woman scorned, woman burned

13 February 1967

Last night I caught my husband fucking someone else in our bed. In six hours, I shall be fucking his best friend. And he will know all about it. Revenge shall be my orgasm. Which is more than I've ever gotten from that rat bastard.

I was worried when I started writing this that I wouldn't have enough anger left to fuel a complete account. Or that, forced to re-live that terrible, terrible moment, my pain would consume me and push me to abandon my plan. I am as relieved as I am scared to discover that, not only am I certain that I want to capture the memory forever, I am still as determined as ever to make that bastard suffer. I want to do this. God...who am I?

The worst part of his betrayal is that he was fucking her on my sheets. My brand-new, sultry, white, Egyptian cotton sheets. I haven’t even slept on them yet! He deliberately took them out of the airing closet, re-made the bed, and then proceeded to lay her on them and fuck her. That fucking BASTARD!!! If ever there was an indication that he was doing this just to spite me – that it wasn’t merely a matter of passion, or reckless abandon, or simply a lack of control – that was it. In the end, I didn’t even care that he had his face buried between the cunt’s legs (the son of a bitch has NEVER done that for me. Too risqué, wasn’t it, Lord Marcher? Not for the white woman. That PIECE OF SHIT!!!). I didn’t care that I could hear her pleasure howls before I even unlocked the front door (why was I home so early? Fate? Was I destined to have my life frayed in an instant?). I don’t even care that she’s white. Yes I do. Fuck, I do. Why should I?? What’s happening to me?? I’ve never cared before. My dignity has been soiled, like my sheets. And who am I without it? A woman scorned, thirsty for blood. The blood of her betrayer. Stanley, Stanley…you’re going to wish you never met me.

So there they were, having the time of their lives, if their moans were any indication. In my bed. I stood there for a moment, wondering how she could possibly have let a man so old propose to give her intimate pleasure. Of any kind. She looked around 28 years old! The dog…

Of course, the gasps and stammering, the frantic scrambling for clothes to hide their dreadful shame, followed soon after. Quite frankly, it bored me. I surprised myself by how collected I was. I just walked out. I left him in our marital bed with a whore nearly a decade younger than I. Ha! The more things change, the more they stay the same, don’t they, Leslie? Perhaps it’s time I use my real name. Would this have happened to Lolia? God…I’m so tired…

There was nothing else to do, so I made tea. God knows what they were doing the whole time while I was in the kitchen, why she only decided to step out after the kettle stopped whistling. Stupid cunt. I made her sit down in the parlour with me, interrogated her. I’m still marvelling at that one. If it’s true that one only comes to know one’s true self by one’s choices in the middle of conflict, then I am one very twisted woman. I asked after her name (Josie – how simple-sounding), her job (receptionist – how cliché), if she wanted children (she didn’t know). She was quite young, and appeared even more so as our interview progressed, stammering and blubbering, making a general fool of herself, really. I enjoyed it. I especially enjoyed asking her if she wanted a cup of my tea with lemon and sugar. What was she going to say? No? The whore drank a whole cup with me directing every sip she took, and I savoured thoroughly the look on her face as she contemplated whether she was being poisoned or not. I hope she threw up in the side alley on her way out. Pole bitch.

Stanley came out a little later. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even look at him. He sat across from me. Couldn’t help but notice it was the same armchair Josie’d picked. Perhaps they’re soul mates. He started saying something after some time, but I wasn’t paying attention to a word he said. I was concentrating on keeping my tears firmly inside. If he really thinks I’m a cold bitch, then that’s exactly the person he will have. But I nearly lost my head when he started talking about children. What the hell did that have to do with anything? So we can’t have children; so what? I’ve never punished him for that. Never blamed him, never felt I was missing out on something exceedingly precious. He said he thought I wanted to be free, that he didn't think I loved him anymore. Free to do what? I do everything I want to do – I’ve always done. He wants to be free, the snake! He wants to be free, how dare he blame me!

I only have five minutes left. I still haven’t spoken to Stanley, in part because I haven’t yet decided what my first words to him will be. I slept with John. I’m going out. With John. To torture him with the thought of what I might be doing with his best friend, or to keep him wondering where I’ve been until I inform him. The haggard old bastard has been tearing up all day. Talk to me, Leslie. Say something, for God’s sake! I will say something. I will put on a dress that says I’m going out to get fucked. I will wear my come hither heels. And I will spray a perfume on my neck that beckons to all men, whispering, Kiss me…. It’s his favourite. I would hope it kills him on my way out, but I want to see the expression on his face when I’ve done all that I’m going to do.

Til tomorrow.