Secret Valentine

So I come in one day, she's with him and holding the hose, and he's pointed straight up like a flagpole. "Oh, Jacob, Robert says he can't pee when he's hard."

"He's right, Ginny, we men have kind of a valve. He just needs to think about algebra for a while, and then he can pee."

"Robert, there is NO ALGEBRA when your wife is with you." Ginny bent over and gave him an exceptional blowjob, right in front of me. I was going to step out, but he came very quickly, and then about a minute later he was filling the bottle with pee. When I left the room to wash out the bottle, Ginny moved up on the bed with him. They were kissing and hugging and silly with happiness.

A few days later it happened to be Valentine's Day. Ginny gave him a poofy pink card, inside she wrote: "NO ALGEBRA. Love, Ginny"

After Valentine's Day Ginny stopped wearing clothes in the house, at Robert's request. She was 46 years old then, and could pass for 30, with a beautiful curvy body. Except for her abdomen, which was drastically scarred from her surgical nightmare. I couldn't conceal my reaction when I saw the damage.

Ginny said, "It's OK, Jacob. I really started to get over my depression when we started having sex again. I thought he would be repulsed, and I was so afraid it would hurt to have him back inside what was left of me. But he was so affectionate and sweet, and patient. When I finally felt ready after playing for an hour or more, he was still hard and eager. Inside, I did feel different, but I still had fun. And, later, we discovered anal sex, that was even more fun."

I knew she was still having sex with him while he lay flat on his back. After the nudity started, she was on him almost every day, and I would see them. Usually I just went back to my own bedroom and jerked off.

But she came up to me one day and made a special request. "Robert wants to be on top, one last time. He's asking, we're asking, for your help to do this. It would be so special for him."

I had to agree.

We flattened the bed, rolled Robert to the edge, and Ginny got in with her back against the mattress. Gradually, I shifted Robert over until he was face-to-face in her arms and between her legs. She was able to reach down, grasp his erection, and guide him inside.

They both cried out happily as he sunk all the way in. Ginny started bouncing her body up and down, causing Robert's cock to slide in and out, just like old times. It wasn't the best leverage, she couldn't keep it up very long, but he came very quickly, so it was all good.

Because of his disease, even this limited effort was exhausting to Robert, and he drifted off into a nap—while still on top of his wife. But before that, the blissful happiness on their faces moved me, deeply.

"Thank you, Jacob. We won't forget this. Now, I would like to stay with him on me, but his weakened body is still heavy. Help me get him repositioned, will you?"

It was the last time he had missionary sex, but Ginny continued attending to him in other ways, as his limited strength would allow.

For Robert, his end came quickly. It seems he had an embolism, an internal blood clot which caused a heart attack. Right up until when he died, he was still able to speak, and they could enjoy each other's company. He avoided the long terrible decline from ALS that would have left him immobile, unable to communicate, yet still conscious and thinking. They had both feared this drawn-out terrible end; it was an immense relief to Ginny when he died quickly.

After Robert.

Robert's last request was that Ginny and I stay together in the house, which we did. She continued helping me become a more loving human, building on the example of her life and marriage. And, also, following what Robert wanted, we became sexual partners.

We continued in this relationship for about 18 months after Robert's death. We didn't discuss marriage, perhaps the 20 year age gap made considering that step unreasonable. But we were living as partners and sharing our money and so forth.

And, unknown to me at the time, Ginny went to a lawyer and made me her sole heir—except for a large contribution designated for a charity offering free and low-cost counseling services.

I could honestly say I was happy, without reservations. I loved Ginny, and she loved me. She was busy with her family therapy clients, and I was moving up in my career.

My only issue was my extreme shyness. I still couldn't talk to other people. I wanted to make and have friends. To travel with Ginny and be comfortable with strangers I would meet along the way.

My extreme shyness was a problem Ginny wasn't really trained or qualified to handle. I needed to get intensive care with a psychiatrist, an MD, she believed. But since I was enjoying my life with her so much otherwise, fixing the shyness wasn't getting a high priority.

And then Ginny was killed.

[Melanie, while reading, stopped short with a gasp. Disbelieving, she read the line again. Her hand was covering her mouth in shock.]

It was a drunk driver. The details don't matter. She died fourteen months ago. Of course I buried her next to Robert. Before that, around one hundred people attended her memorial, the majority of them had been her clients.

In those months since then, I remembered how we talked about the future, the far future. She would say, "When I die at, say, age 80, you will only be 60 years old, Jacob. Promise me you will make another woman as happy as you have made me. Being shy doesn't excuse you from this obligation, even if somehow that is still a problem for you at that late date."

I haven't honored what Ginny said. No socializing. But I have to try. I just needed the courage, and the motivation.

This is my story. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 9: Trust But Verify.

Melanie checked the clock. She was a fast reader, but the content of Jacob's story had slowed her down.

It was such a crazy story; could it really be true? I need to search.

She called up Google and started searching using terms from the story. "Ginny and crash, nothing. Ginny and accident, nothing. And memorial, nothing. And Robert, nothing."

Is this all some incredible pile of gaslighting bullshit?

Wait a minute! Ginny isn't a formal first name, it's short for Virginia. Trying again.

The hits began piling up. Virginia Matson-Steeds died in a motor vehicle accident..., Memorial Service for Virginia Matson-Steeds at the Veteran's Hall..., Robert Steeds, 51, survived by his wife, Virginia Matson-Steeds...

OK, that's plenty. Searching for her.

Virginia Matson-Steeds, Marriage and Family Therapy. State License 65036.

She was about to use Virginia's details to verify her license and get her address from the state Board of Behavioral Sciences website. But then Melanie stopped herself.

I was about to stalk HIM, using information from his dead lover. It isn't necessary. I have enough now to know his story checks out.

And, it's a sad story. I still don't know his name. But I want to hug him.

Jacob started off badly with me. But I believe his apology, and I think he is getting an idea how we might be able to make contact in healthy ways. It turns out, telling me his story was the right move. I have an idea now of his character. Of what he might bring to a relationship. If he can get past his shyness and we can communicate more directly. More personally.

It has to be said, though, he does write really well. My angry reaction to the implications of his daycare payment, has dialed down substantially.

Chapter 10: Melanie's Turn.

Friday's workday was average for Melanie. She tried not to think about Jacob, or how she should write her message to him. When she got home with Amy, she told her, "I need a minute on the computer, and then after we have dinner I need to go back and spend a lot more time on it. So, while I'm working, I am going to let you watch a movie. Is that OK?"

"Oh, Mama, can I pick?"

"You can, any movie we have except Frozen."

"Awww, Mama. OK."

Quickly, she brought up her email on the laptop.

To: chary974@proton.me

From: fourscars@beltwest.net

Subject: Melanie's Story

Friday, January 23, 2023, 5:40 p.m.

Jacob, I need to write my story for you after dinner.

In the meantime, there is no, I repeat, no "X" for you. I will either finish my story and send it to you by 9:30, or it will come to you tomorrow night by 8:00 p.m.

Until then, just remember that I am, also: Thinking of You — 18 —

Melanie

Tonight's dinner was strawberry yogurt and peas and carrots. They were still living off the small hoard of groceries purchased from Safeway. On reflection, Melanie realized she will have actually made it all the way through January, financially, thanks to Jacob.

Amy tried to sneak the Frozen DVD into the player, but she was caught and ended up watching (the animated original) Beauty and the Beast.

While that was playing, Melanie opened her email. Then, she opened up the Windows Notepad, the only editor she really trusted on her feeble old laptop and began.

To: chary974@proton.me

From: fourscars@beltwest.net

Subject: Melanie's Story

Friday, January 23, 2023, 8:40 p.m.

Please accept my condolences on the loss of your friends, Ginny and Robert. I can tell how important they were to you.

In my next message, I will attach my story as a text file. I have an old installation of MS Word, I used it to read your story. But I can't trust Word on my (nine?-year-old) elderly laptop. So, therefore, it will be unformatted TXT.

--Melanie

Melanie's Story.

Melanie sent the email, then switched to Notepad to write and edit her story.

Charles Geary worked for the Cascadia Pacific Railroad. At some point, he met and married Ella Danvers, and they had a single child, me. His work kept him away from the house for long periods of time. It seemed like he was gone more than he was home.

That was fine with me, because when he was around, he insisted on absolute dead quiet. If there were noises, he would come storming out of the bedroom with his hand raised, ready to strike Mom, or me, or both, for disturbing him. She actually taught me how to wash and put away the dishes completely silently.

That was after he had exploded one evening because I was too noisy. He used a belt on me, and the buckle cut into the back of my leg, drawing blood and leaving a scar.

Another time, I was washing a large sharp knife and it slipped. Without thinking, I grabbed at it before it could fall and clatter noisily into the sink. But it was the blade I grabbed, not the handle, so there was a big cut in the base of my thumb. Even now, it's easy to see where that happened.

By the time he was able to relax and behave normally, he would have to leave for another extended series of shifts for the railroad. To be fair to him, when he returned home afterwards he was clearly at the limit of his endurance. His face would be gray with exhaustion.

It was only when I was older that I understood how he was working himself to death. As a younger child, I simply feared him. I walked on eggshells for the whole time while he was present, along with my mother.

And then he was killed in an accident when I was only 14 years old. Later, I learned the railroad issued a settlement sufficient to pay off our house, and there was a monthly survivor's pension benefit to help keep us going. But Mom had to work, a series of low-skill low-paying jobs while I was a teen-aged student.

For the public system, I must have been attending an exceptional high school. I hope you can "hear" in my writing that I received a better-than-average education. I feel confident that if Mom and I could have managed the costs, I would have successfully made it through a four-year college program and gotten a degree.

After graduation, I was working various unskilled jobs, and going to the community college at night. I completed an associate's degree in business and got my first full-time office job. My boss was a guy named Paul, and in a matter of weeks he took over my life. He moved me into his apartment and took full control.

In a way, it was a relief. Before, I had been doing terrible jobs during the day and then classes and studying at night. I was exhausted all the time. And then, Paul provided a place for me to stay without rent, and we would commute back and forth to our work in his big car.

My obligations were to cook and keep house and to have sex with him.

As far as I was concerned, it was a good deal. It helped that he was good enough in bed that I was enjoying myself. I didn't have much experience, so when he was getting me off (right from the start) it made a big impact on me.

The only flaw was he refused to wear condoms, and I had no health insurance to pay for prescription birth control pills.

Instead, after sex he would send me off to douche. That's enough, he said, in his arrogance. But douching wasn't effective birth control, of course. At the time, I didn't know any better. About six months after I moved into his apartment, I missed my period.

When he discovered that I was pregnant, his rage was terrifying. Of course, he blamed me. He said I was stupid and hadn't been douching properly. He didn't stop screwing me, but it was angry, and rough. With him, there was no pleasure for me ever again.

And then, he knocked me down the stairs. He claimed it was an accident, but I knew better. Using more of his idiotic medical beliefs, he thought he could cause me to miscarry by bouncing me down a flight of stairs.

Instead, my leg was so badly broken I needed surgical repairs. At least he got stuck with the medical bills for that, after I threatened to go over his head to the corporate offices.

I moved back with Mom for the rest of my pregnancy. At term, the obstetrician explained that my pelvis was too small for vaginal birth, so I had a C-section.

Five weeks earlier, Paul's lawyer had contacted me. He offered me $20,000 then, and another $120,000 if I filed Amy's birth certificate with no name listed for the father, and sought no child support.

I thought about it, and decided to take the deal.

I never wanted to see or deal with Paul again. Child support would have helped, but that would give him leverage for visitation or custody. I reasoned that if an older Amy needed or wanted to find him, then she could get his name from me, to track him down.

And I didn't have a lot of warm feelings about fathers, anyway, based on my own experience.

Day times, Mom took care of Amy for her first two years, as I went back to work as soon as possible. That was with the office where I am now. Then my mother passed away, suddenly, so Amy went into the daycare you know.

Paying for her daycare has locked me into that current job. It's really really hard work. It's what pays almost enough for the two of us to live on, but only when my checks are combined with the rent that I collect from leasing out Mom's old house (and after paying the taxes and maintenance costs on the property).

There's almost nothing left of the money I received years ago from that lawyer, except for a modest long-term deposit certificate for Amy, which I have somehow managed not to touch yet.

So, it grieves me to realize, I had no choice but to accept your money for the daycare and the car and the other things.

And it's even more bitter to think, Jacob, what could have happened to us if you didn't happen to come along when you did.

Amy is all I have left of family, and I am not nearly the mother she deserves.

And I swore, after Paul, I would stand on my own two feet, and never again be dependent on a man.

I have failed twice over: failed Amy, and failed myself.

Part of being in so much financial distress, I've lost any normal caution or sense of privacy between us. I "hear" you "saying" that the multi-hundreds of dollars you have spent on us is not important to you.

It would be dishonest to pretend it's not important to me. I feel obliged to reveal myself to you. I'm not entirely sure why, though.

Four scars? The belt buckle, the knife, my leg, and my c-section. Not to add to your stress, but perhaps someday, you might see them in person.

Added to that, I now have a fifth scar, in my mind, in the shape of an about-to-destroy-itself front tire. That scar will be just as permanent.

So, on behalf of my daughter, thank you again, Jacob.

Do me a favor, please.

Take a day to think, for me. Don't react, don't write back.

I am in complete turmoil. I mean it when I say, on my own two feet. We haven't even met, and already there's a dependency between us, and it tears at me.

And I'm running out of options. I fear for my daughter's future, our future. Sometimes, I consider how much better off she could be with a different mother, or a mother and father.

Not Melanie Geary.

You will hear again from me tomorrow (Saturday) evening, no later than 9:30. I hope by then I can better organize my thoughts.

Until then, I am:

Thinking of Amy, Thinking of Me (what the HELL am I going to do?), and, Dear Jacob,

Thinking of You — 18 —

Melanie saved her document as mel-story.txt. Then she attached the file in her email, and sent it off to Jacob.

Chapter 11: A Lesson for Amy.

"Mama?" Melanie opened one eye.

"Amy?"

"I waited and waited. It's 9:00 now, so I can wake you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I checked the clock on the microwave. I'm really hungry."

"Me too, baby, want pancakes? Sorry, dumb question. Let me wash up and you can help."

After breakfast and clean up, mother and daughter jumped in the car for their Saturday routine. First stop, the big playground in the city park for slides, swings, and everything else Amy enjoyed climbing on, over, around, and through. Then, the bank, to deposit this month's check from her tenants, and then, supplies for the week from the supermarket.

In line for the supermarket cashier, they saw a six or seven year old boy having an absolute meltdown. Amy was watching open-mouthed. Afterwards, in the car, "Mama, that boy was being terrible. Did I ever cry like that?"

"No, Amy, you only cried a little, even when you were a little baby."

"His mother probably wants to give him away. I'm glad I didn't act like that."

"AMY! Mothers don't give away their kids! Amy, if you cried like that, I wouldn't like it. But I wouldn't give you away! I couldn't! Not ever!"

My baby! I need to end this, now!

Melanie snapped off her safety belt and rushed into the back seat to hug her daughter. Melanie was already crying, which set Amy off too.

When, finally, they were a little calmer, Melanie asked, "Baby, why did you talk about kids being given away?"

"There's a girl in my daycare class, her name is Jordan. Her Uncle Dan picks her up. I asked her why, and she said her mom sent her away and now he has to take care of her. Jordan is really sad about that. But Jordan is nice. She's my best friend. I don't think she was ever bad like that boy in the store."

"Amy, that boy was having a bad day. He might be a really good boy most of the time, we don't know. Let's forget about him, OK? I want to ask you a question. Do you have a good mama?"

"My mama is the best mama!"

"Why?"

"Because you take care of me, and you take me to the playground, and read to me, and all kinds of things!"

"So, if your mama is a good mama, that means it's possible some mamas are bad mamas, right?"

"Oh, no! That's terrible!"