Kevin's Bizarre Avocation

Growing up I wondered why my parents changed not only our location, but my name, two times that I could remember. I found out when I turned eighteen. After heaving a few big sighs, and with one tear glistening in her left eye, my mother said "Brandon," my name at the time, "I need to tell you about why certain things transpired in your life, including your name changes."

I had always been curious about the name changes, one when I was six from Tom Simpson to Kevin Harris, and one when I was eleven from Kevin Harris to Brandon Bolter, but since neither parent ever would discuss it I hadn't brought it up for years. "I'm anxious to find out Mom," was my response.

After another sigh, and a second tear, Mom continued: "When you were six years old I testified in court about what some bad people had done. The Federal Prosecutors were afraid that the lives of our family members were in danger so we were put in Witness Protection, otherwise known as WITSEC. We changed names and locations as soon as the trial was over. When you were eleven the U S Marshall in charge of us was concerned that we may have been exposed, so we had to change our identities and location a second time."

"Is the threat still real?" I inquired.

"Probably not, since the Marshalls believe that the organization I testified against is virtually non-existent, having been relentlessly pursued by Federal and State authorities for the last twelve years. However, your father, sister Melissa, and I, will probably stay in WITSEC until Melissa turns eighteen, just to be sure. Since you're going off to college and starting life as an adult we wanted you to know the situation," she continued.

We talked for another half hour or so, and as we were concluding I surprised myself by asking "Do you have my birth certificate of me as Tom Simpson?"

Mom went to a strongbox in her bedroom and returned with my Tom Simpson birth certificate, an original Social Security card, perfect Social Security cards and fake birth certificates for Kevin Harris and Brandon Bolter, as well as a few other documents. As she handed them to me she chuckled "You already have documentation for two aliases but don't use them unless you're trying to flee from a bad relationship."

I opened up a safe deposit box in a national bank and put all of the documents in there, along with my High School State Championship medal for javelin (only eighteen states have High School javelin, where I went to school was one of them).

Over the next month my conversation with my mother caused me to deal with a number of issues that had bothered me when I grew up, including the fairly cloistered upbringing that Melissa and I had, the angst that my parents felt when I insisted on joining the track and field team in High School, their unwillingness to have photographs taken that could make it outside of our house, and numerous other minor-to-major idiosyncrasies that arose during my childhood.

Although I did get some self-confidence from track and field and from the decent grades that I got (good enough to get into college) probably because of my unsettled childhood I didn't have the self-confidence that a 5 foot 11 ½ inch (182 m) 175 pound (79 kg) good-looking (at least according to my mother, sister, and my sister's friends) guy should have. This included an aversion to physical confrontation.

Other quirks that I had - I didn't like real team sports like football (for javelin, and the 400 meter, my events in track and field, I did my own thing), hot cars, or other typical macho things; and I liked plays, especially musicals, opera, and art.

*************

By the time that I graduated college my parents and sister had been out of WITSEC for about a year since the organization that had posed a threat was now non-existent, but of course we all kept our "Bolter" surname and identities. Out of college I started dating a woman that I met at a singles outing by the name of Jill Gerson. We seemed to be quite compatible except for the fact that Jill exuded self-confidence, and I was still lacking in that department.

As I got to know Jill better I found out that she really had a volatile personality. It didn't really turn me off, but made me a little cautious. However, Jill's sex appeal ultimately overcame any hesitancy that I had about a relationship. Jill had a heavy-duty (not in any way fat, just solid) chassis, a high libido, a hypersensitive clitoris, and a snug pussy. Plus my cock fit her vagina perfectly and my tongue seemed to be attracted to her clit like a nail to a magnet.

Jill and I got married by a justice of the peace with only our parents and siblings in attendance; neither of us wanted a big to-do. We went on a quick honeymoon to Niagara Falls, where we essentially didn't leave the room until our mating parts were too raw to continue servicing each other, and started out married life with decent jobs in a nice apartment in a big city.

Married life with Jill was good for two years; we made love regularly, had a good group of friends, went to every art gallery or museum in the area, and spent a good bit of our discretionary income on theater. However, after about twenty six months of marriage Jill started having physical problems. First her menstrual periods started becoming irregular, something that had never happened to her before. Then her breasts sometimes exuded a milky substance. When we were having a normal sexual encounter and she had to stop because her vagina hurt I insisted that she see a doctor.

Fortunately, the first doctor (Jacquelyn Gilbert) that Jill went to knew her stuff, because after two consultations on successive days and a few tests Dr. Gilbert diagnosed the problem as a non-cancerous growth on Jill's pituitary gland called a prolactinoma/ hyperprolactinemia. Since it had been caught early there was no permanent damage (such as infertility) and treatment was also relatively simple. Dr. Gilbert prescribed a dopamine agonist to be taken three times a day, and then after two months tapering off to two times daily, and after another month once daily.

The treatment bordered on miraculous; within six weeks she was back to her old self. Within eight weeks she seemed to be better than ever, at least in the sexual department, since we had sex of one form or another virtually every day, including when she had her now regular period. Already naturally passionate with a high libido Jill's passion and libido seemed to escalate to even higher levels.

I was so pleased with the enhanced sex - and the accompanying passion - that some things I normally would have noticed the significance of apparently slipped by me. These things included Jill sometimes putting a pair of panties in her purse when she left for work, a second cellphone I noticed sometimes in our apartment guest room, and the inability to get her on the phone around lunchtime much more regularly than normal. When one morning, after a normal night of passionate love-making, I was more alert than normal I saw her surreptitiously put a pair of panties and the strange cellphone into her purse and I couldn't get ahold of her at lunchtime I finally became suspicious.

Near the end of the lunch hour I drove the ten minutes from my office to Jill's and waited outside. About 1:30 I saw her dropped off in front of her office by a guy in a BMW. The kiss on the lips that they exchanged before she hopped out of the car disturbed me. When she arrived home that night I made a point - while playfully ginning her up - of looking at her panties - they were the color of the pair I saw her put in her purse that morning.

Despite my suspicions Jill and I had another set of mutual rip-roaring orgasms that night, and she didn't feel or act any differently than normal. That didn't put me off the scent, however.

Now on guard I more carefully watched Jill. When two mornings later I saw her again surreptitiously put a pair of panties and the 2nd cellphone in her purse I was waiting outside her office at 11:30 the next morning. At 11:54 the same BMW I had seen before pulled up, Jill quickly exited her building and entered the vehicle, and they took off. I was easily able to follow them in my non-descript white Toyota that looked like hundreds of other cars on the road at the same time.

I only had to follow the BMW for two or three miles before it turned into the driveway of a detached house, at least fifty feet from neighbors on either side. After Jill and her friend exited the vehicle they kissed and then walked to the front door, him with his hand on her ass, her with a smile on her face. I parked on the street in front of the house, got out, and pounded on the door. The guy who answered was significantly larger than I was and apparently didn't appreciate my pounding. "What do you want?" he snarled.

I saw Jill in the background - she glanced at me and at least had the courtesy to blush.

"I want to talk to your slut girlfriend asswipe," I snarled back, and then tried to enter.

He pushed me to the ground and when I got up punched me. It hurt. "Get off my property or I'll kick your ass," he yelled. Jill was nowhere to be seen.

Still confrontation-averse at that point in my life I slinked back to my car, went home to patch up my nose and gather the things that I'd need for the next few days, and drove back to my office. I had turned off my cellphone but saw that there was a message from Jill's main cellphone. I didn't bother to check it.

At work I asked the HR person in charge if I could use one of the three apartments my firm had for out-of-town clients for the next week or so. She checked the schedule, told me that one was available but that I'd have to get approval from one of the VPs. I got approval by lying that my apartment house had had a bad fumigation experience, and moved in that night.

That night I took stock of myself. I was embarrassed by my physical confrontation with Jill's lover, and wondered why I was confrontation-averse and what the source of my lack of self-confidence was. As I looked in the mirror I didn't like what I saw; a good-looking wimp. That was the end of that persona.

I got through Friday OK and by Saturday was enrolled in a one week course entitled Impact Self-Defense. The course was only one week (four hours each on Saturday and Sunday, two hours each the next Monday-Friday) because its premise was surviving a fight, not becoming a karate or MMA expert. It taught eight proven effective maneuvers that if they were mastered would greatly enhance the probability of surviving - even winning - a fight.

By the next Saturday I was sore, bruised, and bursting with confidence. I could see how the eight techniques - which were very different and simple - would probably not allow one to win a fight against an experienced attacker. However, there was no doubt in my mind that for the average male antagonist at least one of the techniques would be very successful - and surprising. I was especially confident in the head-butt technique that I was taught, and according to my instructor I had almost perfected, including how to successfully maneuver myself to use it.

************

Over the week that I was training Jill had tried to contact me a number of times, including at my office. I was able to successfully avoid her. I did start listening to her voicemails and reading her texts, however. They started out a little snippy, got more conciliatory, and by the time I had been gone nine days (and was about to be kicked out of my firm's apartment) I got one that intrigued me. The one that gave me pause was delivered with real emotion and said. "Please call Dr. Gilbert and let her explain my medical situation to you. Please - if you ever loved me just do that."

I called Dr. Gilbert - she was busy with a patient but called me back within the hour. "Hi Brandon," she greeted me when I answered my cellphone. "Jill has given me permission to tell you about her condition."

"I'm interested to hear," I sincerely replied.

"The dopamine agonist I prescribed her sometimes has an unusual side-effect. I warned her about it, but either she wasn't listening or didn't recognize the effect it was having. It causes an almost irresistible urge to have sex. Have you noticed increased sexual aggression on her part in the last few months?" Dr. Gilbert said/asked.

"Yes, I have," was my stellar reply.

"That is a side-effect of the medication exacerbated by the fact that instead of reducing the dosage to twice daily after two months, and then to once daily after another month, she continued to take it three times a day. Last week when she came to see me - apparently after you had left her because of her sexual promiscuity - I changed the dopamine agonist and insisted that she take it only six times a week, no more. I believe that she will now be able to resist her sexual urges and I hope that you two can put your life back together," she continued.

I thanked her and then had another come-to-Jesus meeting with myself. I decided that I would meet with Jill and see if I could get over her betrayal since my wedding vow did include "in sickness and health."

The next day, a Wednesday, after work I packed up my belongings from the firm's apartment, called up the maid service that handled it to tell it I was vacating, and then drove to our apartment. I was hoping that Jill's reaction would be such that I could justify giving her another chance, but hadn't yet made up my mind.

When I entered our apartment at about 7:00 p. m., using my key, I saw her on the couch kissing the asswipe with the BMW, with his hand under her skirt. At least she looked chagrined. "Still fucking asswipe, I see," I barked.

"Brandon - I wasn't expecting you - my new medication regime hasn't kicked in yet - we can get over this," are some of the things that I think that she was saying, although I can't be sure because I was in a rage.

The asswipe was belligerent. He grabbed Jill's hand and said "Come on Jill, let's leave this loser and go to my house."

"The only way you're leaving here is on a stretcher," I snarled.

"Why you little pussy," he snarled back and then moved toward me in exactly the same way that he had on his condo front landing. I think that I heard Jill scream in the background, but can't be sure because I was focusing on asswipe and remembering exactly how to set-up a perfect head butt.

As asswipe started his swing I moved forward, crouched down, just as I had been taught, and in a fluid motion moved the top of my skull - supposedly the hardest part of your body - up into his chin, snapping my neck as I made contact.

It worked perfectly. Asswipe hit the floor unconscious. That didn't satisfy me, however, I kicked him in the nuts four times before Jill grabbed me and begged me to stop.

While I stopped I didn't acknowledge Jill as I packed our two biggest suitcases with everything that I thought that I'd need, then got my old High School javelin (which is stored in two mating pieces since the assembly length is 270 cm - about 8 feet 9 inches) out of the closet and left. Jill was tending to asswipe but got up and tried to stop me from leaving begging me to talk to her. I was having none of it.

As I was pulling out of the parking lot an ambulance was entering at the other end. I drove to a No-Tell Motel, paid in cash, and planned my next day.

Afraid that cops may show up at my office I quit my job over the phone, pissing off my boss. I went to our bank, withdrew all of the money in our accounts, and removed everything from my safe deposit box including my Kevin Harris and Tom Simpson birth certificates, social security cards, and other documentation.

Over the next week I got a new driver's license in the name of Kevin Harris, cancelled my cellphone contract, recycled my SIM card-less phone, bought a burner (I was skipping out on my credit cards), sold my car for cash, and bought a cheaper car that I had titled in my Kevin Harris identity. As I was leaving the area around noon to drive to a city about a thousand miles away I performed one last act.

I parked about a block away from asswipe's house. With a UPS fake uniform on I rang the doorbell to be sure that no one was home. I left the "package" I wanted to deliver on the front stoop (just rotten fish), and went back to my car. I changed into another disguise, and took my javelin with highly flammable material on the tip. I walked to a location about 175 feet from asswipe's house's front picture window (my furthest javelin throw ever was about 215 feet). I assembled the javelin, lit the flammable material, and then made a perfect throw through the picture window. Then I got the hell back to my car.

I waited for five minutes until I saw two fire trucks arrive. When I drove past the torched house it looked like it might burn to the ground, although by then both trucks were dousing it with water and foam. I kept driving toward my new home.

I never contacted or heard from Jill again - not surprising since Brandon Bolter was now a ghost. I heard from my parents that she contacted them but they claimed ignorance of my whereabouts. She did tell them that she had hired a private detective, and that the police suspected that I committed arson, but since my new identity was close to bullet-proof I had no concern that I would be found. Just to be safe I only communicated with my parents and sister using my burner phone to one I bought for each of them.

************

I found out that starting a new life isn't easy even if you have legitimate identity documents. There is the problem of a work resume. What I did was to make up one based upon Brandon Bolter's past and just hope that no potential employer would check up on me. I did include a cover-letter with some song and dance about my records having been destroyed in a fire (which I amplified on if given an interview), and only applied to places that weren't the type (like government contractors) to require background checks. After about a month and an interview which I passed with flying colors since they had me draft the type of documents I would have to be familiar with if I had the experience I alleged, I found something similar to my previous job. It was at a slightly lower level but with the potential for advancement, and a more than living wage.

I hadn't really dated much, or had enough discretionary income to attend all of the musicals or pay art exhibits that I wanted to, for about my first ten months or so in my new home when serendipity struck. I had just been promoted so that I was dealing face-to-face with clients. A more senior employee had passed on to me a fiftyish woman named Joan Greene that he didn't particularly get along with, and I had my first meeting with her. I found her more charming than problematic, and when I took her to lunch after we concluded our business we talked about personal things. Joan intrigued me when she said "One of my greatest loves is musicals, but I can never get my husband Horace to take me. I went a few times with girl-friends but none of them were as enthusiastic about them as I was, and I didn't have as much fun as I had hoped."

"You're kidding," I chuckled. "I love musicals. I just wish that my economic situation was such that I could go to one, or another live play, or at least an art exhibit, every week."

Joan seemed surprised that a twenty six year old heterosexual male could be such a fan so she started playfully interrogating me about my interests. When during our discussions she found out that I was not only intimately familiar with everything surrounding relatively modern musicals like Hamilton, Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, and Cats, but old and sometimes even obscure performances like Brigadoon, Annie Get Your Gun, and Finian's Rainbow, she was very impressed. Our lunch ended up lasting forty minutes longer than it should have, but we both enjoyed ourselves. She left me with a hug and a twinkle in her eye.