To others from not around this area, the housing estate in Devon, was like most that had been built in late eighties. A well developed landscape, of shrubs and trees, made it more of a park than a housing estate. The manicured lawns and pruned hedges were the pride of their owners, year after year. Even down having a local competition and prizes for the best kept garden. Maybe something to aspire to when I eventually retire? Such community spirit, that should be the envy of others no doubt. The country side airfield, in mid Devon, was flat and besides the obvious concrete skeletons of former of military buildings, something that had been left over from the Second World War. It was an isolated place. The Ministry of Defence sold the large plot of land to a private developer. Goodbye to history, and hello to a small community. The nearby village had gained a few thousand more people. But not only that, the once small village, became inwardly smaller. Tens of decades of small village mentality had been interrupted by commercialism. It was not wanted nor was it needed. Perhaps it sounded like a mother giving birth, with pre and post natal depression setting in. The rejection phase of not accepting a new community. Why would the community want their one stop shop, come post office, come coffee stop, and not forgetting the only pub to be taken over by outsiders? Truly a nice place to get a bit of shopping and a pint, only to be ruined by, God knows who! Then, there is the school. Stone built, pitched roofs and large panes of glass to let in lots of light. The playing fields, had been donated by a local farmer. It is here that other similar schools envied where my children go to learn. It is with pride that the PVC banner garnished the school fence on the road side in the annual reporting period from the officials of the government. ‘Excellent.’ Above the basic standard of achievement.
Improving standards in the education of one’s children, must be all associated to the class of teachers involved. I should know. Parent’s evenings had never been the same since I had gone to school back in the day. I guess some people had a crush on a teacher or two, but not at eleven. That is sick! I must have been really ill in my early days.
It was not until I had gone alone to a parents evening. My wife, Angela had some sort of stomach bug, along with one of the girls, Sian, the eldest. It was her class year parent evening. So they both stayed home, and sent me as their envoy instead, with an excuse note. This was the second evening I had attended at this school, with various teachers that taught both Sian and Rose. Angela would usually come along or by herself, as I would usually be working. This particular evening was going to change the way I viewed my wife for a very long time and change the way I saw my own self as a sexual demon to some, and a lover to others; that did not include my wife. I made my way to the classroom, taking note of the handmade posters, pointing to where we as parents had to go. The halls and corridors were packed with parents chatting away and the kids idly lounging around in a bored state of languid self importance. I believe that this is a gesture to other passing pupils of a statement of hierarchy. Others were upright and attentive to conversations about them and relished the adult conversation. I walked to the class where I was supposed to meet Sian’s teacher, I forget her name. But apparently, she is very good at her vocation. Other parents were there looking around and taking note of work completed for the term. I noted her name on the door, as I entered the class where she was the tutor. My eyes wondered around the busy classroom, looking for the one in charge. Here she is I thought. Looking on impressed with what I was gazing at. I gazed at her. It must have only been for a moment, but it seemed longer. My eyes made a cursory attempt to gain an impression of her naked body underneath her clothes. She wore a knitted jumper that was baggy. But it didn’t hide the two mounds of her breasts.
I followed the centre line of her breasts, to where the material stopped just above her hips and down past the suede skirt that stopped at the knee. She wore brown leather boots that hugged her calves. She was indeed a very sexy looking teacher. At that moment in time, I knew I would be sleeping with her. She was busy chatting to some other parents. It wasn’t even my turn to speak to her when she caught me looking at her. That was it. Like a rabbit, I was caught in her headlight gaze. It was then that the embarrassing red glow, started to burn my cheeks. Turning slowly away, I took off my short jacket, making myself a little more comfortable. After a few minutes, my daughter’s teacher called after me. “Mr..!” Turning around; “It’s, Mr Sinclair!” “I know. I’ve seen you before.” She replied with a smile. Her soft Gaelic tone ushered its way to my ear again. I didn’t realise that she knew me. It wasn’t as if I visited her every day, like our kids did. She motioned with a single digit from her right hand, and mimed the words that she would be a minute. Acknowledging her, I sat down and looked around the classroom again, until it was my turn. Finally! I was sitting in front of her. She smelled great, and looked as good as she smelled. I fidgeted in my seat, by now my excitement was bulging in my jeans. I didn’t have any underwear on, and the friction from the material made me a little more aroused than I would have wanted. I don’t think she noticed. But she smiled. Or did she know how she aroused me?
After speaking with her, for about twenty minutes, I asked if I could speak with her after the evening had ended. It was about the kids being ill too often. Nothing I could do about. But schooling was important.. She obliged me. She brushed her hand on my shoulder and I noticed a little flirt, she said I looked far too young to have so many children, commenting, ‘You must have a lot of spare time with my wife.’ Her comment unsettled me slightly. I didn’t expect it. My reply was a turrets moment. Blurting out. ‘It could’ve been you?’ Slightly embarrassed I stood up, as it was the end of my allotted time, and totally forgot about my erection. Bloody hell! She stared straight at it. She was still seated. Her smile beamed even bigger than before. The sparkle in her eye was that of greed for what was waiting beneath the faded blue material. There were other people waiting to be seen, so I wondered around the class looking at the work the class had done. That evening she took me to a cupboard in the classroom. It took fifteen minutes for both of us to orgasm. She flooded the floor and it looked like I had pissed myself when she squirted, all over my jeans. Her name was Yolanda Richards. Originally from the Scottish Islands, I forget where. Her skin was not pale, but it had an olive brown tanned look to it. Her youthful looks, made her thirty five years look like twenty five. May be at some point in her ancestral line, she was descendent from the marauding Spanish adventurers. Her black shiny hair touched her shoulders. She had a body that would not have looked out of place on the BAFTA awards red carpet photo shoot, or indeed on the cover of Vogue magazine. Bloody hell she was sexy. Insatiable was what it was. But I loved my wife in the same breath. Even sex with her was okay to good on some days, but different. I couldn’t speak to my wife about sex, as some subjects were taboo. So I didn’t go there. Even the thought of watching sexy films with her to spice up our bedroom antics, were not even considered. Why is it, I marry the only woman who doesn’t know what a spit roasting is? She was virtually sick as a dog when I told her what it entailed. Yet again I found myself trying to comfort her, and that saying that we would not be trying it at all. I found myself thinking about what our sex life was like. Vanilla is a spice from Madagascar, I thought to myself. It has a flavour you cannot describe too well, apart from, vanilla. Just plain Jayne at times. I need more spice. I want it. I need it. Is it just me? Or do people in my circumstance go playing around, when your sexual antics in your own bed don’t come up to the mark? I know life is not like in porn movies. I guess there would be no asking the wife to do some minor acrobatics to get in a sexy mood for her man. It just is not going to happen. Not cricket old boy! So, do we all go looking elsewhere for these kicks or kinks that I find a big turn on? Well! I can honestly say. The circles that I now move in would most certainly point in that direction. My time working away from home, means I have to stay in hotels the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. But this gives me the chance to do those things in the adult world, that others watch from their selected porn movie for the night.
My name is Patrick Sinclair, most call me Pat. I’m a forty year old property developer, and live with my wife of fifteen years, Angela: and our three young beautiful children; all girls. Our four bed detached house has a double garage of which doubles up as a store room for my tools and other things that I can’t keep in the house, and the children’s paraphernalia and some gym weights. Nice and cosy for us as a family. All located in a cul-de-sac on the border of Devon and Somerset, in Speyton St John. A great part of the world and a bit flat on the scenery side, as this was once an airfield. It is a far cry from my childhood days in Ireland, the land of the Shamrock, the black hills, Guinness, and the Irish Republican Army. An upbringing I would rather forget about, although it be a short one. I will explain all about that when I have time. But to be honest it’s good to talk about your past, preferably to someone not in the family; someone with an ear for the profoundly bizarre, and knows what it is all about. Even then I would rather forget about the whole episode. But in order to find one’s self, and become whole again, you need to chat and cry. Yet another thing I would rather not do. But hey, apparently it’s good to cry. But, not if you’re a Texan cowboy, or a Russian hard ass general it ’aint.
My therapy of self healing has not worked. How can I be a better person to all those close to me and love them for who they really are? My friends see a different person when I am not with my wife Angela and vice-versa. How can this be? Surely after all of these years of marriage we would know what makes us both tick. What buttons not to press that makes us mad or badly jealous of each other. I thought I had found the formula to a great relationship and marriage. I was wrong. Just getting by is not a marriage it is less than a friendship. From the very start of my courting with Angela it was all about sex. Getting sweaty and have the most fun away from our parents and the prison of a bedroom at either of our homes. It was easy to get her into bed at that time. It was something different for the both of us. We used to be at it like rabbits. I know it’s a bit of a cliché but I can’t think of anything else. As soon as Angela felt my erection through my jeans she got so excited she had an orgasm straight away. She dripped with sexual desire for me then. But that has gone. Where now? I just don’t know.
Those college years have taken it all away. Having a full on job has almost extinguished our passions for each other. I won’t mention the kids, as they are the soul of us both, and should never be brought into the conversation. So I won’t go there. Fundamentally, money and kids are the cause of arguments in our house. We try not to get embroiled by it, but it crops up. So! I find myself at that cross roads in life. For now I have a different path I want to travel, a route that I will eventually find enlightenment, and fulfilment of my body and soul. Mind games is something for those that find themselves caught between two or three separate worlds; the peaks of rational and achievement. Each peak slightly higher than the other. It just seems at times that my goals can never be reached. It sure makes for a bad relationship, up and down like a yo-yo. Bad words and poor judgement, not forgetting lack of trust in each other. Let us cast it from our minds for now and move on. Shall we? I say this to myself every now and then.