Greg Lippert and Robert Haydon Jones

Animated image here: Breathe
by Greg Lippert

Force of Nature
by Robert Haydon Jones

This is about a heinous, rape-murder.

If I were writing this expecting to get money for it, (expecting you to pay money for the magazine carrying this story like the Police Gazette or the National Enquirer), then I would be writing this in the third person narrative that pro writers use these days because in the words of one pro writer I know, “When the Readers at the big houses see a manuscript written in the first person, they just throw it straight to the reject pile.”

Honestly, I tried telling this story out in the third person, but it came out hollow. Like Hemmingway said, “The most important tool a writer can have is a built-in, shock proof, crap detector.”

I want to get money for telling this story out to you, but the problem with the third person narrative is that it could be anybody. I am the perpetrator. I need to spit this thing out of me to be rid of it. And somehow I have to do that and keep you engaged so you don’t throw me on the reject pile because I am using the first person and spitting things up in front of you.

Like I said, this is about a heinous, rape-murder.

Kim Donnelly was a wiry, brown-haired, freckled nineteen year-old sophomore, from Ashtabula, who was best friends with Amanda Jackson a chubby, blonde junior from Akron, with beautiful, fluffy breasts the size of airplane head pillows, who I had relentlessly ravished day after day and night after night for nigh on to three weeks until I told her firmly that I couldn’t see her any more, not even once more, because I had a fiancée I had promised to marry, waiting for me back East, when I graduated in two months,

I was a vet, come back from the Marine Corps, finishing college on the G.I. Bill at a state school with a Georgian campus set in a rural farm town in southeastern Ohio.

This university featured some pretty darn good football teams over the years. Even so, it always had far more female than male students. In fact this university graduated more elementary school teachers than any other school in the Midwest.

When I arrived there from the Marines as a 22 year-old junior, I felt like a wolf in the henhouse. And, believe me, when I tell you, I behaved just like I was a wolf in the henhouse.

Because that is precisely what I was. I had returned with nary a scratch from terrifying times in shit hole after shit hole. I morphed from a green idiot expecting the certain death I deserved for being a green idiot to a hardened, merciless, survivor counting down the days till I came improbably to the final sleep and wakeup and then miraculously I marched aboard a silver aircraft and was borne away from the final shit hole to the craven glory of honorable discharge and safety from the certain death and/or disfigurement I no doubt did deserve.

I had left the pretty girl who wrote me every week while I was in the Marines back East because she was finishing college back there and we had both promised our parents we wouldn’t get married until each of us was graduated.

So there I was in the henhouse with hundreds of beautiful young women fresh out of high school, many of them away from home for the first time. Many of these hens were without a boy friend or even the prospect of a viable date. Most of the men at the university were actually still foolish boys – much more interested in drinking, drugging, and fraternity house activities than women.

So this “older man” the lean Marine, was like a pig at the trough and I helped myself at every opportunity. My years away from my girl friend had supercharged my lust. When we made love on my return, I was swept away with the sheer pleasure of it. I really couldn’t get enough.

Sex was a tonic for me. For some unaccountable reason, I felt bad most of the time. Bad and ashamed of myself. Not of anything in particular. Just ashamed of me. Sex made me feel good about myself. Good and strong and powerful and worthy. And deep down deserving of the long, glorious, orgasms I was having and having and having.

I was smart enough to figure out that to get the sex I needed, I had to have a willing, enthusiastic, partner easily available. So, early on, I decided to be a very considerate lover, even though it took a lot of effort. Actually, once I got the technique down, it wasn’t all that hard to take my girl friend where she had never been before.

She had been around quite a lot before I met her. She told me straight out that I was a genius lover compared to my predecessors. I told her it was because I loved her so much and I guess she accepted that. I liked her all right. She sure acted like she loved me and I was good with that. She was very, very pretty. A real knockout. I really liked having her on my arm. I liked her parents. She liked my parents. She called me; “The Master Marine” and I liked that too.

So at the university, right from the first, I developed a routine and a persona with the girls that I met which enabled me to be intimate with them on a friendly basis rather than as a candidate for a lasting relationship. In fact, this friendly persona enabled me to get closer to them much quicker than if I had been a “regular” suitor.
The fact is they were all horny out of their minds for sex even if quite a few of them weren’t really aware of it. Believe me, once Yours Truly started up with them with my “considerate” technique, almost all of them turned into little freaks. I no longer had to ask them out. They called me. I no longer had to do beer or a movie or a recital up front.

When we met up, our first order of business was finding a place we could go to get it on. In bad weather, we would look for empty classrooms, storage rooms, even remote hallways. Some times we had to go to a motel a few miles away. As a vet, I was one of the few students with a permit to have a car on campus. So, we’d drive to a motel. I always insisted the girl pay $25 toward the room. Since I got the room on an hourly basis, the $25 usually covered it.

In good weather, we used the great outdoors to do the friendliest thing two people can do. I had a poncho from the Marines that rolled up tight and worked real well. Although often, we would roll off the poncho and thrash around on the grass and after a while, I figured just how the title to the song, “Green Sleeves”, had originated.

I treated many a love discourteously. My favorite outdoor venue was an old graveyard that had been filled up in the 19th century. I enjoyed idyllic, bucolic privacy with one exception. One afternoon in early May, I had decided I had come to the end of foreplay and was just about to swing into action when a large brown shoe entered my field of vision. It was a Boy Scout Master with a troop of about 20, strung out single file in back of him.

“Oh, sorry, sir”, I said.

“No worries, young fellow,” he replied.

He was a burly man in his mid forties. He had on the full brown suit, replete with medals and badges. He had a thick black mustache. He pivoted and beckoned to his troop with the same signal we used in the Marines.

“Follow me, lads”, he yelled authoritatively.

He marched away and they followed. It was pretty impressive. I couldn’t help but notice that they kept a proper interval. We waited a little while and then we got down to it. It was better than ever.

So, my routine, my persona, went like this: “I am lonely and I am so happy that I have found you and that we can be friends and be good to each other – but it can’t ever get out of control beyond friendship, which will be so hard because I am so drawn to you, but we must never let that happen because someone very much like you is waiting back East and I promised her I would be back and she said okay than I could have friends like you if I promised on my honor.”

So that was the Holy Ground Rule. It enabled me to have all the wild sex I wanted without any fear of entanglement. I’ll tell you what – it enabled me to really be nice to these women – to really like them – okay, maybe even love some of them – without any fear of being snared. It was a foolproof ticket to genuine abandon.

Much as I hate to admit it, a few of them, declared it was time to stop before I did. I never argued, although, frankly, it pissed me off. In any event, 95% of the time, it was me that made the announcement that I was being drawn so close that any more would overwhelm me and make me renounce my Holy Promise. I experimented making the announcement before or after love. The best time by far was before. Afterward, there really was nothing left to say. Afterward, almost 100% of the time, we were both very, very happy campers.

The Holy Ground Rule also had another benefit that I had not foreseen. It generated a natural “Daisy-Chain” effect. Since I always parted as the best of friends, my left girls were inclined to pass me on with a golden recommendation as the sort of man any girl would be glad to have as a friend.

That was how I had arrived at my favorite graveyard with Kim Donnelly. Her best friend, Amanda Jackson, had put us together. According to Kim, Amanda said I was a prince of a man and the greatest, most considerate, lover on earth. She had only let me go because I was such a good person who had made a vow to a good young woman back East.

So, I guided us to my favorite spot in the graveyard and spread out my trusty poncho. Kim was in a league of her own as a kisser. I mean she was hot and she was a real expert. She had a hard body but she pushed up at me and I was enveloped by her voluptuousness. She kissed my neck and then licked it slowly and I almost lost control. Then she reached down to my crotch and stroked me. She really knew what she was doing.

I reached under and up to take her panties off but she resisted, so I moved them to the side and started pleasuring her with my fingers with the utmost consideration. She moaned and gave a deep shudder and said my name again and again.

I pulled off my pants real quick and maneuvered so I could get in her but she pushed back with a surprising amount of strength and she said, “No, don’t!”

I knew she wasn’t serious. A lot of girls put up a “No” the first time we do it. As a matter of fact, Amanda Jackson had run a whole string of no’s at me before I got her to say yes, yes, yes.

So I just pushed down steadily. I was holding myself up above her and my hands were by her neck. “No”, she said. “Please don’t. I’ve changed my mind.”

Well, I absolutely knew she couldn’t be serious. So I kept pushing. “No.”, she said again, and I kept pushing – I had been here before. Then she said, “No” again and sort of wriggled under me – so I pushed down real hard and then she stopped.

Well, the time had finally come, but as I made ready to enter her, I looked down and a green, bubbly, foam had seeped from between her lips and she wasn’t moving at all. I rolled right off her and looked again. She lay still. The bubbly green foam drooled off her lips on to her chin. She wasn’t breathing! I put my ear on her breast. There was no heartbeat! I touched her carotid. There was nothing! She was dead!

I was horrified. I was terrified. I was a fucking murderer! My life was over!

I wondered if I could hide her somewhere and go get a shovel and bury her in one of the old graves. But I realized that wouldn’t work. When Lisa went missing, Amanda would tell the police she had introduced us – and where we probably had gone.

Even if I could bury her quick, they would find the fresh grave…. or if I was able to mask the grave, they would probably use dogs who would find poor Kim. She was dead and so was I!

No one would believe me that it was a total accident. I had been a little rough like this in the past to get around the no’s and everything had worked out. No problems.
My only chance was to hide her body, get my car and run fast somewhere far, where maybe I could build a new identity.

About 40 feet deeper in the graveyard from where we were, there was a clump of Rhododendrons that surrounded a little spring. I figured this was the best place to hide Kim.

As I approached her to put her in a fireman’s carry, her eyes started to flutter. It startled me. I must have jumped a foot – I figured it must be rigor mortis starting. But, no, because now she made a gagging sound and then a low moan. She was alive!

Then her eyes suddenly flipped open and she looked right at me and smiled. “Wow,” she said, ”That was intense. I must have passed out. You were pretty rough on me.”

It was the most thrilling moment of my life. I think it still is. It was like two people had come back from the dead.

Yes, it turns out this is not about a heinous rape murder after all!

“Gosh, I’m glad you’re okay,” I said dumbly, like I was reading from a nerd script. “I’m real sorry – you’re just so dam sexy – I got carried away.”

“I’m going to have to throw away my undies”, she said. “I soiled myself. Turn your back – I’ve got to clean up.”

So, I turned my back and I could hear her rustling around. Then she said it was okay for me to turn back around and there she was standing there looking at me.

“Are you okay?” I said. Do you want to rest up?”

Well, the minute I said it, I regretted it.

“No”, she said, “I ‘m okay but I want to go back to the dorm and take it easy for a while. You were pretty darn rough on me.”

When she said that, a fear bolt coursed through me. Would she report me?

“Well,” I said, “I sure am sorry. The fact is — we both got carried away.”

Even now, I think it was an absolutely brilliant thing to say.

I saw her consider it.

“Are you okay without your undies?” I asked solicitously.

I saw her consider that too.

“Yeah, I’m okay”, she said. “Things did get out of hand. Are you okay?”

I told her I was okay. I walked her back to her dorm. I never dated her again. Amanda called me and asked me if everything was okay with me and Kim and I said it was – but that I had decided to completely eliminate dating these last two months out of fairness to my girl back East. And that is exactly what I did.

You might say I was scared straight.

So now, many years later, I am a respectable citizen. In addition to working hard at a job I love, I am a volunteer at the prison two exits up I95. I’ve often counseled men doing hard time for sexual assaults not all that different than my near catastrophe with Kim.

I’ve also worked with two men doing life for rape murder. They claim the sex was consensual and they just got carried away.

All I can do is tell them I understand.

©2015, RHJA, LLC. All Rights Reserved


  1. Posted March 12, 2015 at 11:02 am | #

    Only R.H. Jones could do Dobie Gillis does Edgard Allan Poe and bring it off.

  2. Posted March 12, 2015 at 4:46 pm | #

    Wow! Master Jones is now out-Poeing Poe. A necrophilic’s delight. How does he do it?

  3. Posted March 14, 2015 at 12:57 pm | #

    Nice down and gritty prose. Sex and death allure. The main character
    comes off as a likeable socio-path…which I guess is a socio-path’s most dangerous affect.

  4. Posted March 26, 2015 at 4:48 pm | #

    incredulity is replaced by the thought that perhaps resurrection is possible sometimes . A weird thought provoking yarn verging on pornography and did she ever tell the tale of her death to her lovers Stranger than fact