Blackmail Story
A bit of information before you read this: I am writing the beginning of each chapter as a prolonged fiction. Just a few paragraphs, keeping the story going throughout the entire book. The rest of the work is non-fiction; part explanation, part manual, part analysis.
Hauling against the resistance of the revolving office doors, you burst through and scramble to the train. The only goal is to get home in time to grab the mail as it comes. Becoming keenly aware of every stride, your feet and their awkward placement. Racing through puddles, distracted and frantic, not noticing them soaking your socks. Suddenly realizing how stupid you must look sprinting through the gritty acid rain of the city in full business attire. Rapid-fire thoughts alternating between the possibility that your ankle is going to turn in and cause you to fall, and the scenario in which a homeless man will try to accost you for change. Knowing that — for you — stopping means you will not get to your destination on time. If that happens, everything you’ve ever known will change.
A letter addressed to your wife is on a blazing path to your mailbox. It contains quite a few pictures of you, nude and under bad lighting, with various things scrawled on your body. From the photographs, it is obvious that they were taken consensually. As you were directed, you leaned seductively into the camera, hands clasped together to plead and pray. A fumbling male attempt at emulating femme sexuality, coupled with a genuine offering of yourself. The very self you worked so hard to construct as such a strong caricature of a man - wearing a small bra, with lipstick smeared hastily around your mouth. Your wife will rip through each picture, blinking away the tears from her eyes that cannot believe what she is seeing. Shaking and horrified. Somehow managing to wonder who the omnipresent deity of the camera was that saw this naked, vulnerable part of you. Who got to be there during your absolute deconstruction and subsequent sacrifice to this theophany? What sort of villainous and wicked creature delights in the documentation of such a raw, animalistic state; archiving vulgarity and fear? Most importantly… how could you do this to her? How could you hide these things?
A snap back to reality. The train conductor takes one last look out of his window to make sure the doors are clear to close. Terrified, you throw your weight onto the train, dropping several receipts out of your pocket, clutching your wallet to make sure you can pay for the trip home. Getting kicked off the train wouldn’t only embarrass you, at this point it would ruin you.
All aboard, there are faces staring at you. Pondering all sorts of similar questions, looking at your clothing, puzzled. It’s not every day they see a man dressed as well as you, looking so desperate. Mental illness can’t be at fault, your behavior is too consistent. Drugs couldn’t be the culprit, you don’t make any twitchy movements, nor do you have crusted scabs on your face or hands. It must be a girl, they concede. “Women make men crazy.”
And in fact, it is a woman. Two women. Both want you for their own reasons.
One, to be her love. A man whom she trusts and has given herself to — year after faithful year — and in return he is praised and cherished. A steadfast man full of quiet humor and love, though sometimes admittedly he may take her for granted and criticize her perceived flaws. A gentleman to love and honor her, as much as he thinks is reasonable. Strategically plans every life event.
The other, to be Her toy. The worm that impales himself at the end of Her hook, ready to be cast into the ocean, only until She cruelly rips it all out for a much larger return. Her fearful yet loyal sycophant, who cannot find Her anything but flawless, gives every single ounce of devotion in his small body to Her divinity, for as long as he can afford. Unable to contain his impulses.
In the end, he knows where the power lies.
