The Weekly LitWit Challenge 4.5: Bed of Nails
Noel sent me this NYT article on Adultery and how it’s so much worse if it happens in your bed. (What more if it were your refrigerator.) Read Don’t Try This at Home—Adultery in the Marital Bed.
“Conventions change. A woman no longer earns a scarlet letter for having a child out of wedlock; divorce is not synonymous with scandal; and it is no surprise to find, when a marriage comes apart, that a third person was involved. But even in a sexually liberal culture, the home is still usually off-limits, as if protected by an invisible force field. And the marriage bed — a phrase that in itself seems quaintly out of date — remains a sacred object.
All but one of 18 marriage counselors and divorce lawyers interviewed for this article said they saw at-home adultery rarely, if ever, although the divorce lawyers saw it more often than the therapists. When it does happen, however, the consequences are usually dire: affairs are painful in a marriage, but affairs that take place in the marriage bed can be lethal. . .”
I love the bit where they quote The Sopranos. Yeah, there’s a moral compass.
One consequence of adultery: dead bunnies.
This brings us to this LitWit Challenge 4.5: Bed of Nails.
The Situation: You walk in on your spouse having sex on your bed with someone not yourself, seeing as you have not mastered the swami trick of bilocation.
The Catch: If you’re a biological female, you have to write it from the point of view of the aggrieved husband. If you’re a biological male, you have to write it from the point of view of the aggrieved wife.
Tip: Avoid the obvious. Revenge comedies are most welcome.
Word limit: 1,000 words, preferably less.
Deadline: 11.59 pm Monday, 24 January 2011.
The Prize: 
David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas and this notebook.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
* * * * *
P.S. What would you do?
A. Kill them both.
B. Run off screaming.
C. Scream, throw things, and attack them physically.
D. Pretend you didn’t see anything.
E. Take photos or video and put them on facebook.
F. Leave and never come back (Send someone to get your stuff).
G. Cheat on spouse immediately.
H. Cheat on spouse immediately with the same person he/she was cheating on you with, announce “Ha! I’m gay!” then get the third party to announce that they prefer you.
I. Act like you don’t care.
J. You really don’t care.
K. Other reaction (Specify).
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
January 20th, 2011 at 10:40
K. From the aggrieved female perspective, I’d cut his dingaling off. Then feed it to the pets.
But I suppose the best way to get back at having found the pair in my bed is to have them wash the sheets, buy me a new bed (preferably the most expensive option on the market), have him sign the divorce papers (and make sure there’s a nice, tight prenuptial agreement leaving me with everything in the case of adultery), and then find a rugby team to give him the heave-ho.
I love Cloud Atlas, am about to finish it (two more end bits to go!), and am waiting for my copy of David Mitchell’s new book. I’m also in the middle of Blood Meridien, which is beautiful, stark, painful. The baby tree, ayayayay.
January 20th, 2011 at 13:15
Does option H also cover threesomes?
January 20th, 2011 at 14:10
Threesome.
P.S. How do you factor in Gay people? Hehehehe. But I’d pick threesome definitely. Unless he was doing it with Miriam Defensor Santiago, in which case I’d go.. Ew and start video-ing it.
January 20th, 2011 at 14:21
I will do C and F, respectively of course. If they are still partially conscious from the violence, I will screamingly wish that they will have inbred Santa elves for offsprings before I leave. (I got the inbred Santa elves idea from Family Guy, by the way.) That’s all. Then I will cry for several weeks. And then I will recover and be happy.
January 20th, 2011 at 14:36
Qsdn: Same situation applies to gay people. You go home and your partner is in your bed with someone else. What would be worse: another man, a woman, or your “spiritual adviser”?
January 20th, 2011 at 14:57
watergirl, i’m currently reading cloud atlas, too. stuck on sloosha’s crossin.
January 20th, 2011 at 15:03
I think I’ll do A-G in succession and then I.
Yes, I will take pictures of their dead bodies but I will not post in FB
January 20th, 2011 at 19:27
None of the above…lol…I probably would join them. I am serious.
January 20th, 2011 at 20:23
Options C, E (take a video but use it as evidence), and
K. And sue them. I’m not gonna get even, I’m gonna get everything!
January 20th, 2011 at 21:52
K. I’d quit the postscripts and start writing on my entry.
January 20th, 2011 at 23:03
My golly, these responses are hilarious! I’m afraid this might overtake the actual LitWit Challenge, though…
Now that I think about it, I realize that a threesome would be the easy way out for me. Here’s what I would do:
E. Take pictures and live video of the whole thing. Hell, I’ll even make a karaoke music video out of the whole thing, and I’ll make sure to use the crappiest, cheesiest song I could find for the soundtrack. (Like, say, “More than Words.” Or “Grenade,” which I hate.)
F. Leave, and send my friends to pick up my stuff for me.
K. Call up his mother and tell him to come over. Especially if his mother is the smothering, overbearing type who thinks that her little baby boy is a special snowflake. Even more so if we’re already living in her house.
…And then I would immediately sleep with the biggest man-crush he will ever have in his lifetime, especially if that person happens to be the one man-crush who’s macho enough to turn him gay for one night. Bonus points if that man-crush happens to be a famous actor, athlete, or TV host for Discovery Channel. Or, better yet, Anderson Cooper.
January 20th, 2011 at 23:36
I thought of it so hard it actually hurts, its my first time to view this situation from the aggrieved male perspective, what’s even worst is its my first time to ever participate in a challenge such as this, I’m afraid I might not be able to express myself fully or overdo it. Anyway here is my answer,
I’d have to say D, pretend I did not see anything, I have to let her get away with doing the deed on our marital bed to save me from shame. Imagine what a loser I would be if I create commotion and then people finds out about it, but after that i would pay someone who has an incurable venereal disease to seduce my wife and then leave her rotting pussy.
January 20th, 2011 at 23:38
Haha, sounds like one of those reading comprehension exams where we’re instructed to rearrange the choices into logical sequences to form a story.
So, I’d first do “I” & “D” because “J”, then, “C” & “E”, then “B” & “F”, then “G” & “H”, and then secretly plan for “A”.
In short, my story:
I’d pretend that I don’t see anything and act like I don’t care because I don’t really fucking care. Then on realizing that those are my Martha Stewart linens, I’d scream, throw things and attack them physically, all the while doing the best impression of Brilliantes Mendoza out of the whole squalid, sordid mess — yeah, smile for Facebook, baby. Then I’d run off screaming and swear to never come back, of course, I made sure I got the guy’s business card, wallet, something big for bigger use in the immediate future. The spouse will receive visitors the following day — “Lipat Bahay” guys to pick up my stuff. Well then, they’d probably think I’d let them slide through my hands easily. Ha! Big mistake. Storm is brewing. I’d call the guy and threaten him if he won’t do as I say — let him reenact the scenario, and this time, do it with me, and make sure he confesses before a Hyden cam that he actually wanted me more than my spouse. Then I’d post the photos and videos on Facebook the following day. Blech, you, slut!
Mission accomplished!
But no, I’d rather kill them…
January 21st, 2011 at 00:59
And so I stood there, gaping, feet slightly apart, one in front of the other. My hands, frozen in mid-air, halfway between “honey, I’m home” and “what the hell is my son’s friend doing here, riding my wife?”
The bitch: legs thrown up in wild abandon, fingers gripping a pillow – my pillow – in anticipation of ecstasy.
The literal motherfucker: sweat running rivulets down his quivering butt cheeks, hands grabbing fistfuls of her hair, a guttural moan rumbling in his barely legal throat.
I stood there and said nothing.
The stench of adultery floated past me and traveled down the hallway, permeating the walls of my unfortunately and obviously very penetrable fortress. I could see it, this malodorous betrayal, winding its way around my favorite couch, corrupting the smiling faces on the mantle, strangling my dog and eating its remains.
Since when? How often? How long have they been making the beast with two backs behind my singular own?
And then she moaned.
That familiar, high-pitched almost-whine that I’ve come to expect and love. Was it always this hair-raising? Only now do I realize how much her sex moans resembled the sound of a hundred tiny animals dying.
She was looking at me.
She was watching, waiting for my reaction. Waiting for me to panic, rage, flip out, explode, go ballistic, gnash my teeth, tear out (what is left) of my hair, weep, wail, froth at the mouth – commit a crime of passion, perhaps?
Our eyes locked; she thrust her rheumatic hips towards her virile young lover in brazen defiance.
In that instant I swore revenge.
It was not her betrayal.
It was not her callous disregard of our marriage vows.
It was not even the fact that at this very moment, a young man was balls-deep into my wife of almost twenty years.
This time the harlot simply crossed the line. It was the way she presently contorted her features into an approximation of her “O” face, a grotesque mockery of everything we’d shared and held sacred in this very bed. It was the way she hushed her pimply rider, a firm hand on his cheek forcing him to look away from me and keep his eyes on the so-called prize. It was the way she refused to jump off the bed and beg for my forgiveness immediately, choosing to flaunt her crimes to my very face.
She would take my humiliation and fuck it in the eyes, enjoying every minute of it immensely.
The initial surge of hypertension waned as I slowly recognized her challenge. I’m a cuckold, not a loser – the arguments for and against the validity of this statement reverberating pointlessly in my head.
I will not lose. I will not be defeated.
It came to me suddenly, this gem of an idea – the only thing left to do when your son’s teenage friend is plowing your wife before your very eyes. I hesitated briefly. Could I really?
But quickly, quickly, before the blasted boy shoots his load and I’m left with nothing but regret and the unquenched thirst for redress.
I took a deep breath, straightened myself up to full height, and found my voice:
“You’re not doing it right.”
”Tsk.”
“Really. Just because porn stars do it doesn’t mean you should, too.”
“Nice. Where’d you learn that, buddy? Cosmo?”
“Careful, I’m not paying for a hip replacement.”
“Oh, it’s bent! Now isn’t that precious.”
“Uh-oh, someone’s faking it.”
“Definitely a five. Promising, but practice makes perfect.”
“From the top.”
January 21st, 2011 at 12:50
Enough about my revenge fantasies; here’s my official LitWit entry.
****
You know the manager of the pizza place down the street? The one with the receding hairline and the bits of day-old processed Parmesan in his beard? Yeah, THAT guy. He was definitely giving her the meat-lover’s special, all right, and God knows how many more bad jokes we can make with that – sausage stuffing, hiding the salami, that sort of shit.
So there I was, standing in the hallway, and the first thing I see is his lumpy, hairy ass pumping in and out of her while she’s on her knees, holding on to the bedpost for dear life. She wasn’t exactly facing me – or the door – but I swear she wanted me to hear everything.
Every moan. Every grunt. Every profanity. Even the part where she tells him to jam it in her and fuck her harder than I’ve ever fucked her.
I didn’t want to make a scene, because that’s what she would’ve wanted me to do. But I can’t suck it up and pretend that she’s doing it with George Clooney, either… not with all that sweat and pizza grease and lumpy ass-flesh in my face.
That’s why I took her laundry out of the dryer, and folded all the delicates the way she liked them. That’s why I cleaned the bathroom until every single tile and fixture was sparkling clean. That’s why I vacuumed all the carpets until they were as fresh as the day we moved in. I even made a nice dinner for two: steak Bearnaise with green beans and rosemary smashed potatoes, and her favorite mango-raspberry cheesecake.
She’ll probably think that this is the nicest, sweetest thing that I’ll ever do for her. She might even be impressed by the way I left her laundry right outside the door, and the way I dusted the special lavender potpourri powder on the carpets, while she was getting her hot beef injection from Grody Pizza Guy. Maybe she’ll even feel bad for me, after the way she’s been treating me this whole time.
Then she’ll find the dirty pots and pans I used in the kitchen to make her dinner, and she’ll remember that she never liked the way I washed the dishes in the first place.
Moral of the story: I’m a nice guy, all right. But I’m not her bitch.
January 22nd, 2011 at 20:51
I’d probably do D, then I.
My LitWit 4.5 entry:
***
Emily stared at the bed with rancor. Steve just called in; he said that there’s so much to do at the office and he’s coming home late. Home. Emily laughed despite the tears that welled in her eyes. She could never sleep at peace on that bed since that Friday afternoon she saw her husband cavorting with his office mate on their bed. Of all places, their bed.
The door was flung wide open, and in the midst of the erotic outbursts, Emily steeled herself to take pictures of the two with her camera phone. She got out early from work that day, and smelling something malodorous, she sneaked her way up the bedroom. Voila, caught in the act. She found herself browsing the pictures whenever she had the chance. While she did that on impulse for the 32nd time, a golden retriever stood from a distance, whimpered as if to console her, and hesitated for a moment to run to her.
Come here, Chianti! Come! Good girl. Did you see those fuckers? I guess you love me better than that pig. Promise to be a good girl, okay?
She walked around the house like a headless ghost looking for her head. What to do, what to do, she thought. She had been like that for three hours until the bedroom light went on.
Christ, Em! Don’t you scare me again!
I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t sleep.
Are you out of pills?
Have you eaten?
Could you get me some coffee? I need to give my presentation a final edit.
Steve threw his coat on the bed and set up his laptop on a desk across the bed. He then made his way to the closet, and he tripped over Chianti, stumbled on the floor, and bumped his head on the bed post. Chianti almost snickered, but she was kicked hard in the stomach by the sole of Steve’s shoes. She ran howling down the stairs, who was met by Emily with mugs in each hand.
Chianti! You fucking bitch!
You’ll wake the neighbors, honey.
Did you just see what that bitch did to me?
I’m sure she didn’t mean it. Here’s your coffee, less sugar and extra cream.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed, right on the spot where that woman knelt, asking to be fucked so hard from behind. She watched her husband work on his presentation, switching among Word, PowerPoint, and Outlook. Her mind was so blank that the mug of coffee grew cold. She suddenly felt an itch in her groin. She scratched it with so much malevolence that her skin stung and a hint of blood clung underneath her fingernail.
Can I use your laptop after you’re done?
What’s wrong with your laptop?
I don’t know. It just wouldn’t boot up. I just need to check my mail.
Someone’s e-mailing you? Really?
Well, just my mom. No need to hurry though.
Steve laughed sinisterly as he saved his work. He checked his Outlook one last time. The clicks of the keyboard and the mouse went kaput after five full minutes, replaced by the soft snoring of Steve.
Emily methodically took the laptop away from Steve’s hands, just as she did almost every night in their three years of so-called marriage. She tapped his shoulder lightly, and a slightly bewildered Steve grudgingly stood and groped for the bed. When the snoring resumed, Emily opened Internet Explorer, entered http://www.google.com at the address bar, and on the search box, she typed “how to get rid of pubic lice”.
The next morning, Steve woke up, thinking that it was a little too sunny. He glanced at the alarm clock on the nearby desk. It read 7:15. He jumped, ran to the bedroom shower, and muttered profanities at Emily.
Dammit, Em! Why didn’t you wake me?
I did, honey. You even asked for five more minutes.
I cannot be late today. I am meeting the bosses.
That’s why I made you some pancakes and sausages. Your favorite breakfast!
Where’s my laptop?
Oh, I already put it inside the car. Your coat’s in there too. Are you sure you won’t take a bite?
No. I’m in a hurry, dammit.
Now, let me fix your tie.
What’s that on the rug? No! Chianti did it again. Chianti!
Calm down, honey. I’ll take care of it.
Her shit’s a little wet. Did you change her dog food?
Yes, she didn’t seem to like the one you bought.
Her shit’s wet, dammit. Go back to the previous brand.
Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up after my coffee.
Okay, I’m leaving.
Good luck, honey!
The office atmosphere was tensely quiet. Steve barely noticed it with the presentation playing inside his head. He went directly to his room and placed his laptop bag on his desk. He opened the bag’s zipper, slid his hand in, and felt something slimy clutch his fingers. He instantly took out his hand from the bag when his nose was assailed by a stinking smell.
Jesus Christ! What the fuck!
Steve pulled out his laptop and saw that it was smeared all over with Chianti’s brown shit. The bag was reeking of that disgusting fecal matter. As he cursed and grabbed rolls of tissue paper, Danielle, his office mate and mistress, came storming in.
Do you realize what is going on right now, Steve? Everyone’s talking about us!
What now? Can you put that off?
Haven’t you read that e-mail yet? The one your wife sent to everyone in this office? Christ, it smells like shit here.
Can’t you see there’s shit all over my laptop?
God, that woman is crazy! Do something about this!
Dammit, Danielle! What’s with that fucking e-mail? Let me read it.
Don’t go near me! Clean that shit, will you?
Fuck you.
Fuck you, Steve! Fuck you!
The e-mail read:
Hi Honey,
I’m just returning the shit that you left on the bed. Enjoy the lovely pictures!
With all my heart,
Em
January 23rd, 2011 at 08:12
Filipinos are so unimaginative.
I would tie the him to a chair, arms tied in a resting position in front of his body. Then I’d put a mechanism in his face to keep his eyes open, kinda like the one used in A Clockwork Orange.
Then I’d take the other offender, and tie her to a chair, arms tied in a resting position in front of her body, fingers laid out and individually tied down as well. Then imagine a mini-guillotine for each finger. Then I’d have her legs raised and spread similar to a giving-birth position, completely naked. I’d have them about 6 feet apart, facing each other. Both have to be conscious when the torture starts.
I’d release a single guillotine on one of her fingers while the offender watches. Would she scream in pain, probably. What about the offender? Then I’d put one of those fuck-machines in a diagonal position just underneath her. Turn the machine on and have it fuck her for the duration of the torture. I don’t want the fucking to be painful, rather pleasant. I want to see which one would be more powerful, the effect of the pleasant experience or the effect of the painful experience.
Anyway, then I’d release the guillotines one by one every 10 minutes while inserting a glowing hot needle in her eye for each minute that passes. Take the fingers, put them in a blender and liquefy. Then I’d insert a beer-funnel all the way down the offender’s throat, so he can’t spit. Get the finger-slush and pour it down.
She is getting fucked by the machine the entire time.
The offender is watching the entire time.
Then I’d chop off the offenders entire hands, and his tongue. Slushify them and feed it to him too via the beer-funnel. That way, he can’t talk or write about what happened.
Then, I’d release them. I’d pour boiling hot water all over her so the offender can’t touch her afterwards. He can just watch in horror as she suffers indescribable pain. An ambulance would be ready outside to take them to the nearest hospital for immediate treatment.
I want them to survive so they can relish the experience for the rest of their lives.
January 23rd, 2011 at 11:10
I would SCREAM ala- Shirley Temple (child star days) slash ala-Susan Roces (Sampaguita days) slash ala-bubbly personalities in the various beauty pageants (pre-finals days!) like anything: hey, honey! The seminar-workshop! It was so VALUES-oriented (voice so like an evangelist on the last telecast, the sponsors told about the cancellation thing!) and the participants were grouped together into “FAMILY” and I was so glad that I belonged to the “HONESTY” family! Our high school classmate, Yvette, was in the “RESPONSIBILITY” family.
Honey? You know what, RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT, I am a changed man! Honey? Who owns this black bag? By the way, I bought this book called “If I really wanted to BEAT STRESS I would…” and…
I would take some medicine. Get some fresh air. BREATHE to the max!
January 23rd, 2011 at 15:34
# 17 Longhair Lukas — Simultaneously gnarly and sexehh! Lavet.
January 23rd, 2011 at 23:57
“Please don’t stop on my account” I said after all parties were stunned into silence five minutes earlier. I was stunned into silence upon seeing my husband being ridden by a black-haired woman. They were stunned into silence upon seeing me at the front door.
It was early afternoon and I dropped by the house to pick up some files I forgot to bring with me to the office that morning. When I opened the front door, I saw a full-breasted woman with long black hair, grinding her hips into my husband’s groin. My husband was lying on our cream-colored sofa with his hands behind his head. Showtime was blaring from our flat screen TV.
My initial reaction was to go into murderous rage but it was stamped out by the warm delicious smell of opportunity. If life throws you a couple of pigs, make ham and bacon. During the five-minute silence, I thought of a plan to assuage my outraged sensibilities and vindicate my honor.
“Please continue. Don’t mind me” I said in a business-like manner as I took out one of the golf clubs that were in a bag near the door. I sat on the couch facing them, put the golf club over my knees, picked up the champagne bottle from the glass top coffee table and poured some of its contents into one of the two glasses.
“Is this glass yours?” I asked the girl, who was already white with fright. She shook her head. My husband’s eyes were wide open and his mouth imitated the capital O. He was not yet over the shock that I walked in on him in a very compromising position.
“I know you. You are Mrs. Gutierrez’s daughter, Ruffa, am I right?”
Ruffa nodded.
“I know her because both of us are members of the village association board. But, I think you know that already.”
I fished out my high-resolution camera phone from my handbag, set it to video mode and put it on top of the coffee table. It captured the moment perfectly.
“My, Richard, you are porn star material” I told my husband.
The girl attempted to get off my husband and the sofa.
Whack!
Richard let out a howl of pain as the golf club made contact with one of his knee caps. Ruffa immediately sat back on Richard’s groin.
“Don’t go anywhere my dear. None of you gets off the sofa unless I say so. You don’t want your face all bruised up do you?” I crooned to Ruffa. “Your mother tells me you want to be a model.”
“I could legally kill both of you, you know. I won’t go to prison. But, that would be too easy” I sipped more champagne.
I looked at Ruffa. “Your mother’s pastry business is doing well. You have at least one shop in all SM malls, right?”
She nodded.
“I want all her recipes. Send them to me via email. Otherwise your mother and all our neighbors will receive a copy of this in their emails” I tapped the camera phone. She was about to protest but decided against it when I leveled the golf club to her face.
“Richard” my husband had closed his mouth and was staring at me with malevolence. “I don’t think you want to apologize judging by the way you are looking at me. Anyway, I want everything to be transferred to my name. This house, our bank accounts, shares of stock, and the two condo units in Makati. I want child support and exclusive custody of Mike.”
“What! Are you crazy!”
Whack!
Another howl of pain. His knee caps had a matching purplish color.
“Is that a yes?”
He glared at me.
“I’m taking Mike to a month-long vacation in Palawan. All expenses paid by you of course. I will also be maxing out our credit card, I need new outfits. Please pay the bill from your personal funds.”
I picked up my camera phone and stood up.
“Richard, if you don’t do everything I ask, I swear I’ll email this to everyone we know. I’ll even upload this to Facebook.”
I swung the golf club downwards on the coffee table. The two screamed as the glass cracked and few pieces flew towards them. I proceeded to grind the large pieces of glass with the golf club to make them smaller. I used my foot to spread the pieces around the sofa. I also threw in some of the gaudy ceramic vases Richard’s mother gave us last Christmas. I made sure that the broken pieces were tiny and very sharp. When the sofa was like a canoe, with John Smith and Pocahontas in it, afloat on a river of broken glass and ceramic, I picked up my son’s rectangular glass container that contained his beloved red ant colony.
“How could you Richard!” I hissed at my husband.
“Don’t forget the recipes darling. Make sure they are the correct ones” I said sweetly to Ruffa.
I generously poured the contents of the glass container on their naked bodies and smashed the container near the foot of the sofa.
Immediately, the charlatans clawed their bodies and began shrieking.
I hurriedly went out the door with my handbag and the golf club.
“Don’t forget to clean up afterwards!” I shouted cheerily.
On the driveway, I beheld my husband’s new BMW. Its shiny black body and pristine windshield beckoned to me. I gave in to my urge. I vented out all my outrage with the golf club. As I gleefully pounded away on the car, the bare-footed, naked and ant-covered apes screamed and flailed while stomping about on the pieces of glass and ceramic on the living room floor.
January 24th, 2011 at 00:03
We hit it off when I was 19, working my ass off in college, trying to make a name for myself. He was in his late thirties, about to enter midlife crisis. Marco was my Physics professor. Ours was a forbidden relationship: he could’ve been kicked out if people had found out we were doing it in the Theoretical Physics lab at night, after the post-grads documented the results of their thought experiments. But I liked old men, especially this one: the smell of his neck, the greying and balding hair, the wisdom that no stupid kid my age could fake.
During Friday nights, we’d have the entire space for ourselves. The third floor, left wing of the Institute where nobody could hear us. A natural romantic, he’d hold me softly, intimately, overpowering whatever childlike inhibitions I’d have. We’d do it once a week, except if he had to write exam questions—which he never shared with me. To my mind, that made him even sexier.
Nobody knew about it, about us, and that made the arrangement something to really look forward to. I doubt if Mang Efren, the security guard downstairs, ever heard us because he was always too lazy to do his scheduled roaming, and he liked listening to the FM at night.
Something changed, though, when Marco came back from the Netherlands, fresh from a month-long conference. He was traveling with Kay, a masters student working in his lab and co-author of the paper featured in Nature. Kay wasn’t pretty but she wasn’t ugly either. A little make up, that’s all. Since then, he’d been giving me a vibe of coldness, of distance, that I couldn’t verbalize. He didn’t text me as much, and he always had excuses on Fridays. I didn’t know then that something fishy was going on. Until November 8, 2010.
It was his birthday, and I was about to surprise him. Earlier that day, he told me he’d be busy with paper work, that he’d be working for the entire night. His weekend would be free, he said, and he could be with me by then. But like a doting girlfriend, I brushed his message aside, and bought him a blueberry cheesecake, his favorite, which I carried all the way to the third floor of the Physics building.
When I opened the door to the lab (he gave me the keys, a mistake he’d regret for life), I saw them: Marco and that witch of a masters student doing it on the wooden desk, naked, drenched in sweat. They were paralyzed with feverish fear, like prostitutes in television exposes. To this day, I still remember their faces.
I didn’t want drama. I wanted revenge. “You go enjoy yourselves,” I said on my way out. I walked slowly, methodically. Marco wanted to explain, but I would hear none of it. Within their hearing range, I dialled my phone to talk to no less than the University president himself, and when I heard the all too-familiar voice, I said, “Dad, I caught my Physics professor naked in the lab. Yes, yes, with a student.” I tried to sound harassed.
Days later, a faculty meeting was convened to discuss the issue. That created quite a stir in campus. But Dr. Marco Ruiz, principal investigator of the Theoretical Physics lab, never got the chance to explain: he was found hanging in his apartment.
January 24th, 2011 at 00:08
Sayang, I didn’t make it in the cut-off. :)
January 24th, 2011 at 16:32
My Political Science professor once proposed a penalty for convicted rapists. He was pro “Lorena Bobbit” but his tool of choice is no knife. It would be a nail cutter: small, blunt and rusty. The flesh would be cut bit by bit, nipped at the base. A long and bloody process. I considered doing it on the son-of-a bitch lightly snoring on our bed. I even have with me a baseball bat to knock him unconscious. That thought stopped me. He won’t feel a thing if he’s unconscious. That’s the exact opposite of what I want. I want him to feel pain at a level I can’t even imagine.
Good thing I stopped, because that halt brought me back to sanity. The sounds stopped too. It’s completely quiet now, the house so still in darkness. His face caught me off guard. I couldn’t do a thing when I saw him humping that banshee. I just slumped by the open door, listened to the shrieks and moans. I couldn’t even look further.
I should leave, talk to our lawyer first thing tomorrow. He could claim that I have no evidence of his cheating and it’s true. But do I really need to have one? Do I need to confront them now, scream at them in lunacy? I’ll just embarrass myself. With everything that I want to say, I would just end up sputtering at them.
I took their clothes by the door. If that’s not evidence, I don’t know what else is. Then I saw the bowl of chilies by the counter. It’s his favorite after all. He likes it hot. Instead of going out I went to the kitchen. I cut the chilies lengthwise and proceeded to rub it on his underwear. Calvin Klein, black, good, he wouldn’t know what hit him. I did it on both sides, front and back. I did her underwear next. That bitch came prepared. A red, lacy thong. That slut. I swear, as I rub a particularly large one on the back string, I’ll leach every cent he has on his bank account. Some seeds got caught in the lace. Whatever. I went to the pantry, got the cayenne powder and started dusting. I could see some flakes on his brief. That’s enough. They might not wear it anyway. I threw the clothes back where I got it and started to walk away.
Shuffles emanated from the room. I quickly hid by the unlighted portion of the living area. “I’ll just get some water” he said. And there he was. Some ass hole I don’t even know. Who is this man? Why does he look like my husband? It can’t be him. He bent down, took his brief and pulled it up while skipping to the kitchen. Your hot night’s not over yet. He took a bottle of water, drank, and then sat on the couch. Few more seconds and he started picking his butt. That’s right. Create friction. He started to scratch his balls, even with his underwear on. Go on, spread the powder. He couldn’t resist it. He placed his hands inside and started scratching. He would have known early on if not for the spawn of Sodom.
She emerged from the door completely naked. “Ready for round three?” Good thing I didn’t know her. I would have gone bleep and smashed the piano on her head if I did. She leapt towards him and sat on him. She started grinding on his crotch. Yeah right. Help him elevate the heat. “Why did you wear that? Did you think we’re done for the night?” she grinned devilishly. The asshole smiled and started doing his job. She continued to gyrate.
I didn’t know what to feel. I was filled with angry anticipation. Just try to do it this time, I urged. Just do it. You’ll get what you deserve and more. He laid her on her back and went down on her. She issued moans louder than the ones she emitted from my bedroom. Go on, do it! A moment more and she started begging him to do her. Be careful what you wish for, bitch. “I won’t use a condom” he said. “Ok! Ok! I want it now! Now!” she said while pulling his underwear from him with her feet. And so he did. So you plan to give me STD! Burn bitch, a few more thrusts would do it.
“Wait! Wait, stop! Ouch. What was that? I said stop!” She pulled away. “Something’s wrong. I feel hot! What did you do? I’m burning!” she screamed. “Ahh what do you mean, ow! My dick hurts! It’s like needles are piercing it! AHHH!!” Excellent. It must have entered him too. I hope it burns his ureter and renders it useless. He’ll have to pee through another hole or something. He grasped his now limp member while wailing on the floor. I guess prostitute juice plus chili powder equals writhing agony.
“Wait! I’ll turn on the lights. What’s happening?” she said while limping towards me. She flicked the switch. “Surprise, bitch.” I said in a monotone. She shrieked and fell backwards, splaying her legs. There it was. Fully exposed, festooned with dark red flakes and chili seeds. I truly hope some of it went inside her. Her face was so white. “Do you know what you’re feeling right now?” I asked her. “That’s hell fire. It’s coming for you.”
I walked to the squirming worm by the couch. He was white as chalk and sweating profusely. I kicked his legs apart, stepped on his balls with my rubber shoes. I made sure that I can feel the floor on my foot. THAT is unimaginable pain. I took out my phone and dialed. “I’m calling our lawyer.”
January 24th, 2011 at 22:31
Part 1: The Discovery
Days before, I had been receiving text messages from an unregistered number telling me that my husband is seeing another woman. I tried calling the number a number of times but the number was always busy. I tried to ignore the messages but they seem accurate enough for me to believe eventually that it was real:
“Your husband will be having dinner with the girl at 10pm.”
Minutes later, my husband called and said that their meeting had been extended until 12 in the evening.
“Your husband will go to Palawan with the girl for 3 days.”
That night, my husband said that they would be having a conference in Subic for 3 days.
And that morning:
“The girl had requested your husband for a tour of your house.”
I left my work, hurriedly went back to our house and hid in our closet.
Even when closed our closet leaves a narrow opening. From the inside, the slit was good enough to have a view of the bed albeit badly framed by the closet door. So that when they finally arrived only minutes after, the encounter was like looking at a series of badly taken snapshots (imagine a defective camera with a narrow angle of vision which had be constantly adjusted to photograph the other views) being flipped at high-speed like they do in cartoon animations.
And now the scenes:
First Scene
My husband entered the frame first facing in my direction and then the woman’s back appeared. I closed my eyes. There were faint and unintelligible murmurs and giggles. When I opened my eyes, they were still standing but they had already removed their clothes.
Second Scene
I focused on my husband’s hands: One hand was stroking the woman’s hair while the other one is kneading her buttocks. After a while, both hands were pulling her towards the bed. I closed my eyes again and when I opened them, she was already on top of her. His hands were now caressing her back. She sat up and one of his hands moved to her breast while the other one seemed to be guiding her member to enter her. She gave a soft moan and lay down again to kiss him.
Third Scene
From the time they arrived until they reached climax, I had been surprisingly unperturbed. Maybe it was the adrenaline telling me to relax or risk being found out; funny that I should be scared for that reason. But how could I have prepared for what I had to find out?
My eyes had not yet captured the woman’s face since they arrived but my chance came when she got off my husband and lay down beside him. I adjusted my field of vision to get a view of her face.
Lo and behold! Perfectly framed by the wooden closet door was the smiling face of my sister.
Part 2: Frozen In Time
You know what they say about dying? That in a short instant before your demise your whole life flashes before your eyes?
I did something similar to that but I wasn’t about to die, I was just about to forget.
I got out of the closet and stood at the front of the bed. The scene was perfectly still; Frameless now but still motionless: He was looking straight at her, mouth partly open placed near her ear while she had her eyes closed and her mouth curved just enough to project that perfect smile.
I searched our house for pictures, videos, notes, cards, anything that would remind me that I ever know this man. While looking at each pictures, watching videos, reading notes and cards, I searched my memory to recall my life at that exact moment and then I burned/deleted/tore it to erase the memory.
I travelled to my sister’s house, my parent’s house, cousin’s house, just about everywhere where a part of my memories existed and proceeded to erase all evidences of my relation with these two.
So that when I got back to the house I was greeted with two strangers perfectly still, positioned like two high-fashion models endorsing…perhaps a marital bed.
But it didn’t look right. I had to do a post-production.
I don’t know how to photoshop so I did the simple cut and paste, cut and paste:
Her eyes should be open, but looking closely I thought her eyes look better on him. So I cut his eyes and pasted hers on his head. Perfect!
Their position was not sensual enough though, so I cut his member and pasted it on her hand. But then again no, it should be on her mouth to cover that mischievous smile. Perfect!
How about the breast? He should be licking the nipples. I cut the nipples and pasted it on his mouth. Perfect with his partly opened mouth!
You should see the final picture. It was perfect!
Part 3: The Discovery
In one of her visit my mother gave me what is supposedly my diary:
There’s only one entry:
First page:
“I saw my husband with my sister walking out of a motel. This isn’t true, this isn’t true…”
Until the last page:
“…this isn’t true”
Then she showed me my cell phone, a post-it and a computer print out.
She said to check on the sent items.
Three most recent messages:
Your husband will be having dinner with the girl at 10pm.
Your husband will go to Palawan with the girl for 3 days.
The girl had requested your husband for a tour of your house.
On the post-it, is an email address and what seems to be a password; it was my handwriting
The print-out contains three email messages from that same email address. It was addressed to my husband, the sender was my sister. The contents coincide with the 3 text messages.
January 24th, 2011 at 23:16
The Divine
The man whom I have come to call my husband had been sleeping with another man.
I had finally come to understand why he never took to calling me his wife. I was always his companion. His partner. The one he loved above everyone else. He made me feel that I was the dearest person to him, yet never had I felt that I was ever his wife.
Now it can be said. He loved men more than he could ever love a woman. This revelation had hurt me more than anything that had ever hurt me before. Yet I still loved him. He was my savior and my defender. The one who had looked past my life of squalor. The only man who had saved me from my demons.
Yet despite my love for him, I could not deny the rage inside me. My anger was more than my soul could ever bear. I had no one to share my hurt with, for I am merely a woman of ill-repute. And he—he was what he was.
So it came as a small measure of vengeance seeing him crucified. And seeing his lover dead, consumed by guilt from his own act of betrayal. It was a strange feeling of sorrow and of glee. Of love and of hate. It was both joy and agony to bear witness to the slow death of my husband. But in the end, I came to admire the divine in him. For he died not only for the sins of this world but for his own as well.
The man whom I have come to call my husband had been sleeping with Judas. I had no one to share the hurt with, for I am merely Mary Magdalene, a woman of ill-repute. And he—he was Jesus, the one they called Christ.
January 26th, 2011 at 21:03
I’d probably do what Kevin Spacey did to his lust victims in Se7en.