The Thirteenth Betrayal
This is how I kill him, and her, and us, but mostly him, Mr. Married Man crosslegged on my bed, tumescing in his boxer shorts, as we tie old friendship rings and charms and baubles from my drawer onto a long red string, in my thong and camisole, making our string of rings for him to pull at the final moment, popping from my hidey-hole and the last one out will be his wedding band, the gold band he hasn’t given me yet, sending me somewhere I’ve never been, supposedly, though really he’s the one -- my earnest hard-on puppy-boy he’s the one taking the uncharted trip, because when he’s not looking I break the string and slip his precious band into a black silk envelope I’ve already addressed. To his wife. That’s how I kill him, and her, and us. But mostly him.
He won’t want to give me his wedding band, of course. They never do. “Are you kidding?” Puppy-Boy says. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”
I stroke his finger and touch the ring. “You think putting this in me,” I say, “is a bigger deal than putting this in me?” and I grab him though his shorts. Then I answer the question for him. “Nothing is more important than this,’ I say, still holding him. He can’t argue with that. I get the ring. I always do.
He’s wrong, of course. The ring is a much bigger deal. When he has sex with me, he’s just being selfish. But when he gives me his ring, he’s submitting to my selfishness. Giving up power. About an hour from now, he’ll figure that out.
That’s the way it has to be for me. It can’t just be sex. I want betrayal.
The first few are simple. Tell me my kisses are better than hers. Easy, because my kisses are better than hers. After all, they’re married. She doesn’t say the things I do. She doesn’t dress like me, or need it the way I need it.
But every time, my demands get bigger. We test out her kitchen table while she’s shopping. Always a fun afternoon. I turn him into a thief so I can wear her panties. That’s Number 8.    The smart ones bail around then. But the true hard-on puppy dogs stay for all thirteen. Which is always the last.
Once I’ve got the rings on a string, I excuse myself, pretending to be embarrassed. He doesn’t mind. Pulling them out might be sexy, but watching me stuff them in is hardly a turn on.
In the bathroom, I run the string over a sharp edge so it’s nice and frayed when it breaks. The envelope’s ready. Her panties are in it and I’ve already written the note. I apologize profusely. I assure her I’ve washed the panties. I tell her where her ring has been, or where he thinks it’s been and I hope that this doesn’t cause her too much pain. If I’m in an evil mood, I pull the panties through the ring, but usually I just fold it in the crotch, which is just as bad. She’ll see the panties first and feel sick and then get sucker-punched when the ring falls out. I seal the envelope, push the other rings in place and dial a number on my cell.
We’re almost in bed when the doorbell rings. “Christian scientists,” I say, “Two seconds.” I grab a robe and go downstairs. Kyle’s there and I give him the envelope. I make sure he knows how to find the address. Nice kid. He likes helping me.
Back upstairs, we do it. At the magic moment, he pulls the string, but it’s like it’s tied to the trigger of a double-barrelled shotgun, with both barrels pointed at his chest, and much bigger than the rifle he’s got in me. Big finale, no wedding band. You’ve never seen pleasure turn to pain so fast. His eyes freak. What the hell happened? Where is it? These are very stupid questions.
His skin goes white and his voice gets loud, but I will not be roused from my love trance. Oh, don’t worry, I tell him. It happens sometimes.
This makes him nuts. They say fear and guilt will eat you alive. I enjoy watching.
Sometimes they get so scared, they want to poke a finger up me, fish around. This I don’t allow. No prunes, either. Just wait, I say. Bring me a latte in the morning. Stop by on your way to work.
I can’t go home, Puppy-Boy shouts. She’ll notice!
Then stay here, I tell him, knowing he won’t.
By now he’s on his feet, hoping his jeans haven’t disappeared too. He curses my ass, me, the games I play. He curses himself for being so stupid. He’s so scared he can barely tie his shoes.
If it meant so much to you, I say, you shouldn’t have stuck it up my butt.
This is so ridiculous and so true that it ends the discussion. I walk him to the door for the final time. He says he’ll see me first thing and then he puts on a serious face and tells me to please be very careful.
About what? I say.
You know what I mean.
I grab his crotch, which he used to like but now does not appreciate. We say goodbye, and I send him out into the dark shitstorm of love.
Upstairs, I lay down and wait about twenty minutes. Time enough for him to get home and have a real argument with someone who isn’t playing and then I give myself the orgasm I faked earlier.
I sleep, and when I wake up I’m alone and not so happy. I need a new life. Need it bad. I know this is true. I should do something about myself, and someday I will. But first I need a new pup.
* Essenesse is a nom de plume for Scott Sparling, author of Wire to Wire