SexyVita
A Wanton of Words
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2007
- Posts
- 1,446
It felt very odd to sit in the passenger seat of a car next to a man that was almost a complete stranger. Even weirder was that I was on my way to a home I had no memory of. I had no doubt that the man driving was my husband, Jon. I’d seen the documentation, driver’s license, marriage certificate, wedding photos, even jointly filed tax returns. Not to mention that my family assured me that we had been married for nearly five years. Yet I had no memory of him. In fact, I had no memories at all from about the time I was about 18 onward. I had no memory of being in college, though I seemed to remember at least some of the skills I had learned there, just not the actual learning of them. I did not remember having a job, save for a few summer jobs when I was in high school. And most importantly, I had no memories of meeting, dating, marrying or spending the last five years living with my husband.
Apparently, I had been in a car accident, one that was not my fault, according to the accident investigation. A drunk driver had swerved across the center line and hit me head on. My seatbelt and airbag had done their jobs and kept me from dying, but both my legs and several of my ribs had been broken. I lost a lot of blood in the several hours before they were able to pull me from the twisted wreckage of my car and somewhere in that time I’d passed into a coma, presumably from lack of oxygen to my brain. When I awoke in the hospital, several weeks later, it quickly became apparent that I had amnesia. I did remember things like my name, Amanda, and my family, although they looked older than I remembered, especially my younger brother and sister. Not to mention the fact that I looked older than I remembered myself being.
My physical recovery had been slow, with several surgeries, but it had finally taken its course and I’d been cleared to leave the hospital. In the meanwhile, my family had hired a lawyer to sue the man that had hit me. The case had resulted in a near-record judgment, due mainly to my condition, and I had been assured that with careful management, I would probably never need to work again unless I wanted to. Even if I chose to return to my job as chemical engineer, I would need many months, if not years, of retraining before I was able to work at full capacity. So, for the moment I was content not to work and instead focus on trying to recover what I had lost.
The doctors were noncommittal about when, or even if, my memories might come back but they all seemed to agree that being back in a familiar setting would be most likely to help me remember. In spite of that, nothing about the drive from the hospital to the “home” that I shared with Jon seemed familiar. By the time we arrived, I was so wrapped up in my own gloomy thoughts that he had to lay his hand on my shoulder just to tell me that we were there.
“Oh… sorry.” I said, getting out of the car and trying to shake away the cobwebs of my own musings and pay attention. The house was modest but well-kept and there were nicely tended flowers beds in the front and an outdoor pool and hot tub in the back. Inside, my husband gave me a little tour. The rooms were tastefully decorated and large windows in most of the rooms gave the house a light and airy feel.
Ever since leaving the hospital it had felt like Jon had been watching me, even if it was an out-of-the-corner-of-his-eye sort of thing. I assumed he was watching for any sign that I remembered anything. I felt bad about disappointing him. Regardless of my lack of memories, his attentiveness to me over the months since the accident had been noteworthy. He seemed to have a real love for me, even if I could not yet return it in kind. He had come to see me in the hospital nearly every day and spent hours telling me about events we had shared that I could no longer remember. But in spite of my wishes to the contrary, nothing on the first floor, including a framed photo of our wedding or my diploma from Stanford, jogged loose any memories.
Jon took me upstairs to “our” bedroom and suddenly a panic set in. It hadn't really occurred to me until that moment that living with my Jon was going to include sleeping with him too, in both the literal and figurative sense. I had no memories of sex or even of being completely naked in front of a man. I was suddenly embarrassed in a way that didn’t seem to fit a woman 29 years old. Then again, I didn’t really feel 29, in my head I was still 18, despite the evidence of the mirror. Jon seemed to sense my discomfort and offered to leave me alone for a bit, to “get my bearings” I think he said. I just nodded absently and he left. Once he was gone, I took and deep breath to steady myself and set about trying to find something, anything about the room that marked it as a place I had lived in.
The clothes in the closet were… more provocative than I might have expected for a chemical engineer. Some of them were downright slutty. There was barely a skirt or dress in there that came even halfway down my thighs. That seemed unusual given my petite 4’11” body. From what I remembered, even most “petite” sizes had been too long in the leg or sleeve for me. Anything that had fit me perfectly had been altered. Still, there was no reason to suspect that these weren’t my clothes. My changes in taste must just be something else I’d forgotten.
I opened a drawer in the bureau and quickly shut it, flushing in embarrassment. But curiosity got the better of me and I opened it again slowly. Inside was a collection of dildos, vibrators and other sex paraphernalia, some of which I couldn’t even identify. Several of my high school friends had bought dildos, or even been given one by their mothers, but I had never used one, or rather I couldn’t remember using one. I think my mother would rather have died then explain to me about dildos and sex. I was half-tempted to pull one out and try it, but I was too embarrassed at the thought that Jon might find me using it. I closed the drawer and continued my search.
My underwear drawer had nothing in it I would have considered “normal” underwear when I’d been 18. For panties, there were several different styles, with thongs predominant among them, those styles that had more coverage tended to be made from peekaboo lace or semi-transparent mesh. There were no pantyhose, mostly stockings, the real kind that need a garter belt to keep up. Finally I stopped my search. Nothing in this room felt like it was mine. That didn’t mean it wasn’t, just that nothing here triggered any sense of memory. I stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what I should do next. I was not sure how long I stood like that before I heard Jon come back into the room.
Apparently, I had been in a car accident, one that was not my fault, according to the accident investigation. A drunk driver had swerved across the center line and hit me head on. My seatbelt and airbag had done their jobs and kept me from dying, but both my legs and several of my ribs had been broken. I lost a lot of blood in the several hours before they were able to pull me from the twisted wreckage of my car and somewhere in that time I’d passed into a coma, presumably from lack of oxygen to my brain. When I awoke in the hospital, several weeks later, it quickly became apparent that I had amnesia. I did remember things like my name, Amanda, and my family, although they looked older than I remembered, especially my younger brother and sister. Not to mention the fact that I looked older than I remembered myself being.
My physical recovery had been slow, with several surgeries, but it had finally taken its course and I’d been cleared to leave the hospital. In the meanwhile, my family had hired a lawyer to sue the man that had hit me. The case had resulted in a near-record judgment, due mainly to my condition, and I had been assured that with careful management, I would probably never need to work again unless I wanted to. Even if I chose to return to my job as chemical engineer, I would need many months, if not years, of retraining before I was able to work at full capacity. So, for the moment I was content not to work and instead focus on trying to recover what I had lost.
The doctors were noncommittal about when, or even if, my memories might come back but they all seemed to agree that being back in a familiar setting would be most likely to help me remember. In spite of that, nothing about the drive from the hospital to the “home” that I shared with Jon seemed familiar. By the time we arrived, I was so wrapped up in my own gloomy thoughts that he had to lay his hand on my shoulder just to tell me that we were there.
“Oh… sorry.” I said, getting out of the car and trying to shake away the cobwebs of my own musings and pay attention. The house was modest but well-kept and there were nicely tended flowers beds in the front and an outdoor pool and hot tub in the back. Inside, my husband gave me a little tour. The rooms were tastefully decorated and large windows in most of the rooms gave the house a light and airy feel.
Ever since leaving the hospital it had felt like Jon had been watching me, even if it was an out-of-the-corner-of-his-eye sort of thing. I assumed he was watching for any sign that I remembered anything. I felt bad about disappointing him. Regardless of my lack of memories, his attentiveness to me over the months since the accident had been noteworthy. He seemed to have a real love for me, even if I could not yet return it in kind. He had come to see me in the hospital nearly every day and spent hours telling me about events we had shared that I could no longer remember. But in spite of my wishes to the contrary, nothing on the first floor, including a framed photo of our wedding or my diploma from Stanford, jogged loose any memories.
Jon took me upstairs to “our” bedroom and suddenly a panic set in. It hadn't really occurred to me until that moment that living with my Jon was going to include sleeping with him too, in both the literal and figurative sense. I had no memories of sex or even of being completely naked in front of a man. I was suddenly embarrassed in a way that didn’t seem to fit a woman 29 years old. Then again, I didn’t really feel 29, in my head I was still 18, despite the evidence of the mirror. Jon seemed to sense my discomfort and offered to leave me alone for a bit, to “get my bearings” I think he said. I just nodded absently and he left. Once he was gone, I took and deep breath to steady myself and set about trying to find something, anything about the room that marked it as a place I had lived in.
The clothes in the closet were… more provocative than I might have expected for a chemical engineer. Some of them were downright slutty. There was barely a skirt or dress in there that came even halfway down my thighs. That seemed unusual given my petite 4’11” body. From what I remembered, even most “petite” sizes had been too long in the leg or sleeve for me. Anything that had fit me perfectly had been altered. Still, there was no reason to suspect that these weren’t my clothes. My changes in taste must just be something else I’d forgotten.
I opened a drawer in the bureau and quickly shut it, flushing in embarrassment. But curiosity got the better of me and I opened it again slowly. Inside was a collection of dildos, vibrators and other sex paraphernalia, some of which I couldn’t even identify. Several of my high school friends had bought dildos, or even been given one by their mothers, but I had never used one, or rather I couldn’t remember using one. I think my mother would rather have died then explain to me about dildos and sex. I was half-tempted to pull one out and try it, but I was too embarrassed at the thought that Jon might find me using it. I closed the drawer and continued my search.
My underwear drawer had nothing in it I would have considered “normal” underwear when I’d been 18. For panties, there were several different styles, with thongs predominant among them, those styles that had more coverage tended to be made from peekaboo lace or semi-transparent mesh. There were no pantyhose, mostly stockings, the real kind that need a garter belt to keep up. Finally I stopped my search. Nothing in this room felt like it was mine. That didn’t mean it wasn’t, just that nothing here triggered any sense of memory. I stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what I should do next. I was not sure how long I stood like that before I heard Jon come back into the room.
