0 comments/ 28373 views/ 2 favorites Angela Tells Her Story By: Starlight Prologue. To begin with, I should like to point out that the "Ang" in "Angela" is pronounced like the ang in angle, and not "Anj." She was of European origin and liked her name to be pronounced in the manner of her country. Angela was not her real name, but she still had problems getting people to pronounce her real one in the way she preferred. Angela told me her story, or at least part of her story, when she was seventy-six and I was living with her. She asked me to write it down, and when I said I would like to make it public, she gave me permission, provided I used pseudonyms and I was not too specific with geographical names and places. She died at eighty-two, and I have waited until now to release this little summary account of what she told me. A Brief Angelic Description. As I have indicated, Angela was of European origin, and came from one of those parts of that continent where children are brought up fairly sternly. She was tall and handsome, with the most glorious blonde hair I have ever seen. Not the thin frizzy type of hair, but thick, strong hair, worn at shoulder length, and it shone and swung as she walked. She had intense blue eyes set in a slightly elongated heart shaped face. She had a manner some thought a little austere and it sometimes put people off from approaching her, but as I shall relate, this manner only masked a very compassionate and loving person. Until the end of her life her back was ramrod straight and even with the pain she suffered in her last few years, she walked and sat with elegant grace. She was a very cultured woman, having wide academic and practical interests, and for any one whom was capable of intelligent conversation, a delight to be with. I had known Angela for decades, and so some of the details of the following story are in fact drawn from my own experiences with, and observations of, this graceful lady. Never the less, what I shall now relate in the first person are essentially her words and details. As Angela Told It. I was born and brought up in a European country. My family was financially very well off, and they sent me to the best schools, and finally to university. My going to university had nothing to do with a future profession or career. Quite a few girls in those days used the university education as a sort of finishing school. It was anticipated that I would marry, as they said then, "Well." By that, they meant I would marry into a rich family that would be seeking an equally rich, well-educated and cultured girl as a wife for a son. In addition, the preferred girl would be reasonably good looking, strictly brought up, a virgin and religious. As to the good looks, I leave others to judge, but I qualified in most of the other departments, at least, I did until my third and final year at university. One of the subjects I was studying brought me into the orbit of a young lecturer, for whom all those who are supposed to know about these things predicted a brilliant academic career. As well as his academic brilliance, he had a scintillating, exuberant personality. To be in his presence was to fall under the spell of his charm and to be inspired by him. He was twenty-eight and unmarried when I first knew him, and rumour had it that many of the female students had given way to his persuasiveness, and lost their virginity to him as a result. How he did not get into trouble with university authorities, I do not know. I did hear one story that claimed the father of one girl had challenged him to a duel, but if it ever happened, he obviously survived it, and I never saw anything that looked like a scar on him. He was not especially good looking, not ugly you understand, but it was his vitality and charisma that bewitched. That is how I came to be - to use a phrase common at the time - "Ruined." To put it another way, I was distinctly devalued in the marriage market. As my final university year progressed I found myself called frequently to meetings with the Herr Doctor, or "Carl," as I later came to call him. The first meeting with him was for a perfectly legitimate review of some work I had submitted to him. Following meetings seemed to be needless, and he was hard put to give them any substance. Whatever the vague reason given for the meeting, we always ended up on a personal note, most times with me talking about myself. No doubt, I could have challenged these calls into his presence, but the truth is, I did not want to, especially as it made the other girls so envious. Looking back, I can see I was caught like a fly in his spider web. I was about to be devoured, and I loved it. His first physical contact with me was via a rather old fashioned kissing of my hand as we said goodbye. At following meetings, he progressed to my cheek, and finally my lips. At that point, I was completely undone. A somewhat painful and undignified splitting of my hymen took place with me bent over his office desk. Unromantic, was it not? The story was that once the girl's hymen fell victim to his manly endeavour, he lost all further interest. This did not happen to me. I continued to get summonses to attend him and now there was no further pretence that he had any other reason than to continue an ever more ardent sexual relationship. I admit it was not one sided. We could not leave each other alone. We progressed from his office to his apartment. We made further progress when instead of an evening together I stayed all night. The finale came when he claimed he could not live without me, and would I marry him? "Yes, yes, yes." My family was broken hearted. I, who was destined to marry the son of a rich industrialist or businessman, had elected to form a union with a lowly academic. They stormed, pleaded, threatened and cajoled. I was unbending. Of course, I did not inform them of my now unmaidenly condition, and when they finally concluded that they could not dissuade me, they reconciled themselves to the inevitable. "After all, he is prominent in the Church, and he does have a promising future," pronounced my father. And from my mother, "He is very charming." So went the litany, and I sometimes thought that my mother, if she had the offer, would have jumped into bed with Carl. We married and settled into Carl's apartment. The promise of a brilliant academic future began to be fulfilled. Shortly after our marriage, Carl was offered a professorial position in a prominent university. We moved, and then began his rise to international fame. As I discovered, Carl had an encyclopedic mind. His knowledge of subjects far beyond his own specialisation was enormous. There are people who have that sort of mind, but can do little with it but regurgitate facts. Carl had the gift of being able to bring his vast knowledge and insight into a synthesis. It was this ability to bring together and make sense of disparate material for which he became renown. At this time he began the publication of his works that went on right up until his death. In addition, as the years went by he was called upon to address public gatherings, engage in radio and later television interviews, to attend seminars, and lecture all over the world. Then an event took place that threatened to destroy this brilliant career. Our country had been in political ferment for a number of years, and as a result, an oppressive dictatorship came to power. Carl held political views abhorrent to the new order, and he was dismissed from his university post, and we escaped over the border, probably just ahead of being arrested. For a few weeks, Carl was out in the wilderness, but then there was the offer of a position at an overseas university. He took it, and it was from this base that his fame began to spread. At the personal level our marriage continued much the same as before we married. Our sex life continued enthusiastically. I was deeply in love with Carl, and I thought he was with me. We burned for each other. There are those who hold the view that someone like Paul, the genius academic, has little or no interest in matters sexual, unless to subject them to microscopic and dispassionate study. I cannot claim to have a wide experience of such males, other than Carl, but such as I have, and from general observation, I say this view is wrong. People like Carl have enormous energy, and this spills over into their sexuality. If anything, they are far more active sexually than less gifted people. There were times when Carl sought me out three, and even four times a day, for sex. And if he did not seek me, I sought him. When Carl started to make extended trips to lecture in distant places, he would take me with him, on the grounds that he could not manage without me sexually. This continued until we had been about two years in our new country. It was then Carl began to show less and less interest in me. At first, I put this down to familiarity. I assumed that this is what happened to most couples after they had been together for some time. My own ardour had not diminished, and this of course made for a very painful emotional situation for me. I was still deeply in love with Carl and a great admirer of his work, so in an attempt to absorb some of my sexual energy I threw myself into supporting him in any way I could. Having had a university education myself, I did prove useful to Carl in arranging his notes and editing his writings. It was immensely satisfying work, but then a new factor entered into the situation. Carl began to suggest that perhaps I would rather not come on the trips with him. "It will be a bit of a bore for you, and I shall be all right." He got ever more pressing with his suggestions that I should not accompany him, and even went to the length of piling work on me saying, "This has got to be done urgently. Please stay behind so you can have it ready when I get back." This did not please me, but I thought nothing ill of it until I made the first discovery. Carl was off on a month's overseas lecture tour, leaving me at home. As part of my self-imposed tasks, I was trying to clear up his as usual chaotic desk. Beneath a pile of papers, I came upon a sheet of pink notepaper. This was not the sort of paper one normally finds on an academic desk, so it aroused my curiosity. I began to read it. What I read almost caused me to collapse. It was a love letter from a girl, who later proved to be one of his students. I do not weep easily, but I sat at the desk and the tears rolled down my cheeks. I was utterly dumbfounded. My Carl, who had wanted me so badly he had married me, was now getting his satisfactions elsewhere. All sorts of thoughts whirled through my mind. "How long had this been going on?" "Had he taken her on the tour with him?" "Were there others?" This last thought led me on to another train of thought. I am not normally a sneaky sort of person, but in my desperate and unhappy state, I was capable of anything, and I recalled his private draw. There was one draw in his desk Carl always kept locked, and he made a point of carrying the key with him. I had asked him about this draw, but only got some mumbled answer about special research. The lock was in fact quite a commonplace one, so I got every key in the house and tried them out on it. Eventually I clicked it open with a wardrobe key. What I found was what I now suspected I would find. It was filled with packets of love letters from, and poems to, a host of girls. Carl had gone back to his old ways before I met him. When he returned I waited for him to go into his study and make discovery of my search. I had not relocked the drawer, and had not replaced the letters and poems. He gave me the perfunctory kiss that was now his habit and went into the study with his brief case. I stood in the hallway opposite his study door. It took some time for him to emerge. He was surprised to see me standing there but his surprise did nothing to diminish his obvious fury. "Someone has broken into my desk and stolen papers," he roared. I took my hand from behind my back with the papers in it. I dropped them at his feet. He looked at them without attempting to pick them up. "You?" he choked out. "Yes, me," I said icily. He said nothing for a moment, and I maintained silence. Then he began, "How dare you, how dare you break into my private drawer, you sly bitch. You underhanded cow. Who gave you the right to pry into my desk? You have the morals of a nasty little housemaid…." I let him rant and rave. The self-control and discipline of my childhood and youth reasserted itself. The self-respect I had forsaken that day long ago when I bent over Carl's desk, now returned to me. As I looked at him, his face contorted with fury, his shouted insults and oaths, the old appeal died. The charm and persuasiveness that had won many other girls and me was gone. I let him go on until he could hear himself and thus reach the point of feeling ridiculous. He spluttered into silence. I walked away saying, "I shall make some coffee." He followed me into the kitchen and sat as I started the coffee making. "Well, haven't you got anything to say," he snarled. "What is it you want me to say, Carl," I said quietly. "Should I say you have betrayed me? Should I say you have the moral maturity of an infant? No, that would be to slur the infant." He cut in, but this time he spoke quietly in his "reasonable" voice, his wise professorial voice. "Darling," I looked up sharply at this superfluous endearment. He hesitated for a moment and then went on. "We are not living in the Dark Ages. Sexual mores have changed. We have the open marriage today. We are both free to engage in sexual relationships outside our marriage bond. We have excellent contraceptive methods, we don't have to fear unwanted pregnancies outside marriage." And so he went on, mouthing the contemporary nonsense about sexual morality. He explained at some length about the sexual habits of certain animals, to prove that multiple sexual partners is okay. I could not resist the retort, "I hear that swans mate for life. So what? We are human beings and have our own standards." As he went on and on I felt a mixture of contempt and pity for him. Here was a man of immense intellectual ability talking pathetic rubbish. In the end, it all boiled down to what I was going to do. He had reason to fear my actions, because if I spoke out, he might well be ruined in his special academic field. He need not have worried about that. Those bodies concerned with maintaining his "spotless" reputation did find out about his sexual behaviour, and having a strong self-interest in his international reputation, went to great lengths to cover up, repeatedly. I had had time to consider what my attitude would be and how I should act. There was both an unselfish and selfish motive in my decision. On the unselfish side, I believed very strongly in Carl's work. He was having a profound influence both inside his specialty and beyond it. To many that read his works and heard his lectures, he was giving new insights and hope. There were also many, especially academic rivals, who would seek any chance to tear him down. There was greatness in Carl, and I thought of the definition of great tragedies like those of William Shakespeare, "The downfall of a great man because of one fatal flaw in his character." I recalled talking to one of Carl's colleagues, a Church Historian, at a social gathering. We had got around to discussing the flaws in some of the "Giants" of the Church. He said, "It always seems a pity to me that the Church goes to such great lengths to cover up those flaws. After all, the real miracle is that God can use this flawed material to achieve his ends. And who is not flawed anyway?" I thought of the great people of power who for all their moral shortcomings had still achieved worthwile things. I thought, "If someone points to a grand truth, does it cease to be the truth because he has his penis in a vagina he is not supposed to have it in?" My conclusion was that I could not bring Carl down because he engaged in acts of sexual infidelity. On the selfish side, I thought of my position. If I broke with Carl, I had no financial worries. My parents had endowed me well when I got married. As my father said, "You'd better have some money of your own if you're going to marry an academic." In fact, Carl was doing very well with his salary and the income from his books, broadcasts and public appearances. But at least I did not need to stay with him for monetary reasons. My reasons for doing what I did really stemmed from three factors. First, I did not want to openly admit I had made a bad error of judgement. Second, my position as Carl's wife gave me social contacts I might not have apart from him. Third, I had been enjoying the editing work I did for Carl, and saw myself as doing the same work for others. Being close to the university put me in an excellent position to get that work. In other words, I was too comfortable to want to disturb the situation. Sitting opposite Carl at the kitchen table, I calmly, and probably coldly, told him what my intentions were. "I shall stay here as you wife. I shall run your house, entertain your colleagues and students, and continue to help with your work. On the other hand, I shall never again sleep with you; I shall not even occupy the same bedroom as you. I shall not interfere with what you do; you shall not interfere with what I do. If that is clear, and you agree, that is how it will be as far as I am concerned. If not…" I saw the look of relief pass over his face. I had presented him with a situation that suited his purpose, and he accepted readily. So the years passed by and Carl and I never again had sexual relations. He had his girls, even brought them to the house and his bedroom. I remained cold and indifferent, playing the game of wife, and developing my own pattern of life. I suppose to be fair to Carl, he was essentially no different from many other men and women who take – perhaps even need – many sexual partners. They become bored with one partner. If this is a weakness in their character the perhaps they deserve sympathy, but I was a one man woman, and could not accept Carl's sexual behaviour and continue a sex life with him. I could have taken lovers of my own. I saw enough sly eyes weighing up my sensual possibilities, but I remained aloof. The wound had gone too deep. It was Carl's custom to twice a week have meetings with his most outstanding students. These gatherings took place in our house, and it was part of my function to provide food and drink. I usually sat in on these occasions to listen to their discussions around obscure and difficult matters, and participated if I felt I had a point to make. I suppose these brilliant students had really come to "sit at the feet of the master." There was one particular student, Mark, whom Carl declared to be the most outstanding he had ever had. The only trouble was, Mark was the most painfully shy young man I had ever met. His contributions at the discussions were few, but when he did speak, he always cut right through to the important aspect, showing profound insights. When he had made his point he seemed to disappear through the floor in mist of bashfulness. He was a lovely young man, tall, slim, and with a very gentle manner. I found out that he came from a very poor family, and had got to university on his own merits. Carl thought Mark should eventually take his place among the next generation of outstanding thinkers, but his reticence would make it difficult for him. One of the most touching things about Mark as far as I was concerned, was a sort of dog-like devotion to me. When I was about to go and get the food and drink, he was there to help me. When it came to clearing up, he was there. In fact, during those evening sessions, wherever I was, Mark was there, looking at me with his soft brown eyes. Angela Tells Her Story One evening I had been annoyed by one of the students who had carelessly let a cigarette butt burn a hole in the carpet. When I went to the kitchen I was still irritable and when Mark followed me in I turned on him and snapped, "For heaven's sake, Mark, either take me to bed or stop following me." As soon as I said it, I felt terrible. I am not naïve, and was fully aware that Mark's constant tracking of me had a sexual content. I knew he would never give overt expression to his feelings, but my underlying and repressed sexual needs had given rise to an expression of annoyance in a way I would never normally have dreamed of. I looked at him with the intention of apologising, and saw him standing there as if I had whipped him. "Mark," I said, "I am dreadfully sorry, I should not have talked to you like that." He turned as if to leave the kitchen saying, "No, it's me who should be sorry for being a nuisance." I put my hand on his arm and said, "You're not a nuisance, Mark. I love having you help me." "It's just that I used to help my mother," he murmured. My heart bled for him. A lonely shy young man seeking the company of an older woman so he might give expression to his need to help and care. I took a giant risk. I took his hand and said, "Come with me." I took him to my bedroom and kissed him as lovingly as I knew how. As I pressed my lower abdomen against him, I could feel his hard, urgent manhood pressing into me. My guess was that he was a virgin, and events proved me right. I told him to undress and took my own clothes off. When I was naked before him, he looked at me and in a hushed voice said, "I knew you would be beautiful." He was so shy I knew it would be my role to make all the moves. I also understood that his first time with a woman would be brief. I drew him over to the bed, and not expecting any foreplay, I parted my legs to open myself for him, saying, "Come down between my legs." He came over me awkwardly, but I reached for his penis and drew its head against my opening. "Push into me," I whispered. As he entered me, he cried out, "Oh, it's so wonderful." I began to move with a rhythm and told him, "Work with me." He came quickly. I had only ever been with Carl before, and was only used to his fierce, urgent thrusting into me. Mark, this hesitant young man, for all his inexperience, gave me the sweetest and gentlest sexual encounter I had ever experienced. When he had finished, he gave me another delight. He said very quietly, "Thank you, I've wanted you so badly." I had repressed my sexual needs for a very long time, now they were out in the open again, and if Mark wanted me, I was going to be his. He had much to learn, and I had much to teach. Academic studies are not always the most important things in life. I began by taking him to my bedroom whenever the evening meetings took place. Mark, of course, was anxious about Carl discovering us, so I was forced to explain the marital situation. Once Mark was reassured on this score, and when Carl was away on his ever more frequent lecture tours, Mark spent the nights with me. My sexual needs had resurfaced with Mark. Very quickly, he learned the finer points of oral and anal sex and the pleasures that can be gained from breasts and a woman's handling of his penis. Yet, I was not able to be completely open to him. I had been so profoundly hurt I was not willing or able to commit myself to Mark. Put simply, I could not say, "I love you, Mark." I supposed I was just using him for personal gratification. I was now inherently suspicious of men's motives, and in any case, Mark had never actually said he loved me. He had rejoiced in my body and was always thankful, even grateful, for the sexual delights we had in each other, but he had never said a word about love. I supposed I could not expect it with the wide gap in our ages. Such a young man could hardly wish to use words of commitment with someone years his senior. Even if he had, I was not sure I would have believe him. It was after we had been lovers for about eight months that the dramatic change occurred. One night, when we had just finished our orgasms and I was laying in Mark's arms, he whispered in my ear, "I love you Angela, I love you very much." Just at the very moment of climactic climb down, when, let us face it, men are least inclined to speak of love, he said the words. The very words I had promised myself I would not believe again when spoken by a man, broke through. His sincerity was so clear to me I could resist no longer. The mighty dam wall that I had built to contain my passion, my longing for love came crashing down and its waters poured over me. I was loved! I felt the first gasping, gulping catching for air that is preliminary to the storm of sobs that follow. Mark felt the coming storm and said, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to…" While I could still speak I cried out to him, "Hold me, my love, just hold me, please." I curled my body against his, and wept. All the pain, the loneliness of my loveless existence came flooding out of me with incoherent words and cries. I gave vent to the self-pity that I had always renounced. I raged and cursed as giant sobs drawn from deep within shook my entire body. Every misery and woe was exposed. I hardly knew what I said. I just let it all flow out of me. Mark held me tight as I physically writhed with emotional torment. The tables were turned as he held my agonised body and soul like a father holding a terrified child. I thought I felt his hand stroking my face and hair, but could not be sure I was so lost in the weeping, wailing gale of my emotions. I have never known how long I went on for, but eventually I subsided, exhausted by my outpourings. I lay limply in Mark's arms, still racked with the aftermath of my sobs, and one thought rose to the surface of my mind. "I am loved." Still held by Mark, I slept. When I woke in the morning Mark was still holding me as he slept. I gently eased myself out of his arms, and leaving him to sleep, I got out of bed. I felt as if I had been washed clean inside and out. It was as if I had entered upon a calm and beautiful New World. The words, "I am loved," resounded in my head, and I sang as I showered and prepared breakfast. I heard Mark showering and knew he would soon be joining me. A cloud passed over the joy I was feeling. How would he respond to the events of the night? Would a post-coital declaration of love die with the morning? He entered and came straight to me and put his arms round me. "I am sorry you got up," he said, "I wanted to wake with you still in my arms." My doubts were answered. In the following years Mark and I remained faithful lovers. I also remained faithful to my contract with Carl. There were great temptations to break with him and leave him to deal with the problems this would give him, but I did not. Mark pleaded many times for me to divorce Carl and marry him. Perhaps you think me foolish for not doing so? So be it. There was a sadness that followed me through the years. I was never able to say to Mark, "I love you." Can you understand that, or do you think it rather odd? I could hardly understand it myself. I could only think it was fear that stopped me saying it, because I knew inside myself, I did indeed love Mark. There came a time when Mark needed to go overseas to complete his studies. This seemed to mean a long separation for us, then I struck on the idea of visiting my brothers and sister and other relatives in my country of origin. This would mean that I would be quite near to Mark and we would be able to be together from time to time. Thus, the separation was not so long and painful as we anticipated. When Mark returned he took up an appointment at a university some distance from where I lived, but still within driving distance. Carl had long known about our liaison and made no comments when I announced that I would be away for a few days. Carl died when he was seventy filled with worldly fame and honours. His books still sell in great numbers, and I am the financial beneficiary of this. Mark and I talked about marriage, but decided it was too late for that. My relationship with Mark went on from year to year. In earlier days, I had thought Mark would marry and have a family, but to the best of my knowledge, no other woman ever came into his life. By the time I entered my sixties the storms of sexual desire had past, but we still found our greatest happiness in each other's company. Sex still happened, but it was less frequent, it lasted longer, and in many ways, it was sweeter. The urgency is no longer there, and you come to appreciate the union for its own sake. At times, Mark would lay inside me unmoving for long periods as we talked and held each other. And now I have said what I wanted to say, and that being so, I shall cease. Epilogue. Two days before she died, Mark sat at Angela's bedside. She was very weak and at one point, she beckoned Mark, as if asking him to bend down for her to speak. He put his ear near her lips and she said, "I love you Mark, I have always loved you." Tears came into Mark's eyes. Angela said no more. I know, because I was there. You see my name is Mark.