What their husbands get up to when they are at book club on Thursdays. What their own sons are doing to the pretty cheerleader in the bathroom at school.
They don’t know. Because they don’t want to know.
They can keep their delusions until I shove it in their face.
Teddy stirs a little as I’m snapping photos.
“Smile for the camera,” I tell him sweetly. “You’re a natural, Tedster.”
He murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like ‘cunt’.
So I slap him in the face before I step back to admire my handiwork. It isn’t the act itself that I derive pleasure from. It’s the aftermath.
The knowledge that when he wakes up, he will feel just as violated and humiliated as he makes his paid whores feel.
Having a momentary loss of power can be a life altering experience.
But one full night of shame?
That’s the spaghetti on the wall. It burns into your brain and haunts you in all your waking moments.
Teddy here will come to understand that.
They all come to understand that.
There’s only one way to wipe his transgressions free in my book.
A sin for a sin.
I drag the chair closer so he has a nice view for the show that’s about to start. His ticket was punched from the moment he walked into the bar tonight, and it’s VIP all the way.
When he stirs, I’m kind enough to give him a few moments to find some sense of lucidity before I lay into him.
“Why are you doing this?” he slurs.
I cock my head to the side and give him a bored expression. It’s always the same questions from these tools.
At least once, it’d be nice if they surprised me.
But alas, men are men, and they seldom do.
I fish around for my scrapbook and open the well-worn pages, dangling it in front of his face.
There are five photographs on those first two pages. Along with small placards that display height, weight, and physical characteristics.
But no names.
Those are for my lips only.
And perhaps Teddy’s too, if he decides to be honest.
“Think carefully before you answer,” I tell him. “If you play your cards right, then you- nor your family or friends- will ever have to see these pictures again.”
I toss the Polaroids I took tonight onto his lap, and he gives them a cursory glance. There’s a flush creeping up his neck now and a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. He wants to inflict damage. On little old me.
“Aw, look at that,” I say. “Just dills your little pickle, doesn’t it?”
He grunts and tries to squeeze his legs together.
