I don't know what to say. As soon as I turn around to leave the room, I hear him yell my name whilst muttering a couple words to his confidante, whom I recognize as his boss, Danielle. A woman well in her sixties who I didn't assume to be quite the skank. She wears beige. She has dark circles. Her smile is that of a conservative businesswoman, a shark whose estrogen had stopped producing a decade ago. Her own wrinkles speak volumes and tell stories of the worst narcissism one could face. I've only made it to the stairway before I am confronted by Bob. If I could throw him down the staircase, I truly would.
"Celeste, its not what it looks like.
"
I'm ready to snarl.
"You never perform oral sex! You said it always makes you feel sick-"
"It-it does. I thought you understood."
Oh, God. He is trying to guilt trip me and it hasn't even been five minutes. There is no possible way he can succeed at deceiving me at this point.
"You looked like you were enjoying it." I argue. "I haven't had it in six years!"
Bob's face stays neutral. "Celeste, I had to do it for a promotion. I've been seeing her for two months. It was a request to be done after penetration sessions."
My jaw drops.
"I will never have sex with you again. What kind of a man sells his sex skills for a promotion?" I exclaim, "And wash the fucking sheets!"
Bob, seemingly ambivalent to my embarrassment stands at the doorway watching me yell. I storm off as he begins speaking again, not a single word of his registering in my head. The only thing on my mind is what hotel I'm staying in tonight. Where I'm going to celebrate my new life without Bob.
—
I decide a vacation is the most practical thing I can do before contacting a divorce lawyer. I haven't called into work in regards to my leave of absence for Idon'tknowhowlong. This evening, my mind is somewhere else. I have no intention on thinking over my actions. I intend to empty our travel savings account, leaving pennies of it left.
As soon as I arrive at the hotel, I head to the bath tub to distress. A beautiful session between the faucet and myself awaited. I undressed quickly as I turned the tap, curling my toes as my fingers felt the pressure of the jacuzzi jets. I get in as soon as I can and slide my bum under the faucet, spreading my lips open and shoving two fingers in with the other hand. I make an contortionist of myself positioning my legs on the ledges of the tub in attempt to hit the right spot on my awaiting clitoris, in which I have not taken care of in about a week. Fuck Bob. Fuck him very much.
I begin to moan as soon as I find it. I take both hands and part my lips as far as they can stretch open. I feel my body tense up as I approach orgasm, borderline screaming as I moan and feel myself getting off. I arch my back, my eyes rolling dramatically. I am powerless to my orgasm that overtakes me. And just like Bob's dirty slut, I fiend for more. I come about four more times under the faucet before I call it a night and head to sleep, ready to take on tomorrow. My plans to take a flight out of Tampa to Miami were already into play. Bob, simply a mere figment of my past.
That night, I dream repeatedly of catching Bob with another woman everywhere I went; faces of women I have never seen before bringing fury to my fragile complex. I wake up to my phone buzzing multiple times, all calls from him. I am ready to spend the next fifteen days alone, come home and divorce him. No words other than a text once I'm on the boat four days in.
As my phone vibrates, I shove it in my panties against my hardening clitoris and continue reading my book. A classic thriller, one that gives me nightmares every time I read it. One that doesn't compare to the horrific feelings I have remembering the look on Danielle's face when she saw me watching her, however. Her lifted eyebrows–
Fuck them both.
I head to the shower, ready to embrace the rest of my day after changing out of my soaked purple g-string.
The weather may be perfect outside but my mood remains low. In my vision are elderly women with their husbands who were obviously sick of them. You can smell it on them. The hopelessness. The wanting to marry new and leave their longterm partners behind as they stare at the ground following them around in public. I married an older man for a reason.
He will deal with the divorce papers. Although an inconspicuous cheater, Bob is a yes man. He won't let me down. Maybe in a court setting but I do not see him pursuing me in attempt to win me back. He just… isn't like that.
I see another sad couple enter my vision and hold my breath as I walk past them. This older woman has a scent coming off her neck, one of rotting flesh, that her husband seems to give zero fucks about. I am flustered once again as I stride away from them, my sandals wearing out against the street. I need to catch my flight as soon as possible.
As I approach my taxi waiting outside the hotel, I begin to wonder about the homicide rate in elder couples. I know my partner doesn't care about what I saw. My face was twisted with overbearing pain of having seen my man with such an aged woman.
I needed a job promotion.
Yup, that's all I care about.
My mind begins to formulate different ways of strangling myself on my way to the airport.
—
Too many fucking lovebirds, I am surrounded by. I wonder how many were bisexual. How many rampant orgies they have participated in together, just to stay in love with each other for longer. How insipid I was for being a straight woman who married for money and lost her shit to the sight of an actual woman. I deserve to die.
I stare at the plane window glass and aspire to smash it with my fist. I am still wearing my wedding ring. I envision my long golden locks being turned a crimson-cherry red as the wind sucks me out of the window. All of this over a fucking goat. And man's will. Compared to Danielle, in my husband's eyes, I am nothing. I could break her neck, I could break my own–
"Celeste Iliana," I hear someone say.
I nearly orgasm at the sound of their inflection. I am a dirty woman, creaming my panties on the plane at the same rate I fantasize about my suicide.
I turn my head and keep the glow in my eyes bright. And my excitement is gone. This man is hideous.
I want to die all over again. Or take a cocktail of my would-be daughter's Valium prescription. Suicidal, once again, I try not to sound like I just laid in a coffin for fun.
"One martini please," I answer after breaking into a weak smile. "Nothing else, thank you." My last words sound like a raspy fucking train wreck.
I burst out crying for the first time in months. This hideous man puts his arm on my shoulder and I cry harder. Not because he's one of the ugliest men I've seen. Okay, it is. I know I've made a mistake leaving my husband. Over an informal business deal, I left him to serenade himself in our riches.
I need to masturbate. Like, right now. Instead I'm sobbing like a fucking fool in front of these people belonging to the general public.
These feckless weaklings just sit there and watch. I'm surprised Miss Granny in the back isn't dying her hair to this on the endless amount of shrooms packed away in her purse. Fuck. I wish myself gone. Because I see Danielle in her. I see red. All. Because. Of. Her.
I fantasize about slitting my wrists above her body as she masturbates. I wouldn't copulate an old bag like herself. Only spit on her face for acknowledging my pain. She knows I left my husband just yesterday.
All the while I am lost in my thoughts, the flight attendant is still wondering what to do. I want him gone as far away as possible. And I still seriously want to fuck up that elderly woman with the hiker's grin on her face as my thoughts shift between my sickening reality and having sex with her. I'm not even bisexual. I'm merely hyper sexual – this I didn't know prior to separating myself from Bob.
"Can you please leave?" I say feebly.
"Yes," he says. It takes everything inside myself not to scream at him to move faster away from my space. My God.
—
We land safely. Unfortunately.
I remain suicidal as I leave the plane and airport. I keep my useless poker face on, however. Just in case. I also come to terms in that I no longer love my husband anymore. Gosh, why am I crying so much? I begin to question my sanity as I walk to the taxi.
As I alternate between thoughts of killing myself and which lawyer I should run to, a very attractive woman enters my sight. I nearly have a mini stroke observing her features. She is a fellow happy-go-lucky blonde. Just like I was before I left home. I stare at her for too long that once she turns her head, I am caught gazing at her. Her gawk isn't intimidating at all.
"Hi," she says in a demeanour that hypnotizes me instantly.
I mimic her in response. Not pitch perfect, but close. Something makes me want to say more, perhaps flirt with her a little. But I don't make a single move. I may have been bi in my teens but not today. After all, she is too gorgeous to burden in the midst of my desperate need to find catharsis.
Once our interaction is over, I walk away somewhat light-hearted. Until I see my husband. Not close by. In my thoughts. Suddenly, I worship manslaughter. Fuck him. Fuck Danielle. Fuck the hideous flight attendant and everyone who looks like him.
As soon as I see my taxi, I run. A somewhat overweight woman runs at the same speed, and by some miracle, she outruns me. A wide grin is spread across her mediocre-featured face. I look to my left and drop it. Some people are just not worth thinking about. Being angry at. Forget it.
—
Something still makes me wish that airplane crashed. That goddamned pilot, doing his job properly.
I'm in my hotel room sobbing. I look for one of my favourite channels on the TV and cannot find anything that doesn't romanticize healthy living for losers and new age spirituality. Fuck healthy living. It got me nowhere. I had everything before two nights ago. Now all I have is travel money.
I take my vibrator out of my bag and throw it at the TV screen in sheer disgust and apathy. Though I am smiling, I feel chaotic. I have a strong sense that nothing will make me a better person to myself for the next while.
I am a mess, and yet again, I am at a crossroads with how I'm going to go about my self-care. A bath won't help. Ever since I saw that ugly man. During the flight, I ruminated about him and the older woman who sat there watching me cry like some pathetic skank.
I look out my window and stare at the vehicles passing by. I consider buying one just to hire someone to run me over in it.
I back away from the glass, in yet another terrible mind state. Another migraine forms inside of me like a pond full of nitrogen. Overcoming every barrier within my body, my will, I begin to reside in my emotional turmoil. I don't suffer from suicidal thoughts often enough, I figure.
This tempts me to off myself in some peculiar way. I walk over to the phone, surprised I haven't smashed my cell yet. All of my nude photos he probably envisioned being his mother. I wish him the worst beneath my whispering.
I begin to sing as I walk to the door. I pull down my panties and twist the handle and lay against the door hinge. I spread my legs wide and take one photo of my snatch on my cellphone, my thoughts focussed on the lady from the airplane. I wish her hell as I take more photographs. Cunt photo after photo. I can feel the herpes growing inside of me as I expose myself to whomever walks down this hallway – a rather ugly one.
Wallpapers any skinhead would come all over.