buried it at the bottom of my handbag.

When the bus carrying my husband and friend hissed to a stop at the station and they stepped onto the concrete causeway I was sure they could see guilt written all over my face. If they noticed anything though, they didn't say anything.

-

That night, as David slept the sleep of the innocent, I dug out the book and crept downstairs to the basement and read it from cover to cover in the basement rumpus room. I was so excited I could hardly stand it and as I voraciously consumed the pages, I rubbed myself through my nightgown.

I was 42 years old and discovering who I was. I experienced my very first orgasm that night. It was so powerfully intense I was frightened. I was curled up on the overstuffed couch and biting my lip to keep from crying out as the thunder crashed through me.