She Blamed it on my PTSD - Sex Stories

She Blamed it on my PTSD

... question.

In a dead voice I caught my wife fucking a guy in my bed. She'd been fucking him for two months when I was at sea. She put it back and handed me my mug and we drank and talked about graduation stuff.

She took the mugs into the kitchen and returned and we made love as if we were the last people in the world alive. She took a shower with me and kissed me goodbye and said, "I'll be back for your graduation ceremony in three weeks."

I never saw her again. One of my program friends came up to me. She was married to a beautiful artist. She said, "Did you know Beverley was married last weekend? We went and it was so lovely, just a cute couple. He's old Southern California money, of course."

I stumbled to a chair and sat down and shook my head.

She said, "What's wrong with you? Oh my God you were her lover?"

"I had no idea. What a fucking sap I am. Somebody did that to me, he and my wife

knew, unlike me."

I went into a nearby restroom and hurled."

As my favorite writer Kurt Vonnegut often wrote, "And so it goes."

I was actually going through a series of interviews and found a place in Boston, State Street advisors and went to work with them starting as an analyst. I worked for them for fifteen years. Lots of travel, worked my way into being a money manager of sorts and got out in the years following nine eleven. Didn't like the climate, everybody was doing the jingoistic thing with Irag, when it was fucking Saudi Arabia.

Everything felt ...

... like a runaway train.

One afternoon I was in London and everything felt wrong it was 2005. I sent an email to all my betters resigning claiming family problems, sold everything I had in the way of investments and wired it to Zurich Cantonal Bank, where I had a small account that was no longer small now. I deleted my State Street email from my account. Turned the laptop off.

I always have a small tool kit and opened up the laptop and removed the hard drive and used a metal water urn to smash it to pieces. I flushed it down the toilet successfully. It's not like I had anything to hide, but one can never be too safe.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and using my credit card asked the concierge to book me the first flight to Vancouver, Canada. I showed him my United States Passport. It was in three hours. I caught a cab to Heathrow leaving my stuff in the hotel room.

I entered Heathrow and bought a small carryon bag and some books and four tee shirts and put them in the bag. I boarded the plane and we took off and I enjoyed the flight. I read one of the books about World War II a novel about Guadalcanal. It was riveting actually. I rented a car and went through customs at Lynden instead of Blaine.

Explained I was an expat living in London on a big project for State Street, showed them a business card and said my thirty year reunion was this weekend in Seattle and I was looking forward to it.

I drove to Seattle and slept like a log in a downtown hotel. I had ...