Prologue
I prefer to think of my fate as a product of my own feral nature—a nature, that, in my
naïveté’ I was completely unaware of until it metaphorically slapped my face with its
existence. In fact, I ignored the first few cold slaps, whining that I’d been the victim
of cruel men’s perversions, that I’d been unwittingly caught in a cunning trap of deceit.
That was what I believed then. . . but now? I know that I have only myself to blame for
the harrowing exploits that were thrust my way, seemingly forced upon me. In some
respects, I created the life I’ve lived deliberately, as if the plan was clearly written
well in advance.
I believe in self-produced destiny, not in accidents, bad luck or chance—although, I
believe we sometimes cloud our life’s desire in fabrication and twist our personal nature
to match or defy the opinions of our immediate society. We think we know ourselves, but
what we see is only the reflection of what others think we ought to be, staring back at us
from the mirror of our world with eyes prepared to criticize or approve. We posture, we
negotiate our longings, we procrastinate and we hide truths, until we are no more than
like tattered papers tacked to a phone pole, one-dimensional, flat and torn, flapping in
the breeze. We could fly away and be lost just as easily. I suspect that some, like me,
sell out to convention, never to recover from the false shrouds of their youths.
Considering where I am now, I must be grateful for my bad luck, my twisted fate, my
horrifying destiny… because they eventually led me to myself, a woman fulfilled,
self-knowing and content.
Chapter One – The Set-up
My fate began at twenty-two, when I stumbled upon George Gettys—a flashy older man of
thirty-three with a wide grin, impeccable suits and an affectionate hands-on approach to
wooing women. I was walking thoughtlessly, head down, along a busy city sidewalk, paying
no attention to the throngs of smelly, worried, grimacing folk around me, when I ran smack
into George’s left shoulder. I believe he might have been staring up at the sky at a flock
of geese that were winging their way north. It was early spring. George abruptly turned
around, indifferent to the rude jostling and smiled.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I immediately announced. “I guess I wasn’t looking where I was
going.”
“Just as I was foolish enough to stand stock still in the middle of this crowd,” he
replied with a whimsical smirk and a slight, gracious bow. As if in a time warp, we stood
immobile, gazing for a moment at the people who hurried by, tucking their heads against
the cold wind and scowling because they had to move around us.
Then we giggled. That was just the effect George had on me that so endeared him to me.
Otherwise, there was little reason for me to give him a second thought. We were miles
apart in temperament—he was lackadaisical while I was a serious workaholic. He was a man
of the world and women; while I was the straight-laced goody-two-shoes, a virgin and proud
of it. He was the dreamer; I the pragmatist.
By the time I bumped into him, I’d been to several church-sponsored seminars telling
me how to ward off his kind of smarmy, indolent charm, and fend off the lusty, yet
inappropriate, innuendo that was certain to follow.
I had learned well. Being an attractive woman, I had to. Sometimes I cursed my looks—the
big hazel eyes, chestnut-colored hair and trim build. I liked to smile because it seemed
natural and gracious, kind and Christian. But it was constantly misconstrued as taking an
interest in the recipient, or worse, as a “come on”. I told myself this was my cross to
bear; I would not capitulate on my ethics, which required that I put on a sunny
disposition and friendly attitude toward everyone. I’m afraid that I also learned a cold
shoulder technique—in one of those seminars—which was sometimes necessary for those men
who jumped right on my friendliness as an invitation, who refused to accept my kind but
firm regrets and move on.
At twenty-two, my life was a terrible struggle between what I believed myself to be and
the quiet inner rumblings I had come to ignore. I thought I’d conquered the baser
instincts of my sexually driven generation. But with George Gettys, I completely failed in
my game plan to thwart obvious, scoundrel men. I knew from the moment I gazed into his
heavy-lidded brown eyes that I was in for serious trouble. When he asked to me to coffee,
following that first inadvertent exchange, I found that I was far too weak to make my
usual excuses. And how easily he wooed me from my staunch purpose. All it took for my
carefully constructed world to crumble was one pair of sexy eyes adoring me and a hand lay
tenderly on my shoulder as if it belonged there. In reply, my heart raced like some
schoolgirl following her first crush. Ten minutes later, there I was, Sally Kettering, the
relentless virgin, drinking coffee in a retro diner, seduced by the enemy of our kind, and
too head-over-heels infatuated to realize it.
I suppose it was because George was so much older that he succeeded where other men
failed. Perhaps I trusted his age. Where I’d never have given in to a younger man, for
some reason I was willing to let my guard down with a more mature one. In any case, George
succeeded in capturing my interest. I was smitten. With every disclosure he made about
himself, and every explanation I gave him about who I was, with every bit of amusing
banter and every shared smile, I found myself more deeply engrossed in him. At the same
time I felt a growing awareness of how he made every nerve in my body flush with
excitement.
“I’m sure I’m not like you, Mr. Gettys,” I told him directly.
“And what is it you think I am?”
“A charming, very good-looking—”
“Thank you.”
“—somewhat insincere ladies’ man,” I said quite decisively.
He smiled, almost as if he would blush he was so self-effacing. That really warmed me.
“I’m afraid I’m all that. But I do try to be sincere, especially with women whom I don’t
want to take advantage of—for example, a lady like yourself.”
“And what makes me different?”
“You have breeding,” he replied without thinking.
I very much liked that appraisal and blushed a bit myself.
The rest of the afternoon was a whir of hormonal activity, heart palpitations and prompt
rationalizations for every red flag that waved before my glazed and delirious eyes. My
staunch ethics lay in shambles and my defenses crumbled, invalidated by every heartfelt
rejoinder George Gettys gave to the careful description I gave him of myself. I told him
all the pertinent things, including my virgin status and why I thought it was so important
to wait for the right relationship—and marriage—before a woman gave away her treasure.
He found my attitudes refreshing, amazing, remarkable, bracing… all adjectives he used
throughout our conversation. He was particularly intrigued that I was not simply an
uptight church girl, spouting what she’d heard in Sunday School, but that I’d carefully
thought through my moral standard and held on fast because it was such a true reflection
of my heart.
Had I so touched this rogue that he might change his ways? I had the audacity to
wonder.
“So what could I possibly do with a man like you?” I pondered aloud. We’d already
covered the fact that he was well experienced with women, which I took to mean he’d bedded
at least a hundred by the time he was thirty.
“You can give me a chance,” he offered. “Spend some time with me. Let me prove to you
that I’m more of a man than you expect me to be.”
Oh, I was so easily won. Fate had knocked at my door and I answered with a pleasant
welcome.
George Gettys and I were engaged to be married six months later, after what I thought was
a cautious, carefully controlled courtship. I was proud of myself, for as close, as
intimate, as affectionate as we became, we did little more than hold hands, embrace and
kiss.
Oh, don’t underestimate those kisses. They were distinct kisses, passionate kisses,
filled with all the ardor of two people deeply in love. Of course, it was physical too. My
body was on fire with just the thought of him. And his physical presence engendered that
unexplored untamed need in me until some days I thought I would self-immolate and my body
turned to ash.
As driven as I had been for chastity and holiness, I struggled to recall pure thoughts,
but more often spent those twilight moments prior to sleep lost in the fantasy of our
first night in bed. It pained me how my mind could crudely twist what I anticipated to be
an untainted expression of love. My imagination created pictures too raw, too steamy; too
lust-filled to square with the innocent virginal precepts that previously inhabited my
mind.
Would I ever confess this to George? Of course not! Even though I gave him my heart, I
was always one step away from believing that he’d press me for sex if I gave him even half
a chance, that one small opening where he might pick apart my calculated Christian logic
and sully me with a shameful seduction to betray everything I stood for.
Did I have so little faith in him, or was it faith in myself that was lacking?
I refused to entertain that question.
Toward the end of our engagement, I wore blinders—I suppose because I had to. A wedding
to plan, even the smallest of affairs, takes time and emotion, which come in limited
quantities. I knew that. If there were something wrong with the decisions I’d made up to
that point—like the one to marry George Gettys—it was not the time dwell on doubt!
Even when Rikki Bowles came to see me, I blew her off with a lighthearted laugh.
“I really think you should know this,” the blowsy redhead said as she strolled to my
table at the retro diner. George and I always met there for coffee on Thursday
afternoons—a romantic gesture in honor of the day I bumped into him on the street. I was
waiting, he was late, and Rikki had spotted me from her seat at the lunch counter. The
slut was wearing a bright floral dress two sizes too small. The colors made me wince.
Who’s to say that redheads shouldn’t wear orange and pink? She looked like a Christmas
tree ornament. Any moment I expected her gaudy jewelry to blink like neon. Regardless of
my instantaneous repulsion, I accepted her as graciously as I would my choir director and
offered her the vacant seat in front of me.
I knew that George knew her—he’d explained the situation to me… a lonely night, sad news
about his sister’s cancer, he’d needed her ‘massage therapy’. I knew they had sex, and
this was just his way of couching the truth. The fact that he didn’t lie about her was all
that I required. And George absolutely never lied about his sexual past. He didn’t explain
it all, but he never lied to me, and he always offered whatever information I asked for.
This I believe to this day. His better self wanted me, and being the simple man he was, he
knew that a difficult confession would score more points than a feeble attempt to mask the
truth. Even more importantly, he knew I was intuitive enough to know if he fibbed.
“What is it I really should know?” I asked Rikki Bowles. She was fishing through her
purse, which was the size of her generous hips, not finding what she was looking for,
saying, “Oh, drat!”
“Something the matter?” I asked.
“No cigs,” she droned.
“Well, it’s a no smoking table anyway,” I pointed out the sign right over our booth.
“Yeah, you’re right.” This seemed to perk her up, and her undulant body parts settled in
comfortably, the way Jell-O settles in a dish.
“So you were saying…” I really did want to move this conversation along.
“I saw your boyfriend last night.”
“My fiancé, George?”
“Yeah, your boyfriend.”
“And…”
“The Pines Hotel,” that’s were George was living, “and there was a woman in his room.”
“You’re saying he was having sex?” I went right to the point without appearing
rattled. “No,” she shook her head, “didn’t say nothing about sex. I mean they might have,
might well have,” her made-up eyes got bigger for a moment before they dimmed, “but they
didn’t have their clothes off or nuthin’.”
“So what are you implying?”
“You wouldn’t think that a guy about to be married would be carrying on with a woman in
his hotel room, now would you?” she bit off rather sarcastically, her eyebrows now
suspiciously raised.
I didn’t like the sound of it either, but I was a master of keeping my emotions in
check.
“What were they doing?” I asked.
“Don’t really know. I only saw them together, ‘cause these two guys, really scary guys,
knocked on his door as I was passing by. He answered and I could look right in.
“What do you mean by scary?”
“One was this big black guy—I mean really big… bald head, gold pinky ring, leather
jacket, straight out of the movies… the other was Chinese, or Japanese, or something like
that… I can’t never tell for sure. George called him Mr. Sun.”
“And why were they so scary? They may well have been George’s business associates.”
“Ya think so?” She was not at all convinced.
“That’s the likely explanation.” George worked with importers, brokering deals between
foreign and American markets.
“And why would they come to his room at nine at night?” She was asking me as if I had an
answer.
“I haven’t a clue, but then I’m sure there’s a reason.”
“You trust him, doncha, honey?”
“Of course. I’m marrying him.”
“You think a leopard can change his spots?”
“I know his reputation, Rikki. But you have nothing if you don’t trust a man.”
“All I’m saying is that it didn’t look good from where I was standing.” She was all out
of tales to tell; and, I’m sure, wishing there were much more of a story. “Don’t say I
didn’t warn you.”
“What, exactly, didn’t look good?” I tried to press her.
She shrugged, which made her whole big body jiggle again. “Just a feelin, Miss
Kettering. Just a feeling.”
She finally ambled to her feet. I could hear the bare skin of her thighs peeling away
from the vinyl bench.
Then he was there, taking her place. George had seen us together so I had no way of
extracting the untainted truth from him. But staying in character, he didn’t lie about
anything.
“What did she want?”
“To tell me she’d seen you last night with a woman in your room…”
“And Mr. Sun knocking on my door?” he quickly added.
“Who’s Mr. Sun?”
“Ultimately, he’s my boss.”
“And he comes to your room at nine o’clock?” I sounded almost as skeptical as Rikki had
been.
“It’s the nature of the business. I think you’d know that by now. My world doesn’t
sleep.” He’d said that before and was saying it again a bit wearily. “Mary was there to
take notes of the meeting, and Mr. Sun and Dac were filling me in on a shipment.”
“I’m not questioning you,” I chimed in. “Rikki was. I’m sure she thinks the worst.”
“And didn’t I call you at midnight for your kiss goodnight?” he reminded me, with his
voice making almost imperceptible alterations toward the languid and sultry tone that so
tickled my very anxious crotch.
“Oh, yes you did,” I answered with a gleaming smirk—wished I had the guts right then to
suggest we forget formalities and get my virgin deflowering over with that afternoon. This
was no way for me to be thinking, but I was getting used to the torrid pictures in my
mind, and the squishy feeling in my panties and the way my untouched breasts ached for his
caress. With our date pleasantly descending into the bantering of lovers, the incident
with Rikki, the girl, Mary, and the two scary men was forgotten. I only mention it now
because it was the only foreshadowing I would have of what would happen on our honeymoon.
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