This is the story of a woman whose nipples were chewed off and broadcast about from a radio show. She told a man, and he told the world—lol. She’s low. So sad.
This gal—who you call a victim; I call a warrior—stands now in a wedding dress at a boom mic. She’s got those balloon animal tits curved wide and exposed, black streamlets down her cheeks.
“What a fine interruption, folks. But if you’ll excuse me, the wedding is currently postponed until the groom finishes banging, in his own words, ‘the alpha of the family’.”
There’s this clinical self-awareness which touches the room upon the bride’s admission, as though she’s only now realizing what they all do. It’s collective. All minds seem to harmonize in the same way:
We knew about it before you did.
For some, the disintegration of the internal confined noise ends the way a radio loop resolves, and everything in the immediate area noticeably drops in volume, lacking now in both noise and ancillary conversations. The distant mammarial sounds of caterers working with china. A veil has been lifted in this chamber. The woman looks stricken. There’s a remote in her hand she holds up at a screen.
“Where’s your husband?” someone from the back calls out.
The betrayed woman then clicks a button on the remote and broadcasts from a projector the groom standing in a shower, recording himself saying, “Of course it’s because you’re the mom,” before the phone camera’s POV is reversed and faced toward the remaining length of the shower, aimed down at his exposed member, as his hands noticeably grip the tip, while he moans, “you’re the alpha,” before erupting in a violent spray across the shower walls.
This video has all audience members’ eyes forward. They are immobilized by this sudden bombardment of unprecedented information; and yet they stare. Some are enticed, yes: women for the groom’s capabilities of such a release; the men startled and angry—this is homosexuality! (Technically, there’s no female stretched across the floor-to-ceiling projection, and insecurities are in plenty).
Just then, cut to the mother’s face in view and on screen; she noticeably has her chest exposed as the bride does right there at the mic. Two behemoth beasts wreathed about her daughter below. A few men of the crowd now think, this gal, I can take her behind the groom’s back.
But that’s not what the betrayed woman covets. She’s got a fire this one. She fights through the sudden onslaught of men stepping up to grab the remote. Try as they might to shut off her husband’s darkest excretions, they have underestimated how easy it is for this three-time Olympic gymnast to bob and weave and escape from the marriage chamber.
She’s running down a dimly lit corridor, head screaming with the probabilities, mouth sewn shut. The endless possibilities knit together a dark truth veiling her demeanor: her mom orgasming on her man; and her man, surely, doing the same.
The doors to the groom’s chambers are closed and locked. She pounds her fists and screams through the crack of the doorway: “Open up, Rogier!” “Open up!” “Open now!”
The doors eventually yawn wide like her boobs, thus exposing a man stepping forth among the froth of fumes and bodily releases that are quite literally steam, about him and in the background. The shower is gurgling. He smells of another woman’s behinds, but the bride reminds herself he always does. This is not abnormal. There is a towel covering his lower extremities, and he stands his ground with his shirt off.
The betrayed woman faces her man. She stumbles a bit back, streamlets of eyes makeup running rheumously down her cheeks, now as war paint.
“Am I fit to bear your seed?” she asks.
“Are you what?”
“Am I fit… to bear… your… fucking… seed!”
“Alwaysssssssssss.”
And forever, this man promises her wherever, they shall come together despite the video of him jacking off and sending it to her mom over unsecured internet (company mobile), for no other reason than their new baby’s sake. Signed x098, the year they were married, and overseen by a writer, their co-signer: this lawyer of theirs who remains in place for years after this fiasco, since it was his duty to mitigate the ensuing fallout from the porno broadcast of her husband betraying her with her mom via video in front of a bunch of kids at a wedding.
Only then does it dawn on the betrayed woman, embracing her husband’s shirtless body, that this sudden, immediate enlightenment that imagines the aftermath before it happens strikes her: what she did today in front of their friends and family.
It’s like she’s afraid to ask—her mind is already back on infidelity. Because she can’t see anyone in the room, she has no reason to suspect. Maybe if she doesn’t mention anything further, everything will work out…
As it was then, so then it sort of was a year later.
This betrayed woman works at a fast-food takeout window. She’s still registered as a sex offender because that video of her husband spilling his guts out for her mom was broadcast in front of a lot of kids, so the courts say cameras need to be on her at all times, and right then, around 2 pm (after the lunch rush, a nice lull before dinner), there are two flashes from the walls above the takeout window. Two silent, deafening echoes of light breaking surface, so similar to the short dude working the soda machine tapping twice every time she uses the bathroom. She has to use the bathroom now, but she doesn’t want the overweight guy to train her like a dog anymore.
Another bout of flashes on the walls and she forgets about the rage for the tapping and storms off toward the managers. Two more successive taps fire off from the soda machine dude’s knuckles. The betrayed woman asks the young 20-year-old buck of a manager, “I saw two flashes from the walls. Did you set cameras up?”
“Why would we have to set cameras up if they are already there and in view?” the manager asks as he points toward the in-view cameras above. It’s like they’re both positioned directly at her.
And while that does make sense, this young manager in his twenties goes one step further. “Do you see?” he asks as he rubs his hand on the wall. Now both his hands are stroking the walls.
He doesn’t get close to her, though, because he knows. What they all know: this woman sees from their distance and lack of conversation skills. Not even the males want to claim her here. They’ve been in denial for years. Tapping twice. Waiting in a car in her driveway before she got home, maybe waiting for her husband to return. It was a woman in a green car.
What the fuck does green even mean?
This gal screams at the ceiling; eyes slivered into almonds. It is a blood-curdling wail from a territorial ape that wanted her man all to herself.
A selfish thing indeed. It’s like her and her mother are connected telepathically and harmonized, as her mom whispers from like a microphone by the soda machine guy: it wasn’t me waiting in the driveway.
This line of dialogue and the following explanation are something she has been working with all week. All involuntary, like her community service requirements. It’s the only thing keeping her in check, what her mom says one night:
“Whatever your brain wants to hear.”
A week or so after this episode, following yet another extravagant psychotic break, the mother waits for her daughter at a mental hospital. The betrayed woman, begrudgingly, unprecedentedly, accepts her mother’s company. She HAS to. The doctors have all told her that language matters. Only her mother is willing to come and visit. Not even her man will. Dear Rogier.
“If it brings your brain harmony, men only say things we want to hear. And we only hear what we want to hear. Rogier covets my older woman nature with kids as I do his youth. He’s a jackpot. A genius. It doesn’t necessarily make me the alpha.” Her mother says during what should have been the final designated visitation hours before her daughter’s release.
“Men are dogs,” the daughter says.
“They are hounds.”
Both women agree to think the same thing: Rogier howling at the Moon, releasing himself as a wolf into the wind. At this penultimate moment of vulnerability, things seem okay between them. The daughter needs her mother as much as her mother wants to care for her.
Always and forever, wherever, both these gals agree to share this world together. (Her mother literally takes this sudden flush of vulnerability as proof they are square over the taking of her daughter’s high school sweetheart.)
“There is other news we must speak of,” the mother admits. “And I believe there can be no other time to speak of this other than this moment, in this mental hospital.” From her maxmara purse, the mother removes a photo. She hands it to her daughter. Another ink blob test, surely. The daughter can barely parse the black and white silhouette.
“I bear the seed of Rogier.”
The daughter, once 1 day away from release of this place, as she did at the fast-food shop, wails as all humans under torture do: frighteningly so. An animalistic curdle gurgles so low, it pops upon manifestation. Like the autistic fella who masturbated and thought his penis was farting last week, or the chick with borderline bpd defecating with the door open and yelling about it just the other day. This roar even summons a big black fella in scrubs. He holds the betrayed woman down while another lanky fella in scrubs administers an injection of sedation into her butt-cheek.
“You must forgive,” the mother says as they drag the daughter away.
Through groggy eyes, the mother waddles as a small, motionless child in her eyes.
“Forgive me!” the mother screams through the barred doorway. (The door can be opened fine by the handle, but there are bars over the window part of it, which almost stretches floor-to-ceiling, but not quite.) “You must forgive!” the mother screams again.
Goddamn, is it loud. The cry carries throughout the halls. The daughter teeters awake and asleep, hearing the ritualistic chanting overlaid over her mother’s begging, all patients following her mother’s lead.
This lullaby puts her to sleep, and she dreams of her once man probably blowing load after load into her mom—it’s already been established the daughter and mother are experiencing bouts of telepathy, and she (the daughter) can see her once man fertilizing her mother’s eggs throughout the sleep.
Sadly, this is how things go for the betrayed woman. She wakes now and again, not having to pee but sort of wanting to. Her considerations rest her eyes on the windows of this room. They are fogged lighting installations. The illusion of windows. The outside world.
Meanwhile, because she has posted repeatedly on social media before her admittance into a mental health ward, and word travels fast, that radio show host is in the know.
“Let us all remember this betrayed woman,” the radio host announces Monday morning. “The mother who thought it would be a good idea to post her husband masturbating to her mom in front of everyone at the local wedding. How many kids do they have?”
There are no voices on air but it’s clear someone is telling him about it.
“Yeah, it was the first child that chewed her nipples off.”
Another beat of silence.
“They have two kids?”
Pause.
“Three kids. Okay, so he got the mom pregnant. That’s gonna be a spicy marriage. I also ate enchiladas last night.” There are farting noises from a soundbar over the waves. “What’s the real story? We need empirical evidence, or it’s not real or whatever.”
…
“Yeah, it’s like imaginary or something.” “There is more to this story.” “I guess she can’t be near schools, but she can be near kids at fast food.” “Let’s get our interns to do some digging.”
All this is broadcast over the airwaves, serenading the folks of Scottsdale, AZ.