Shame

Dear Diary (for which the whole world can read),

A friend of mine asked me what I would wear to church today, and I didn't answer, because, as is the common ailment of our sex, I didn't have a thing to wear, in a closet stuffed to overflowing.

I have pretty dresses, and like I fancy the Irish do, I favor the green, and I have solid colors and prints ... and a little yellow summer dress number from the Banana Republic that I love.

But what did I wear to Mass today? I didn't know at the time of the question, so I didn't answer, instead, scurrying, as I do, to the closet to stare at it and grab something off the rack, ready-to-wear.

In the old days, the commoners wore 'off the rack' and 'ready-to-wear.' Rosalie wore neither: her dresses were made for her, and they fit her perfectly, as her hats did, as her gloves did.

Now, we girls try to fit ourselves into 'one-shape-fits-all' dresses, and either suffer the embarrassment of bursting out of them, or the embarrassment of them falling off our nothing-to-cling-to figures.

I don't wear off-the-shoulder numbers, if you didn't guess by now. Partially because of modesty ... what if a guy stared at my collar bone and had licentious thoughts?!?! ... and mostly because of practicality ... I don't have 'milk jugs,' or put another way: my 'happy fun bags' aren't bags, and all they have is happiness and fun, because they've got nothing else to grab or to hold onto ... just ask my dresses.

But the dress I wore today was Shame.

There we were at Mass, bb and I and my nieces up in the choir loft, singing sweetly, like birds, but it wasn't a sweet moment.

bb was getting angrier and angrier. I could see it in his stance. I could see it in the set of his jaw. And I was like: what did I do? I mean, what did I do more?

I am an utter and complete disappointment to my family.

But I didn't see anything I was doing wrongly, so I almost turned on him and smacked him, right there at the beginning of Mass.

And then he ... left.

I was like, what the FUCK!

He left the pew, walked right over to the priest, and handed the priest the laminated placard of the revised responses that the Church just did for the English translation.

And I was like, lightbulb! bb had seen that the priest hadn't had that, and I guess he got angry that everybody else didn't help the priest, so bb goes right up to him, right in the middle of Mass and hands him the sheet.

He came back. He sat next to me. He didn't say one word. He didn't look at me reprovingly.

But I knew what he was thinking. 'Why didn't you notice the priest looking lost up there? Why didn't you help him? You were on the aisle seat. Why did I have to get up, go around you, make a scene when you could have opened your eyes and helped.'

But as if I could. I mean: really! Me, go up in front of all those people, and me, a girl, hand the priest something to continue the Mass?

I mean: I'm getting sick just thinking of it.

But that's just it. It's all me, me, me, and how I think I look, and that paralyzes me into inaction.

Or paralyzes me to wrong action. Stupid action.

And so I do nothing, or I do everything wrong, and bb has to pick up the pieces, and, in Mass, in front of all those people, he goes right up there, fearlessly, I mean, he doesn't even care! and helps the Mass continue, whereas everybody else is just stuck in their pews, not even noticing, like me, or not brave enough, to do something about it.

And that's what he was thinking about me: self-absorbed. Useless. A waste.

And knowing he thought that of me.

You want to know the color of the dress I wore to church today? It was red. Bright red. The color of my cheeks as I burned in embarrassment at what a ...

What a burden I am ... what a burden I am to my family. How useless I am.

Because you don't know the second half of the story. The part of the story of how I moved down to Washington D.C. from nowhere Connecticut.

Because I didn't move.

bb came and picked me up.

From the hospital.

There's the whole precursor of how I ended up there, with my mom screaming and dialing 911 at the same time, and me just looking up at her stupidly from the kitchen floor, but I couldn't say it would be all right, because my mouth was full of cotton and how I couldn't seem to move my arms because they were so heavy, but everything felt ... funny, you know? heavy, and it felt ... I felt tired, but something felt very, very wrong.

Getting your stomach pumped ... it's not something you forget easily.

Mom has to work, she can't watch me 24/7, so what's she going to do? Hand me over to the State?

So bb drove all the way to Connecticut and picked me up from the hospital.

So you think I have my own apartment, with that ... history? histories?

What are multiple suicide attempts called? I mean, besides stupid?

Those steps I fell down, those were the steps from the kitchen to my bedroom they built for me, downstairs.

You think I participate in family activities because they like me so much? Or so they can make sure I don't confuse my diet coke with the kitchen cleaner?

You really have to wonder, considering me, why people try to keep people alive who are so determined to die. I mean, it'd be better for everyone if they just let people like me just ... go away. No fuss, no blame, and no ...

And no more waste of space and effort watching me like a hawk to make sure I don't off myself so that what? so that what? I can face another useless day in my useless job, ... 'and would you like mocha sprinkles on your latte, sir?' ... or my new useless job where, instead of staring at the suits come and go to work, serving them coffee, now I'm one of them, or one of their doormats, staring at a spreadsheet all day, filling in numbers, and getting shouted at when I get something wrong, and getting shouted at when I get something right (yes, you read that correctly), when I do the payroll in half a day where it took a staff of three to do it over a weekend, and yes, they worked over the weekend to get the payroll in Monday morning's mail, and yes, I do what they did in half a day with my spreadsheet, but because it's Excel, everybody thinks they can put their fingers all over it, screwing up the formulæ, and then blaming me when they screw it up saying nobody can understand it and I have to make it simpler.

So here I am, all grown up, with all the other grown ups riding that metro train to their daily grind with their iPhones and droids out to make sure it all gets blotted out so they can make it to 'happy' hour so they can blot it out some more so they can do that again tomorrow, for ... what?

Or I could be a kid again. I could sneak ... no, I don't even need to do that: I could just walk right onto Annadale High School grounds or Edgar Allen Poe, but not TJ, Thomas Jefferson because you need to be somebody with a proven track record for them to look, scornfully, at your grades and deign to allow you to enter, I could have Mrs. A_ drag me in there by the arm and register me in 10th grade, and start that shit all over again and live through, okay, hell, okay? Hell! with me becoming this thing pushed around by everybody else's opinion until I end up on the floor again, either in the classroom, screaming, or on the kitchen, more than half dead, because somebody said, 'Are you really in 10th grade, because it looks like you skipped some grades,' and then look down at my chest, and smirk, and leave me in the girls' bathroom, looking in the mirror reflecting the tears that will, or that I will not allow to fall from my eyes.

The irony of it ... don't you just get the irony of it? Instead of being ratted out for being too old for my grade, I'd be the subject of an exquisite vivisection on posing as 10th grader instead of going back my 6th-grade classes. Now imagine Rosalie going to Forks High School and fitting right in in 10th grade, and now wonder, truly wonder, how she stopped herself, every day, and in every class, from ripping off those vain, self-righteous idiots' heads, and then showing the teachers their own livers for their arrogant presumptive attitudes.

You see, I'm not a woman. A woman is a person who can hold her baby in her arms. My baby didn't come that far to where I could hold her before she died.

Yes, I've had lots of casual sex. Lots of randy college boys on campus, too, if you didn't know that fact.

I'm not a girl anymore, either. I'm trapped in a girl's body, but I've lived too much death to be a girl anymore, and to continue to play the game of being a girl.

I'm neither a girl nor a woman, I'm a girl-not-woman. I'm a child who's seen too much, but instead of allowing me to close my eyes, they keep pumping my stomach. And those hospital bills are another burden I can never repay, another reminder of what a failure I am.

...Writing.

Writing is good therapy. I mean, take this post, for example. Probably very therapeutic for Saga to read and to revel in the fact that she got away from this no-life jailbait loser.

And I can always review this post, and say, "Wow! Look at how far I've come!" and marvel at my amazing ability to claw my way through life, because I'm so gifted and talented at survival.

"Hey, baby," is called out to me, "how's it going?" And instead of answering with the truthful answer of, "You are more right that you know," I answer with the expected answer: "Fine."

I'm doing just 'fine.'

I'm a good student. And I learn from the best. Whenever anybody ever asks Mom how she's doing, she answers, 'Fine,' and says no more, nothing about her just scraping by after her husband left her, her cancer, or her drinking, or smoking, or the one and only failure in her life, a daughter of a college professor who couldn't even succeed in dropping out of life.

Mom and I are on good terms. She came to visit me once, to see how I was doing, because whenever she called and asked how I was doing, I said I was doing 'fine.' Just like Dad, dear old Dad; he came with Mom and wasn't that just a lovely, awkward, family reunion.

But I can tell people I majored in Ancient Greek lit. I have that going for me.

Funny how nobody ever asked to see my degree. They just say, 'Oh, ... impressive!' and give me a job that has a skill level of pouring coffee in a cup, one cup at a time, or putting numbers in columns and making sure they add up ... you know: third-grade math. It's all about style. And I have plenty of that: style and attitude will get you anywhere, baby.

Heh: 'baby.'

So now what? I suppose I could go back to work Monday morning. I got paid this last weekend. I got paid a lot of money. A lot more money than if I were in High school, even selling drugs, which I don't do by the way. ... Sell drugs, that is.

In the supply-and-demand economy, I'm on the demand side ... you know, a 'user,' or as Ayn Rand like to call me, a 'moocher.'

'Guns or dollars!' That was Ayn Rand's lens, that is: how she saw the world. She missed out on high school and college today. Although drugs are all about guns AND dollars, so maybe her lens isn't all that distorted...

But back to the here and now, ... I mean, I have a job and everything!

Just little `phfina, a good little Catholic girl, sharing her opinions with her dear diary. Just a few words on paper, meaning and signifying nothing.

I think I'll have that diet coke now.

Oh, I do all my Shopping at Targét

It's all marketing, girls.

So, I went shopping today, because I had to get some more intimates, because I seem to be going through ... well: panties at a rather fair clip at work, and I have spares there, yes, but when you run out of spares for the day, what do you do? Well, you have several options, right girls, one of them, eventually is to go au naturelle ... but then, sitting down, you get this little wet mark on the bottom of your c.v.n.t.-high skirt and how do you explain that, you don't, right, because by then you're bent over the boss' desk and ...

... well, you know how the rest of that story goes.

But you can't say, around here, that you buy your panties from 'Target' ... 'tar-get' because that's way too plebeian ... you might as well admit to shopping at K-mart with Ray-man, Rain Man, and even he knows that K-Mart sucks. 'Tar-get' is just a step up from K-mart, and sounds too much like it, too. And when people say, 'well, Tysons I or Tysons II?' and of course you have to say 'Tysons Galleria' or else you might as go back to baristaing. (that's a word) (which you need a Ph.D. for, and I'm not joking)

So 'Tar-get' is out, but if you raise your nose, and say, 'Well, only the best, of course, Targé!' then people are all like, 'Ooh, the new French boutique? What did you get?'

And then you show them what you just bought over the weekend:



... There is a downside to all this.

(STOP SLOBBERING, you PERVS!)

And it's this. Bossman knocks his red pen off the side of the desk and tells you to pick it up, which you do, 'cause that's what we do, get the coffee, pick up red pens and ... well ...



(uh, huh: I went there)

But this time, bossman sees your black lace thong and he just loses his mind, and next thing you know, he's got his nose buried in your ass crack and he's sniffing away while pawing through your purse and he comes across monty in all his long purple glory (and no, no pics for you, as if I'm not banned already!).

So what does he do, but whine, clamber up on his desk and drop trou and beg dommy you to eff him up his big hairy ass with that big purple thing strapped on, so what are you stuck doing the rest of the day but going through your whole tube of lube with monty strapped on and your only view is this guys broad back and blue moon.

Turn off city, right, and what's worse is that he explodes like all-get-out over the payroll report you slaved over all day.

All because you bought something that you knew was going to get spoilt in the first 15 minutes of work, being so worked up by all the fantasies you have with you in that black lace thong, then you so not in that black lace thong, with your whole harem ... 'ministering' to your 'needs,' as it were. So you buy the 6-pack which you get you through the first hour of the Mondays, but here you are pumping away for so long now that your legs are cramping up and you're dry as the Sahara, but what can you do, 'Just Say No,' and find your ass out the door because Mr. Bossman finds his submissive streak and gets so turned on with you saying, 'My big purple cock is pumping your ass now, bitch! Who's your daddy?' And you find out you're his 'daddy' when he screams out your name, yet again, the third time this hour and doesn't this guy ever get tired out and how come he lasts only 30 seconds when he's doing you?

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, now I'm off to a power lunch with a client, why don't you shower, Vera and tidy up my office while I'm away? And all you are is left with his spunk from his junk in you and a very, very frustrated kitty, but when he wants it up the ass, you have to put out for a whole friggen hour, wearing your panties so he can sniff your ass afterwards as he paws at your titties, man-handling them as if they were steaks on the grill, and that's supposed to be 'sexy'?

And girls like guys for what reason again?

I don't get it.

So, wear these things to work? Like for 10 minutes and then have to change out of them and (eventually) go au naturelle and don't tell me nobody notices that particular scent ... and the puddle under your chair might be a clue, too. Or otherwise have Mr. Bossman with his big hairy butt whining away as you check your fingernails and the clock confirms what your poor tired legs are telling you that, yup, you've been at this for an hour and you still have work to do ... because your performance review doesn't have an oval for 'sexual prowess.'

Yeah. No. Not likely.

Now, one can wear them elsewhere, in more intimate settings, and for more private occasions...

Yes, ... one can do that ...

Hm-hm-hm. Excuse me. Gotta take care of ... 'something.'

Devil with the Red Dress

... I'm discovering my femmy-feminine side.

I mean, so, you know: what? So a girl gets complimented for wearing a green ensemble (the skirt is not 'knee-high', it's ... c.v.n.t.-high), and yes, so it goes straight to her head and so she buys a little red number, that she may or may not have in her budget, but hey, you only live once, right?

And getting a compliment?

It's like ... getting a good review of a chapter you just wrote, right, my fellow author(esse)s? You're like: nnn, well I won't tell you what you're like, because there's no describing it, you just have to experience by actually going out there, writing a chapter, and getting a good review (and then you're hooked, which is a very, very bad thing: 'reviews, my anti-drug, what's yours?')

So I won't tell you what that's like, but I will hint and say my washing machine has been receiving a lot of LUV!

(Is 'luv' an euphemism for 'soaked panties'? Just wonderin')

But I have ...

Okay, seriously now,

... I mean `phfina-seriously, of course.

But I have a question:



(quit staring at my butt, you pervs!)

Why do they put that notch back there?

'They' meaning the fashion designer.

Ever notice how fashion designers, that is, of girls' clothes, are all, predominantly ('pre' 'dominant') ... male?

Oh, you're pat answer: so a girl can walk, because she can't in a dress like that that is oh-so-tight in all the oh-so-right places.

Uh, huh, that's a pat answer.

Ready for the real answer?

I'll tell you why they put the notch, — or, dare I say: slit — back there.

Who designs these fashions, the oh-so-tight dresses with the 'supporting' corset to really make sure guys don't miss a thing?

Uh, huh: horny pervy guy architects ... I meant: fashion designers. Jeez! (but still horny and pervy).

And WHY do they design them with that slit back there?

It's not to help you so you can walk, sweetheart.

It's for the easy access.

I mean, seriously: Is this a house dress? NO! It's not a house dress. Is it a ballroom gown so a guy can press his you-know against you during the slow numbers ('numbers' meaning dance-sets, you pervs!). No. What is it?

It's a little Mad Men secretary pool dress for you to wear, so that Big Bad Mean Mr. Bossman can call you into his office as you deliver him his morning coffee, and oopsie, I just dropped my pen, Vera, would you pick that up for me?

Yessir, Mr. BigusDickus Bossman.

And then what happens?

You KNOW what happens next! But I'll spell it out for you anyway (and why I'm spelling it out I'll get to later in this post).

WHAMMO! he slams your head into his desk, and since that little slit, I mean notch, is there, all he has to do is unzip and bust through your nylons for is early morning quicky anal sex with his secretary fvckslvt because that's what you, that is: me, is for.

So you just go to work now not even wearing the nylons anymore (getting to be an expense to replace them twice a day) nor even panties.

Like I said: easy access.

Okay, so why does he bend you over the desk and anal smex you? (Warning: boring `phfina analysis ahead)

Firstly, with you bent over the desk, your fingers and toes, that is, your claws are unable to gouge out his eyes and rupture his little you-know. You're in the perfect submissive position, which only further enflames, and fans the flames, of his unleashed passions.

Slit in the back designed by guys, for guys.

Secondly, it's anal so he can avoid the paternity lawsuits or the responsibility (that is, the consequences) of having to divorce his wife and marry you and his new little jr he just put in your belly.

Child support, either way, see? Anal smex avoids all that mess. Facilitated by what?

The slit, in the back of your dress. Designed by men, for men.

Okay, so you and I (now) know the real reason that slit is back there.

So why does it stay there, then?

(And now it's 'later in the post' as I promised)

Because we want it there.

Yup. I went there.

If submissive little us, that is 'women in society' didn't accept our submissive little roles, and say, excusez-moi? when Big Bossman came at our derrières with his freed willy, but instead maced and then bobbited him (no, I'm not endorsing sexual violence nor assault from either party), then a whole lot more guys would be a whole lot more respectful of a whole lot more girls in the secretary pool.

But, the times being the times, and women being what we are told we are: that is, the fairer, weaker, submissive sex ...

We just take it.

... and look forward to it.

This was the part where I get tarred and feathered by a whole angry crowd of womyn from almost all sectors.

But yes, we tolerate in, and we even fantasize about a strong, dominate (in this male pre-dominated society) Bossman (or, whew, Bosswoman, yes, please) (I didn't just write that) (yes, I did), forcefully taking us and making us theirs.

Why?

Because when we are taken oh-so-forcefully, doesn't it mean we are desirable? Pretty?

And when we are made their bitch ... ('You're my bitch now!' he screams as willy rams and rams and rams and then releases into your anal cavity) ... doesn't being possessed like that, every day, mean we are loved?

So we buy that green number, and that demure (hot) little red number, because ... we want to be pretty, desired, and loved.

To be held by somebody else. In somebody else's arms, and have the weight of somebody else pressing down on us.

To be one, in union, with another, just for that instant, every day at work at the morning coffee and the just-before-lunch-to-work-up-the-appetite fvck.

... not that I'm talking from personal experience at all, mind you, it's just stuff I've heard, and things I've observed ...

REALLY! Honest! And I'm not protesting too much!

But to be one, so we aren't alone.

Just for that one second, not to be alone: to have somebody else fully being with you, the proof is that they are in you, and remain in you, even after they pull out, you still have the proof of that love in you, and you keep it in, clench it in your guts, so that you know you are alive, just for that one moment, and are loved, or, very sadly, were loved, for a moment in time.

That slit.

Yes, I like my new red dress very much, even though it makes me sad to think what it, that is 'me', is for.

Everything makes me sad, so that's okay.