The Devil You Don't

from by Beauty Queen Autopsy

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You strode naked to the bathroom in all your middle aged glory, entirely more proud of yourself than the act warranted. You turned the shower on, humming some delicate song that I’d never heard before. I wrapped the top sheet, which smelled faintly of lavender, and scanned your bedroom. I wandered over and looked in your wife’s closet, predictably frightening. A fashion nightmare. Immediately I understood every disinterested moment of your lives together. She had a jewelry tree on her dresser—of course she did—and as I opened the top drawer and rifled through her not-so-delicates I came upon her engagement ring. It was plain but heartfelt, reminiscent of youth in love in a time you wouldn’t have even contemplated this kid-wife crisis that left you in a bar hopelessly trying to fit in and mispronouncing 20 year aged Scotch to a bartender half your age. But there was something awkwardly adorable about it, and I liked your eyes, so I chose you for my early evening fun.

I put your wife’s ring on and dropped the sheet, taking a selfie with my phone mimicking the look of rapturous surprise she must have had when you first proposed all those years ago. I sent it to you a week later, after the thrill of your conquest had worn off and the fear of being discovered by your family has subsided, to remind you who the wolf truly was.

The water turned off. I placed the ring back into the drawer of stretched, beige panties and returned to the bed, pausing only for a moment to look at a picture of you stuffed rather uncomfortably into a NASCAR number giving a hearty thumbs up, undoubtedly a birthday gift to show you’re still young at heart. And you are. Desperately.

I returned to the bed to play the anxiously awaiting maiden, one soft, bare leg over the sheet to let you know what you left behind. You stepped out of the bathroom and smiled, sucking in your gut under your bathrobe. I smiled back, and rose for my turn in the bathroom sans sheet, passing you and dragging a finger along your chest on the way. The late day sun was shining through the window silhouetting my form, my curves, elegantly. I knew you were watching. I heard you pick up your watch to make sure there was still time to enjoy this, to let the fantasy continue. To remember this. And remember it you always, always will, just like I’ll always remember the look on your face as I used your wife’s toothbrush to wash…you…out…of…my…mouth.

You made a quiet protest, but thou did not protesteth too much, as I know the anger at the slight…my disrespect…passed quickly, and turned into a thrill for you. And most importantly I knew that when you recounted this story for years to come to your work cohorts, your confidants, your gym buddies, that you will revel and relish this twisted little part of the story more than any other.

I just gave you the icing on your…cake.


from Lotharia, released June 30, 2015



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