Gender: Male Age: 80 Location: He passed the way he wanted to, in his sleep
|Introduction: Repressed memories can disrupt your life when they come back to you|
A True Story of Repressed Memories
By Emerald Green [Nick named: Em]
To anyone looking for adult language, explicit adult situations, or child abuse skip to Part 2. If you would be offended by any of that you should stop reading before Part 2
I grew up in the time before television and video games. Yes my children there was a time before television and video games. I hear your question…what did you do when you got home from school…what did you do all evening? The first thing I did when I got home was to change into my chore clothes and I did my chores. Then I did my school homework followed by dinnertime followed by the highlight of the day—story time. From the time of my earliest remembrance, every evening someone would tell a story. Sometimes more than one story would be told. They were usually stories about some episode in a family member’s life. It might be about how my grandparents met or about seeing Billy the Kid. It might be about the Pullman Strike or a hail storm that killed cattle and wiped out the crops. There were happy stories and sad stories but mostly they were stories of perseverance.
Important stories were told and retold and after hearing a story numerous times a child was expected to tell the story. If any detail was left out or incorrect, it would be corrected immediately. In this way oral histories would be passed on as reliably as if they had been written down.
Intermingled among the family stories were short stories involving humor and often with a moral. These were mainly for entertainment. After the conclusion of most new stories my sister, who was ten years older than me, would often ask, “When did that happen.” If it was a true or family story, an explanation occurred but if it was for entertainment the story teller would say, “It happened before we had you.” One day when I was probably five I launched into a story about my little dog running off and getting lost. I had to search after him, wearing my wide brimmed hat for protection from the hot sun as I crossed a desert in Mexico. I went into detail about avoiding the cacti and fighting off a mountain lion, coyotes, and wolves. When I concluded the story by telling about how I brought my dog home, fed, and watered it, my sister asked, “Em, when did that happen?” My response was, “Before we had you.” Thus a new story was born which I heard told many times to aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents when they came to visit.
Visiting relatives was the way that our family took vacations. Most often they would come for a week or we would go stay for a week. It was a rare month that passed without a visiting relative. This was always a good time during which stories would be exchanged. Most families were larger than ours which consisted of my parents, my sister, and me. If my count is correct, I had four grandparents, twenty-two aunts and uncles and 34 cousins, all older than me.
The point is that many, many stories were told, and remembered. Of course some events disrupted our story telling. World War II was a big disrupter. I was 11 when it started. Nearly every adult, who did not go to war, worked at shift work at a war industry. We lost three members in the war, one uncle and two cousins. Near the end of the war my parents split up and my sister left for California. It was now just my mother and I and my mother seemed to alienate everyone and only a couple of uncles ever came to visit. Personally, the only way that I could see to get away from my mother was to join the army which I did just prior to the beginning of the Korean War. Not good timing but I survived and have many more stories.
I then went to university, married my high school sweetheart, taught high school English for 32 years, and raised a family of four children who now are grandparents. When I retired from teaching I began a new career writing children’s books. In addition I got involved in genealogical research. Then six years ago now my wife of 52 years died. She had been the center of my life. Her death left a big hole in my life. At her funeral I promised to follow her without much delay but a widowed neighbor lady had other ideas. I had hardly noticed her before but she intruded into my morning. Literally she was there every morning, seeing to it that I got out of bed and proceeded with my life. In a time she reminded me of the many things I still had to finish.
After a respectable length of time I felt my wife would understand so I invited my dear neighbor into my bed. I felt like a cradle robber since she is eleven years younger than me. I am amazed that the euphoric feelings I experienced in this new relationship reminded me of how I felt back when my wife and I had first gotten together back when I attended university. Now like back then I looked around to see if anyone would guess why I was smiling.
The sex was great. My dear one sucked and fucked in all the ways that I enjoyed all those 52 years before. And her pussy…ah…when I buried my face in it, it was like I had come home. Yes, my dear one has returned my old self…the one who always looks forward to the next twenty years. My plan is that when I turn 100 and she’s 89, we will still be enjoying each other’s bodies as much as we do now and looking forward to another 20 years.
Another thing I began doing was write erotic literature. These stories had been dancing around in my mind for as long as I could remember. Of course as you will see, I now know where these stories come from.
Now to the event that brought back long lost memories. Last spring I received notice, as next of kin that my sister was in need of my assistance. I had been so caught up in myself since my wife’s death that I had neglected to visit my sister and I was totally unaware of how she had aged. Her husband died more than 25 years ago and she started touring places like the UK, France, Italy, Spain, China, Japan, and Brazil. Most of these tours lasted about a month and sometime she would go back for a second or even third tour in the same place. At the same time I toured the US as I followed in the footsteps of our ancestors from early colonial times to the present. They lived in 37 different states, often before they became states. When my sister would return from a tour she would call me up and when it was convenient we would meet to share our adventures. Of course my wife was ever by my side. I did not even notice that my sister had stopped calling me to tell me about her travels.
Last spring I rushed to my sister’s place and found she was no longer able to take care of herself. She had the beginnings of Alzheimer syndrome. Physically she was just fine but she had become very forgetful. My first thought was to take her with me where I could care for her but she had planned that she would sell her house and move to an assisted living facility where every day a caregiver would come by to give her, her medication and be sure she was eating and exercising properly. She had everything prepared; she just needed me to take over legally since she did not trust anyone else to act for her if she was declared incompetent. So I helped her do what she had planned.
Once she was settled in she invited me to visit to see her little apartment. My dear one took the opportunity to visit her grandchildren. I had planned to stay in a motel but my sister Mary convinced me to sleep on her couch. Sis always stayed up to watch Letterman but since it was a rerun she decided to reminisce about our childhood. She started by talking about our travels west from Nebraska; then she suddenly said, “You know this is the first time we have been alone since you came to visit me in LA when you were 14.”
I told her I did not think she was right. I was sure there had been sometime we had been alone.
“Well, no matter,” she said, "That was the last time we did it."
"Did what?" I asked.
"You don't remember? That makes me feel bad," she said as tears formed in her eyes.
Her emotion surprised and touched me and I asked, "Mary, what did we do?"
"I don't want to talk with you if you can't remember," she said turning away from me.
"I remember Knots Berry Farm, Griffith Park, movie studios, the beach, an observatory..."
She interrupted me, “You can just go. I don’t want to talk to you if you don’t remember.”
“I remember you taking me everywhere. Every day we…”
Again she interrupted me, "No, no, what we did at night."
"At night?" I asked. I tried to remember. I drew a blank. There were no nights in LA in my memory. “I don’t even remember sleeping…”
"You don't remember. You repressed the memory. I sure didn't,” she said turning to face me again. She looked into my eyes for a long moment, she looked away and I was about to ask what we had done. Looking back at me and getting right in my face she said, “Do you know that every time Andy (her husband who died 25 years ago) fucked me I remembered you?"
I started saying, "Why would you think of me?" and it was like a flood gate opened to let the memories out. That summer I had spent two months visiting my sister. After the first couple of nights she came on to me and we wound up fucking. We fucked every night for the rest of my visit. I began to remember each night one at a time. And then I remembered how I would wake up in bed with her. She was a petite woman about 5’ 2” and maybe 85 pounds. I’d look over at her with the early morning light streaming in the widow and over her naked body. Her tits were small like teenager’s tits. They never did grow any larger but I liked them. I would lay there with my morning hard-on and look at her. As the sun would warm her she would wake. I would kiss her and try to get on top of her so I could pound her pussy but she told me to go shower.
When I came out of the shower, she had breakfast ready. I would eat and she would shower. She had our day scheduled. We were out the door early and all day we were busy seeing or doing until dinner which we always ate at a good restaurant. Then it was home to her apartment where she would make me shower again. I was never cleaner in my life.
She always liked me to eat her pussy first. She had introduced me to eating pussy years before. Years before? My god, this had started back when I was only seven. A whole new flood of memories rushed into my mind. I was awash in memories. My mind was on overdrive tying to comprehend what this all meant. When you are 80, seven years is a small fraction of your life but when you are 14, seven years is one half of your life. At fourteen, I had been fucking my sister half of my life.
“Em, Em, what’s wrong?” Suddenly I realized I had gone off into my memories. Mary was bringing me back to the present. Letterman was still on TV. My sister was shaking my shoulder. I looked into her eyes and saw genuine concern.
I smiled and said, “Just remembering things I haven’t thought of for many years.”
“I remember every day…every day now and every day then,” she said. She moved closer to me and reminded me of the very first time we did it. Again a memory came out of the dark reaches of my mind. I was seven and that would have made her 17. Our parents had to go back east to a funeral and we stayed home together to attend school. I spied on her as she was bathing and got a hard-on. Dumb me, I asked her why my peepee got hard. She asked me to show her and one thing led to another. We did a lot of fucking but I never ejaculated at that time. We reminded each other about the things we did during those two weeks.
She then asked, "You remember how I freaked out the first time you shot me full of a load of cum? You were just 10 then."
"Sis, I don't ever remember you talking like this."
"Well shit, Em," she replied, "Here I am almost 90 years old. I think I've earned the right to speak any fucking way I want to. You remember what I said when you came that first time?"
"Yeah, you kept shouting, 'Shit, shit, shit... as you tried to dig it all out of you pussy."
"I was so fucking scared of getting pregnant. Fuck, I wish I would have known then that I couldn't get pregnant."
I sat there with thoughts swimming in my head. My head has always been full of thoughts and images which I often thought of as pure imagination but now I began to see them as memories. Suddenly Mary interrupted my thoughts. “Well Letterman’s over, it’s my bedtime. We will talk more in the morning.” She was in her room with the door closed before I realized our conversation was over.
Four hours late, I had not been able to sleep as I continued to review my memories. I would have to sort through all my memories before I could rest. I wrote a note apologizing for leaving without saying goodbye but as I said, “I have to do some thinking.”
Mary called me before I got home and she seemed to understand why I had left. I was back in my motor by afternoon. [to be continued]
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