Shaun Ashley Halstead…Another Pathological Liar

August 1, 2013 in Uncategorized

Quite some time passed before I let my vulnerable little heart out…only for it to be shattered…by a pathological liar…again.  But before I get to that, I must tell you that I fell in love Jay’s cousin, who was, and still is, someone I would have married in a heartbeat, had he not been gay.  We were inseparable for months, and to those who didn’t have a finely trained “gaydar”, we were the perfect couple.  He treated me well, made me laugh, and lifted my spirits simply by saying “hello”.  We’re still friends, but he lives far away, out of the closet.

Right, down to the next disastrous love in my life.  Elisha nicknamed him “The Popsicle”, but I’ll get to that in a bit.  His name was Shaun Ashley Halstead, a scrawny bloke, with flaming red hair (and a temper to match) and, as was the case with Peter, buckets full of charm.

We met at his place of work, an establishment, that I too this day still frequent (Shaun is no longer there).  He would often pop around to come and say hello if he saw me and would spend a great deal of time just chatting about all sorts of topics, including his girlfriend, Charmaine.  He was very open about the fact that he was attached, that they worked together, and that he wasn’t particularly happy in the relationship, but she served a purpose.

So we got to know each other and soon we were seeing each other.  Morally I knew it was wrong, but it felt so incredibly good to be wanted again.  Charmaine found out and needless to say, they had a huge row and he moved out…into my downstairs portion of the house I was living in at my parents.  The understanding was that he’d move in there, and that I’d move in upstairs with my parents.  For a while things went well.  The nature of his job involved working shifts, so there were times when we wouldn’t see each other at all for a few days on end.

Suddenly I began to notice a change in him.  The same signs I’d noticed, but had chosen to ignore with Peter.  Shaun was becoming distant and testy, wanting to spend more time with his friends than with me, and while I’m all for a night out with the boys, it got too much.

One morning I was woken up by his car starting, and, knowing he didn’t have to work, I wondered where he was off to, so I walked to the window and saw him, and a passenger who was hunched in the car.  Not sure if my eyes had deceived me, I never said anything.  Turns out later that there was nothing wrong with my 20/20 vision.

Things became problematic when he didn’t come home from work one night.  Not only was I frantic with worry, my parents were too.  We called his phone numerous times only to be greeted by his voicemail.  I went to work that day, totally unable to focus when my mom phoned and said she wanted directions to the house he and Charmaine had shared, the house which she still resided in.  Thinking that it was going to be a useless expedition I gave my mother the directions and she found his car parked outside.  She phoned and told me and in a rage I stormed up there, with no regard for my job at that moment.  If I had had a gun, I would have shot them both.  I beat on the door until she opened it and when I asked where he was, she said he’d lent her the car, and that he wasn’t there, but she wasn’t willing to corroborate her lie by letting me in.

That evening he came home quite nonchalant about the whole episode and my parents sat him down stating that he was at least to consider us as a family, if not as his landlords and that such behaviour wouldn’t be tolerated again.  Things got better after that, for a while…

I remember a call at work, “Babes, I’m going fishing with Parker out at the dam.  See you later.  Love you.”  Turns out that night he never came home either.  Again, with no word, because, “my battery ran flat, and Parker’s phone didn’t have service.  It was awful, we nearly froze to death.  We weren’t expecting the boat’s engine to give out…”(now you understand the nickname).

Now, I’m a strange person, stupidly naïve maybe, but I will not call you on a suspected lie, until I have enough solid proof to bury you.  I’m also someone that people often underestimate.

Shaun went home to his folks in Johannesburg for three weeks and I happened to bump into Parker one Saturday at the mall.  He told me that I really should let Shaun “off his leash more, because we haven’t been out since you two became an item…”  I mentioned the fishing trip and he looked at me dumbstruck, telling me he had no idea what I was talking about.  My first bit of ammunition…

Shaun returned home and immediately put in for some day shifts, because “we need to spend some time together Babes.  My mom says I’ve been neglecting you.”  He even swapped shifts so that we could go to a rugby test match in Cape Town that weekend.  I’d been given the tickets by a client.  Looked like the break was just what we’d needed.  Absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, and it was appearing that this indeed was the case.

The night before we were to leave for Cape Town, friends of his called inviting us over for a barbeque.  We went and he got utterly and completely blind-drunk.  I wanted to go home and couldn’t find him. His friend, Roger, found him.  Passed out.  Next to the side of the house.  Roger wanted to drive us both home, his fiancé, Rachel would pick him up, but I was too scared there’d be too much racket, and that we wake my folks.  So I drove us home.  I tried to get Shaun out of the car on my own, but he was dead weight, and to add insult to injury, he threw up all over me.

It cost me having to shower, get dressed and creep upstairs.  I left Shaun in the driveway.  That morning, miraculously, when I woke up, he wasn’t still in the driveway, but in the bath (where he stayed for hours).  I was eventually banging on the door because it was getting late and we had to leave.  Cape Town is not around the corner.  It is a four hour drive, at best.  Eventually after throwing a tantrum, my dad had had enough.  He stormed downstairs and threatened to haul Shaun’s scrawny hungover ass out of the bath.  He came out, eyes beyond bloodshot and still reeking of stale Johnnie Walker.  We drove to Cape Town in silence, watched the rugby and spent the night at friends of mine, who, despite not knowing him, but having been filled in of the situation, went out of their way to make him feel welcome.

The Sunday we returned home, when his phone rang.  It was Charmaine, wanting to know why he hadn’t been to fetch her for work.  Another thing he’d failed to tell me about.  Strike two…

The final nail in the coffin was knocked in not long after that.  It was a Sunday morning.  Elisha had spent the night because Shaun had worked the previous evening.  He came upstairs just after eight telling me that he quickly had to go into work to do some admin and that he wouldn’t be too long.  I went downstairs to open his drapes and make his bed when I saw a document lying on the floor. Thinking it was something he needed for work, I opened it.  My stomach fell to the floor as I read Charmaine’s letter…how she was putting it in writing that he’d promised to marry her in a year’s time, after he’d saved enough money because he was paying minimal rent, how she’d much rather be making love to him in their bed and not mine, how she was grateful he’d put her back on his medical insurance so that she could get some problems sorted out so they could try for a baby…That.Was.The.LAST.Straw.  I stormed upstairs, calm as calm could be, dialled his number and told him, “You have twenty minutes to get back here and get your shit out of my house, or it will be in the street.  I found the letter…”

“What letter?”

“What letter?!  The fucking letter Charmaine gave you, which says you plan to marry her next year because you’re saving on the rent.  You’ve taken me for a fool, more than once with your lies, so…twenty minutes!”

“Babes, seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about!  What letter?”

“Twenty minutes Shaun.”

He arrived and stormed straight to the bedroom and began packing his clothes.  I threw the letter in his face and we argued.  I told him that I knew he’d lied about going fishing with Parker.  He looked shocked.  Shocked that I’d actually had had the balls to speak to Parker…  Then my mom stepped in (my dad was away at work overseas).  She is a small woman, only five foot two and she grabbed him around the throat and held hip against the wall.  Her eyes were pitch black with rage.  Elisha and I had to pry her off of him, because she surely would have killed him.  I’ve heard about a mother’s love for her child.  I think this is what I witnessed.

He left soon after that.  Back into Charmaine’s arms…

It’s been seven years since then, and, guess what?

He and Charmaine are not married.  He left her about a year after they got back together, for another girl, and then, fool that I am, I took him back for six months, and then he left me to go to his parents, because he drank himself out of not only one, but two jobs.  I’ve heard from friends that he’s engaged to a woman about 15 years older than he is, who has three kids.


Jerome Trenton Dates “The Heiress”…

December 11, 2012 in Uncategorized

Like I said in the previous post, Walter Mitty had nothing on Jerome…this man had an imagination more vivid than I can possibly describe (and believe me, I have an arsenal of adjectives in my vocabulary)…

After our break-up, I received a long (7-page A4, both sides) handwritten letter from him telling me how sorry he was for everything, how he let a diamond slip through his fingers, how he was going to make a success of his deals…but most of all how extremely ashamed he felt about his behaviour the day at Elisha’s place of work.  I chose to ignore it, because I knew in my heart that walking back down that specific road was a bad idea.

About 6 months later my boss at the time went down to Cape Town for business and asked me for Jerome’s address as there were a few issues that needed straightening out – apparently Jerome turned a white shade of pale when he saw my boss, stammering out a number of obvious lies and feeble excuses as to why he hadn’t been in touch to continue their business dealings.  Jerome tried to pin the blame on me, stating that it would be awkward having to deal with me in my capacity as his ex-girlfriend.  Needless to say I found this scoff-worthy.  He also told my boss that he’d moved on and was dating a young woman (young being the operative word, as this one too was almost 10 years his junior), who was living in a very upmarket area of Cape Town, an heiress of some sort, with 6 cars (including an Aston Martin that she had imported for him as a birthday gift), and her own 7 bed-room mansion.  Yes people, I rolled my eyes at the story too.  Little did I know, there was more to come – even more ridiculous than what I’d just heard.

A few months after my boss’s visit, I headed down that end of the world to party up a storm with one of my closest friends, Jay, and he being him and me being me, we decided to stir some trouble…I had been in contact with friends of Jerome’s and was told that I should make a turn by them, as well as pop in to Jerome’s parents.  Jerome’s mom was not at all happy to see me, particularly on the arm of another man, especially after I’d broken her precious little boy’s heart.  Whatever lady!  I told her about Jerome’s outburst at Elisha’s office and in our home, and about the letter and she would hear nothing of it.  Needless to say, Jay and I left, heading off to Jerome’s friends.  They were happy to see me.  We got chatting about what had happened in the time since the break-up when I was told that Jerome hadn’t waited long to move on – he had begun dating “the heiress” about a fortnight after I’d called it quits, although nobody had ever seen her in the almost nine months that had passed.

Turns out that “the heiress” had taken ill and was dying – of a brain tumour…and that Jerome had to spend every moment of his day and night with her in case she needed to be airlifted to Johannesburgfor an operation.  “Cape Town has some of the finest doctors in the world, so why would they need to airlift her to Johannsburg?” was my question.  I nearly choked on my Coke when I heard the reply, “Apparently a bump to her head could be fatal, so driving over possible speed bumps is a deadly risk.”  How stupid did Jerome think everyone was?  Just because no-one called him on the lies, it surely didn’t mean that we believed them.  Did he really think this transparent attempt to manipulate me into taking him back was going to succeed?

I told my boss upon my return and he told me to call Jerome, telling him we’d like “the heiress’s” address, so that we could send flowers.  Again much stammering and spluttering followed.  I was told to simply send the flowers to his parents’ house and he would see that she got them.  My boss wasn’t taking the bait.  To this day I don’t know if “the heiress” ever existed.  My instincts tell me she didn’t.

Not too long after this incident, I heard from one of his friends, telling me that Jerome was going to be tying the knot.  “Let me guess, ‘the heiress’ made a miraculous recovery and they are going to be living happily ever after in her mansion?”

“No GRST,” he said, “on the contrary…he’s marrying our neighbour across the road’s daughter – just turned 17 and well, there’s a baby on the way, and what with him being a staunch Catholic and all, he is expected to ‘do the right thing’.”  I was speechless – which my friends will tell you, is something that doesn’t happen often.

Years down the line, he contacted me on Facebook – he’s still married (although I never did ask his friend what the neighbour’s daughter’s name was, so I can’t be sure if it is still to her), with three children, living in the UK.  Looks like he’s still working for a boss though – obviously he is still waiting for the next big deal to come through so he can retire…

Jerome Trenton, Imaginative Extraordinaire

November 22, 2012 in Uncategorized

As the months passed, the hurt from being tossed aside like yesterday’s mouldy sandwich by Peter, subsided a bit. I’d shed almost 11 Kg in 3 months, and believe me, I ate like a horse. Stress has a funny way of impacting on the body.

In June I received an enquiry at work from a chap called Jerome Trenton, based in the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town. I didn’t remember anything he’d asked when I put down the phone, but I did remember his absolutely amazing voice. Fortunately my admin-brain was savvy enough to get his number to return his call, as well as his email address.

I phoned back under a ruse of needing more information from him about his enquiry and soon after that I was very forward and mailed him from my personal email address to tell him that I thought he had a nice voice, and that when he did finally come to my home town, I wouldn’t mind going for a coffee. He said he’d love to, and every day after that I’d received an email, or a phone call and quite a few photos. He wasn’t bad on the eyes either…

It turned out that he would only be able to pay us a visit in November, so I decided that for my 21st birthday in September, I would go to Cape Town to meet him. I took my best friend, Elisha, along for back-up. We went out for drinks at a local haunt, and a friend of Elisha’s, Andy joined us, and she went home with him, leaving me with Jerome. We went back to the house he shared with his parents (the warning bells should have already been ringing…34 year old (again a man more than a decade my senior (pattern??))Capetonian man, driving his father’s car, living with his parents…) and spent the night looking at photos. He treated me like a lady, only holding my hand. Eventually at something-to-four in the morning, he showed me to my room, made sure I was comfortable and then went to retire in the lounge, on the couch.

That morning I woke up, only to be told by his mother that he’d gone fishing with friends. I thanked her for her hospitality and headed off to the other side of the peninsula to find Elisha and Andy, but not before stopping in at Peter Del Mare’s sister on the way. She told me that he had taken our break up hard, and that Lynette had just been a passing fancy. I didn’t even pretend to care. My heart was slowly softening towards Jerome.

When I’d finally met up with Elisha and Andy, I heard we were going further up the coast to visit her brother. She told me to ask Jerome to join us – the sparkle in my eye was evident. He jumped at the chance.

I don’t remember much of the night quite honestly. Elisha’s brother ensured that I knew I’d turned 21 by getting me roped into a drinking game. Elisha still has photos that she could blackmail me with. Apparently Jerome wasn’t much help in putting me to bed, but he was happy to help himself to Elisha’s boobs. She only told me this after I broke up with him. She told me that if she had told me when it happened, I wouldn’t believe her, and she was right.

I heard from him every day since we met, and he visited a few times, but every time he came down, it was with the bus. Every time I went to Cape Town, it was with my car. We hardly ever went out anywhere – there was always a reason that we’d end up staying in. Still, this man treated me well, so I should have been happy. Three months into the relationship, I realized something was amiss when I was sitting on his lap while he was mailing a friend – He told his friend that his g/f was sitting on his lap (true), in a hotel room in Thailand (seriously!?) – we were apparently holidaying there…at the time I found it odd, but I didn’t say anything.

About six months after this specific incident, he was visiting here and I’d popped into Elisha’s workplace to drop something off and we got chatting. About 10 minutes later Jerome stormed in and told me that he was tired of sitting in the hot car and that he was going to walk home, and out the door he stalked. Naturally, I ran after him, pleading with him to get into the car, but he stubbornly refused, so I drove out of sight and waited. Elisha had a lot to say about his behaviour, but as was the case with Peter, I justified it. After all, if I hadn’t been yapping to her, he wouldn’t have lost his temper…

He didn’t apologise. He got into the car eventually and we went home. My mother has strict rules about sleeping together in her home, so he slept on the couch and I in my room. The morning after the incident above, our neighbour popped in rather early to find out something from my mom, and Jerome got his boxers in a twist, “damn stupid visitors at nine in the morning…” I will say this much – I am very quick to get on my high horse and immediately my mom noticed the change in my demeanour. She asked what was up and I told her, and she took Jerome on. Now would be a good time to mention that my mom is a little over 5 feet tall and Jerome was over six… she told him quite plainly that in her house things are done a certain way and if he didn’t like it, he could take his sorry ass to the bus stop and go home. He very quickly calmed down, apologised and behaved like a meek lamb.

In an attempt to curry favour with my parents, he proposed to take them out to dinner at an upmarket place. We all had a hearty dinner, and the tension was something of the past…until the bill arrived… Jerome gave the waiter his debit card, which “there was a problem with”, and so my dad settled the bill, telling Jerome we could stop at the bank and he could simply draw the cash to give back. It turned out I had to pester him for a week to get the money out of him.

I eventually came to my senses a year-to-the-day and broke it off with him. I couldn’t handle his constant pipe-dreams (the next deal is going to be the one…) and his mother couldn’t stand me either…

Turns out I’d only seen the tip of the iceberg. The man lived in a complete dream world… Walter Mitty had nothing on Jerome Trenton…

Done with Peter Del Mare…For Now…

November 6, 2012 in Uncategorized

It’s been some time since I’ve written about, or even given thought to Peter Del Mare and the rest of my tragic love journey, but yesterday I felt so depressed that I wanted to get into my car and run off, but I opted to visit a colleague I can trust and she prayed for me in her office.  We had coffee some time ago, and got to talking about life, love and other stuff and I gave her the story of my singledom in a nutshell and she asked me, “What kind of men do you attract?” and it got me thinking.  I think on a subconscious level, she planted the seed for me to go and do some self-reflection and get this story out.  So this morning,  I gave her the link to my blog.  Now, I don’t advertise that I am the writer of this story, because the anonymity helps me open up completely – laying the hurt out there to be dealt with properly, without fear of reproach, and pity.  I don’t want pity, I want to heal and move on.

Peter Del Mare messed with my head for a while after we broke up.  He would phone me at work “just to hear if you’re okay”.  He even sent me a handwritten letter telling me he’d made a mistake; that we should try again.  My heart was shattered because part of me did really love him – and that part of me actually considered it, despite knowing full well what to expect.  Fortunately my support system proved stronger than my stupidity and I managed to say “No” to him for the first time.

About a month after the break-up, I bumped into our cleaning lady who told me she didn’t like the new lady of the house.  Imagine my horror when she told me that I’d been gone a few days when Lynette had moved in.  Lynette was one of Peter’s old flames, someone he couldn’t say no to.  I don’t know how it happened, but I grew a pair of balls for a few minutes, stalked over to his work and confronted him (the look on his face was priceless.  For the first time I was the one doing the shouting and he was standing there dumbstruck) – how sick was he exactly – wanting to give “us” another chance, when he was back with her?  I was done with him there and then for good…but her, not so much.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the house we shared was literally a stone throw from our places of employ.  What I didn’t know was that Lynette wasn’t earning an income – and Peter wasn’t exactly forthcoming when it came to opening his wallet with me, nor my cousin when he dated her (and we both worked), so it didn’t surprise me that the same was the case with her.  The cleaning lady had a great degree of loyalty towards me, so I had quite a bit of information-ammunition to use, if I ever needed it.

I was alone at the office one day when the bell rang and I went to the door and she was standing there, with a basket of sandwiches.  She didn’t know I knew who she was, and she told me that she was making sandwiches to earn an income.  While I wanted to grab her around the throat and scratch her eyes out, I was overcome with compassion for her.  Her knuckles were swollen and grazed.  I bought a sandwich from her that day, and almost every day after… One day she asked me what my name was and when I told her, she went from pale to ashen.  I didn’t give away that I’d known all along who she was, but her shock was evident.

I’m not sure how long it was, but her path split from Peter’s too… whether it was her decision to leave, or his, I don’t know.  All I know is that 15 years has almost passed and he is still the same.  He features again later as I tell this story, but only this time, it’s with a friend of mine…

I met someone else through work in June the same year…and that dear readers, is where the next leg of the journey continues.

The End of Peter del Mare…Well, Almost…

October 25, 2012 in Uncategorized

Peter finally gave me my marching orders on the 2nd of January 2000, the year I was to turn twenty one and be able to get married without parental consent.  I should have had some kind of intuition about what was going to happen, but by this time I’d become so accustomed to his moods, that I just thought it was a case of the usual, although, in retrospect, he’d been planning it for quite some time.

My mother had taken the plunge and contacted me the previous November, asking me to come for coffee.  Hard-headed and extremely stubborn I kicked my heels in, but Peter was almost supportive of me to go.  So I did.  It was awkward to say the least, but she told me when I left that despite everything, she still loved me and I would always be here little girl.  She already knew what lay ahead for me…

The company I worked for at the time closed for a month from mid-December.  Peter’s entire family was here for Christmas, and when his sister and her husband invited me to spend a few days with them inCape Town, I grabbed the chance.  Peter agreed to join us to ring in the millennium together, but it didn’t quite work out that way.

He arrived in Cape Townon December 30th in a second-hand BMW.  When I had the nerve to enquire as to where our Golf was (which was in a way better condition than the jalopy he’d arrived in, I was told that he’d swapped – note, not sold, swapped – it for the BMW, which had done nothing but overheat all the way from our home town to Cape Town.  He decided that he would return home on the 31st, leaving me with his family to ring in the new year. “I’ll be okay Babes, if the car really does give too many hassles, I’ll still be able to hitch hike.  I can’t expect that of you, so please, enjoy yourself.  Get on the bus on New Year’s Day and I’ll pick you up.”  So I did exactly as I was told.

I arrived home in the wee hours of the morning of the second after an arduous bus journey.  It was pissing with rain.  My heart sank into my shoes as I looked around for Peter.  He hadn’t pitched.  Completely soaked, I eventually approached a complete stranger, asking for a lift to our house – literally five minutes drive away.  He obliged and as we arrived at the gate, Peter was driving out.  I politely thanked the man who’d helped me out of my predicament and went inside.  Peter apologized for not having been at the bus stop to fetch me, citing that he’d fallen asleep on the couch.  He didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping.  His clothes weren’t even creased.  I told him it was okay, that I’d obviously made a plan when he began cross examining me about the man that had brought me home.  The more I tried to explain that he was some random person I’d approached at the bus stop, the more I realized Peter thought otherwise.  I was still trying to explain when he shoved his tongue in my mouth and began ferociously undressing me.  I knew better than to argue. He shoved me onto the bed, holding my hands above my head so tightly that I had bruising on my wrists the next day.  I tried to move, but he was too heavy.  I remember vaguely him muttering something about “your pussy is so different…” which at the time I didn’t understand, but later it came to light.

We went to bed and the whole next day he didn’t say a word to me.  That afternoon, about sixish, as I lay on the bed, trying to focus on the book I was reading, dressed in extra-long sleeves (in the middle of summer!) to hide the bruises, Bette Midler’s The Rose was on the radio.  He came into the room and said, “Go back to your parents.  I don’t love you anymore.  I don’t think I ever did.”  And with that, he got into the car and left.  I can’t describe how I felt.  “Numb” is probably the best adjective, but still not descriptive enough.  I phoned everyone I could think of, and eventually, having no other option, I phoned home.  By this time it must have been close to eleven in the evening.  My mom didn’t take long to answer and all I said between hacked sobs was, “You were right.  He left me.”  She told me that my dad would come and fetch me, but I declined.  I didn’t want either of them to see how I’d been living for the past eighteen months, so I phoned a friend, whom I stayed with that night.  I thought I was never going to be able to stop crying.  The following morning my cousin came to fetch me at my friend and we stopped at the house.  The major shock had subsided by this stage, replaced by anger and resentment.  I walked into the house we shared – Peter wasn’t back yet – and I took everything I’D bought for our house, right down to the linoleum off the floor.  I loaded all my crockery straight out of the cupboards onto the back of my cousin’s SUV (we didn’t have boxes) and he drove me, in silence, back to my parents.  I couldn’t have cared if the stuff got broken, the fact was that I had it and Peter didn’t.  My mom was nowhere to be seen when we pulled into the driveway, but my dad was – standing in the garden, tears visibly brimming in his eyes.  He didn’t say anything – he simply opened his arms and embraced me, The Prodigal Daughter.  Mom came out and joined the group hug.  Tears flowed again.

My mom told me that she had one condition for me to be able to move back home and that was to make amends with my cousin who too had fallen victim to Peter’s charms.  I had basically slapped her in the face by doing what I had.  I gingerly picked up the phone and when she answered, all I could utter was a feeble, “I’m sorry.”  She basically told me to go to hell and slammed the phone down in my ear.  I was wracked with so many emotions – guilt, sadness, anger, heartache… and they were all as a result of decisions I had made.  She phoned me back about two hours later, telling me that she was coming to fetch me and that we were going to talk.  I was scared.  She arrived and when I saw her, I began to sob.  All I could say was, “I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry.”  She gave me a stern look and then started to cry too, telling me that she too was sorry – sorry that she’d ever met him and that if she hadn’t, neither of us would be crying like two stupid idiots.  It’s only dawned on me now just how much her forgiveness meant to me.

But…Peter de Mare wasn’t finished with his mind games with me…

Dancing with the Devil…

October 16, 2012 in Uncategorized

I know that there are probably a number of you reading this wondering why a well-educated young lady would want to be with a man 16 years her senior (forget about the abuse in that relationship for just a moment).  Well, I have Daddy Issues.  My mom wasn’t married to my biological father, who physically and emotionally abused her and me too [(sexually) something which also took me almost 10 years to admit].  He would often disappear for days on end and then come home as if nothing had happened, bearing a bunch of flowers or some token of apology.  Things eventually got too much to bear and my mom and I left.  It’s been 24 years already.

A few years ago my curiosity got the better of me and I attempted to find him with the help of a police friend – I found out enough to know that I didn’t want to know more.  Anyhow…back to what I was saying about Daddy Issues.  My mom married a wonderful man in 1991, who accepted me as his own, raised me as such and with whom I have a solid, exceptionally strong bond, yet part of me still felt something was lacking, so when Peter came along, I naturally swooned.  Upon much contemplation, and being brutally honest, Peter could have, at a stretch, been my biological father’s son.

Both of them had:

Bucket loads of charm

Dark hair

Dark eyes

Chiselled jaws

Strong hands

Killer smiles

Short tempers

Abusive tendencies


“Roguish Bad Boy” is pretty much how I would describe both of them.

So that is pretty much where the root of my need to have an older man in my life stems from.  I have made peace with the fact that my father abused me.  I was an innocent little girl who was taken advantage of by the very man who was supposed to protect me at all costs.  It wasn’t my fault.  And while being in an abusive relationship with Peter wasn’t my fault either, it was a choice…a choice I made.  Maybe that is why getting this story out and finally admitting what really happened is so difficult, but with that said, it is cathartic at the same time.

Oddly enough, as much as I’ve tried to remember the good times, which is what everyone tells you to do after the end of a relationship, or when reminiscing about an old one, I can’t.  As I lay in bed last night, replaying things in my mind, I recalled two other incidents I want to share, but for now, I’ll simply share the one, otherwise this post is going to read like a novel.

When I met Peter, I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, but he taught me.  Well.  People would often come up to us and compliment us on how well we danced together, but most times he would tell them how long it had taken him to teach me.  He could never simply say, “thank you”.  Even then, when we were doing something I actually did enjoy, I would subtly be reminded just how useless I was.

One Friday night he informed me that we were going dancing   I was told to wear a long black skirt and a white chiffon top that was cut in such a way that it exposed my navel.  On the way home, he proceeded to slowly tickle my navel with his free hand, pausing every so often to change gears, undid my buttons and fondled me in the car.  I tried to push his hand away, but he gripped my wrist forcefully, willing me to submit.  He dropped his hand to between my legs and began to rub my “sexy Venus mound”.  I pled with him to simply wait until we got home because what was happening was dangerous; Potential-to-cause-an-accident-dangerous, but he only became more insistent, and then, as I should have expected, angry.  He furiously undid his zip, freeing his evident arousal and forced my head down onto it.  I knew better than to argue.  What felt like an eternity was over soon because we’d arrived home – thankfully without being pulled over by the cops.

He unlocked the front door and pushed me inside, not bothering to shed some light on the subject.  He literally tore my blouse off, telling me that he was so hot for me because I’d done an “eat me” on him in the moving car, and even more so because I’d actually tried to stop him.  He hoisted me onto his hips and fucked me against the wall in the lounge; its rough surface scratched my back, but mercifully the ordeal was over quickly.  Try to defy me again, Sweets.  He went into the bedroom and got into bed.  I stood in the dark lounge, contemplating swallowing my pride and phoning my mother, but my pride got the better of me…


Peter and the Potatoes…

October 15, 2012 in Uncategorized

When I made the decision to finally put my tragic love journey down in writing, I didn’t really consider if it was going to be a chronological account of events, or if I would go into nitty-gritty detail, but I’ve realized that I will have to forego the chronology, because if I am to deal with the trauma and exorcise the demon, I will have to deal with things as I remember them, in nitty-gritty detail.

While I mentioned in my previous post that I believed he really loved me, I failed to mention that this belief was affirmed when he asked me to marry him, literally weeks after I’d moved in with him.  I was ecstatic – this god of a man wanted to marry me.  Obviously if I’m telling this story, one of two things happened; we either got married and subsequently divorced, or we never got to the altar.  It was a case of the latter, because I was only nineteen and needed my parents’ permission to enter into a binding contractual agreement.  I was so blinded by naïveté, stupidity and plain stubbornness (I’ll-show-you-I-don’t-need-you-family) that I endured all kinds of abuse.  A number of my friends had spoken to me about the way he would speak to me or “exhibit me in public” (how many men have a girl 16 years their junior on their arm), but I always made excuses for him, justifying his behaviour towards me because I thought it to be normal, along with the dirty talk in the bedroom, the sex whenever he wanted it, wherever he wanted it…

Very often, if things weren’t done his way, his temper would flare, he would shout and throw things, but after the vent, he’d be fine.  I learnt to simply stay out of his way in situations like that, until one night when he finally lifted his hands to me, but thankfully took his rage out on the potatoes beginning to boil on the stove.

A very good school friend of mine, Neeta and her brother, Ike, were staying with us for a month, while they were waiting to move into a place of their own.  I’d stopped at Peter on my way home from work (we stayed a five minute walk away), wanting to know what he felt like for supper.  I can’t remember what the meal request was, but I do remember mashed potatoes (because of the memory now attached to them).   He also asked if I wouldn’t mind making him a cup of coffee because there was a problem with the kettle at work and he needed a caffeine boost.  I said I would, but I obviously took too long for his liking.

As we were pretty much still setting up house, we didn’t have the luxury of a potato peeler, so I proceeded to boil the potatoes in the jackets, intent on peeling them once cooked.  I could have peeled them with a knife, but at the time my idea seemed better.

Neeta wasn’t home yet, but Ike was, in the spare room, jamming on his guitar.  Peter stormed into the house, began yelling at me about “a simple fucking cup of coffee”, and lifted his hand to me.  I cowered; actually scared of this man I loved for the first time.  He turned away from me, lifted the lid off the pot, stuck his hand in the water and tossed the potato against the wall with such force that it stuck to the wall.  I remember Ike simply closing his bedroom door and Peter yelling at me for being “fucking useless, can’t even make mashed potatoesyou will clean that up before I get home.”  Then, as if nothing had happened, he put the kettle on, made his coffee, kissed my cheek and went back to work.

I cried as I scrubbed the potato off the wall.  I cried because I was scared, I cried because I was angry at Ike for adopting an if-I-don’t-see-it-happening-it’s-not-my-problem-attitude and I cried most of all because my mom had been right about what would happen.  That night when Neeta got home, I was rocking myself on the bed, tears silently flowing down my cheeks.  She asked what had happened, but I couldn’t speak.  Ike told Neeta that they would not be waiting until the end of the month to move, they would be leaving that upcoming weekend.  He wasn’t willing to subject his sister to the environment I’d chosen for myself.  He took Neeta out for a drink, which lasted until the wee hours of the morning.  He obviously wanted us to be asleep when they returned.  I couldn’t blame him.  Peter got home that evening, all smiles, dished up dinner for himself and ate with vigourous enthusiasm.  I vaguely remember some comment about the delicious mashed potatoes, but not bothering to ask whether I’d eaten already, or if I was even hungry.  I went to shower to wash away the awful day, to cry under the running water – but there was no reprieve; he joined me and fucked me so hard I began to bleed.  The tears flowed, for both the emotional and physical pain.  He got out the shower, dried off and got into bed, as if what had happened earlier that day was completely normal.

When Peter finally told me, “Go back to your parents, I don’t love you anymore…. I don’t think I ever really did…”  there were still traces of potato embedded in the stucco wall that I never managed to get clean.  This is one of a few episodes I remember; more will follow as I continue to slay the demon.  Confession is indeed proving to be good for the soul.

21 – Peter Del Mare’s Favourite Number

October 12, 2012 in Uncategorized

I’ve heard confession is good for the soul, so I’ve decided to blog about my disastrous love journey in the hope that I will find some kind of peace…I’m telling my story as it is, and sometimes the language might be offensive, but please have tolerance for it…I am what I am, the story is what it is; please have compassion for me and it.

My mind is racing a dime-a-dozen, and my head is filled with that constant bee-hive buzzing that I have become so accustomed to already, that I almost don’t hear it anymore, but today the buzzing is so loud, I want to cry!  I am feeling trapped…

…by GUILT.  I’m literally being Garrotted-Under-Incessant-Lingering-Torture of regrets – over things that happened almost 15 years ago, and of some things that happened more recently.  Every time I think I’ve forgiven myself, dealt with the issues and moved on, something will happen which will bring back all the things I’d thought I’d dealt with.  And each time this happens, one more thing is added to the already-heavy-burden, and that’s when the bees in my head are doing everything, but making honey.

I was seventeen when I’d met Patrick del Mare, a charming dark-haired man, 16 years my senior, with just the right amount of mystery and buckets full of sex appeal to make me take notice of the opposite sex for the first time in my life.  At the time he was dating someone I was very close to, a cousin in fact – but he dumped her on her twenty-first birthday, because he’d been sleeping with, well quite honestly, fucking me for quite some time already.  He would come into my room during the night when I’d been sleeping over at my cousin’s house.  The first time it happened, I woke up and he was simply sitting at the foot of the bed, “watching me sleep”.  I thought I’d imagined it, but I woke up again and he was still there, this time jerking himself off.  He came with a moan, wiped himself off on the towel (which was all) he was wearing and trotted off back to my cousin’s bed.  This continued for quite some time, but I was scared – seriously, I didn’t for one minute think anyone would believe me – after all, my cousin was sleeping upstairs and he was literally old enough to be my father.

Things progressed to a point where he started touching me intimately, going down on me and him teaching me the fine art of giving a proper blow-job.  On the first of January 1998 he took my virginity.  I didn’t want to give it, but he was so insistent, “we’ve come so far already – you love how I make you feel, if you didn’t you would have told by now, come on baby, give me that tight little wet pussy of yours”, that I did what he wanted.

Naively, I believed that he really loved me, and the way he was talking to me about pussies, cocks and fucking was what the whole “lovemaking” things was supposed to be like.  My parents eventually found out about our relationship and my mom gave me an ultimatum – give him up or go – so I went, writing my entire family off and went to live with him just after I’d turned nineteen.  I found myself in the same boat as my cousin when he kicked me out the home we shared the year I was due to turn twenty-one.  Does anyone see a pattern here?  I like to refer to it as Blackjack Syndrome…



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October 12, 2012 in Uncategorized

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