Post by codeapathy on Jul 1, 2020 12:51:17 GMT -5
Is it me? Is it you?
Tell me who
Who's the other girl?
Who's the first? Who's the fool?
Who's the diamond? Who's the pearl?
++Nobody ever likes the taste of their own medicine. It’s great to dish it out in nominal doses but swallowing it down is quite bitter. Nobody likes losing at their own game, but sometimes when you think all angles are covered, you leave just enough room for an unexpected but stinging attack. While Blair was off living her well sculpted lie of a lie, I was off busy rebuilding mine. Those people, their world and everything I ever came to know about them ceased to matter. That’s why it didn’t strike me as shocking when Johnny himself and his plastic and lip filler trophy wife actually believed I was the same person. There was nothing about Johnny that I wanted. He was just one more mistake I had grown to accept. Blair just was too paranoid and self-serving to realize I took a page right out of her book and acted it out right in front of her. While she was blinded by jealousy and deep seeded feelings of resentment towards me that never left, I was smiling smugly on the inside knowing by the end of the evening, she would be covering stress acne with concealer and screaming about how I was a wicked whore who tried to steal her precious husband. This was inevitable. Her and I. The only difference this time was I grew up. She was still living in a bubble. With the same damn hypocrites, traitors and double talkers. Start the round. I’m going in hot++
Elizabeth: There is a fool born every minute Blair and you proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that night in the restaurant, you were one. Common sense or critical thinking were never your strong points. Allow me to teach you…
++I rented a photo and video studio. I sat on a black stool wearing a black 1950’s style sweater with a scarlet A very predominant on the left side of the chest. My thick legs were crossed as I wore a black and white argyle plaid pleated skirt. Saddle shoes topped off the outfit as my foot lazily dangled. The screen behind me awash with vulgarities like “whore”, “slut”, “cheap” amongst other colorful descriptions. I took a suck of a Tootsie Pop and smirked++
Elizabeth: I did this for you Blair my dear. I wanted you to see me as the villain you believe I am. Adulteress. A term you and I both know you yourself is intimately familiar with. You have sat in this same seat and wore this same crimson letter. There is an asterisk next to your name, just as there is next to mine. Tell me Blair, how was my fucking Hunter Valentyne and swallowing his dick any different then your thirsty ass? Was it a ring? I bet it was a ring and a last name change. Look at you, such a saint. OF course it was different, in your mind, because you had his last name and access to his bottom feeding, coat tail riding, bank account. I could have, but one morning it dawned on me that slitting my wrist both ways and bleeding to death slowly was a far more attractive exit strategy to life than considering killing off any self respect or dignity I had, and becoming his wife.
I applaud your dedication to being a greedy, dick riding succubus and going through with it. When it was over, tell me how much bleach did you go through trying to wash the feeling of his hands off your body? But this isn’t about Hunter. No. Hunter was your desperate attempt at trying to rattle me because you had to save face. How do I know you were saving face? Because you’re a smart cookie honey and it dawned on you, even if it didn’t Johnny, that I played your game and got under your skin. This is about Johnny and your paranoid delusions that my presence in that restaurant was solely to try and seduce him back into my bed.
++The screen behind me slowly changed into an old photo of myself and Johnny. Back in the good old days, me sitting on his lap wearing a bikini with a blunt in my hand. My hair was still cherry red. I had less tattoos then. My lip and nose piercings were less too. My nipples were still pierced and you could see the metal rings through the thin material of the bikini top. We were kissing, flipping off the camera. I shifted, changing my legs. Letting one down and putting the other over top. Flashing just enough of the space between my legs like the filthy whore I was++
Elizabeth: I hope this angers you. I just wanted you to see the different dynamic between your relationship with Johnny Stylez, and mine. This picture was taken in Las Vegas. Thirty minutes later we were fucking in the jaccuzzi. You have structured and built yourself a personality and demeanor that is demure and classy. You’re beautiful but also power hungry and faithless. You are with Johnny because you fulfill his fantasy. You accentuate his self delusion and vision of himself. Your relationship with him is far more complex than mine was. My dynamic was pretty simple. Freedom and adrenaline. I love sex. I love booze and drugs. And I loved the high I got from being reckless and stupid. You are Johnny’s dime piece, I was his bad habit. I knew my role and place. I knew what it was that we had and I was okay with it.
Why would I want to steal from you, Blair, a toy I already played with and got bored of? I pose the same question to Johnny, even though I know deep down that he thinks he is irresistible and once you have a taste you can’t quit it. He thinks he’s heroin. Maybe to a weaker woman he is. That wasn’t me. Johnny wasn’t my first drug fueled torrid affair. He wasn’t even the second. There were periods in my life when I was uncontrolled and a danger to myself and everyone around me. There was a period in my life when management and road agents kept their phones close by for the call that I missed the show because I fucking OD’d. I lost count of how many shows I waltzed into drunk or high. That they had to change the ending of the match because I was too fucking wasted and blitzed to work the match properly. I hate to break this to you both but Johnny, in the grand scheme of things, was a tiny fish in a giant fucking pond. He is your bread and butter, your financier. He feeds into your ego and vanity. You NEED him. And I am here to tell you pumpkin, he’s all yours.
I know it is hard for people like you to understand the concept of growth and change. Change is scary. Growth as a person is hard. The majority of people are unwilling. Growing up and becoming a better person usually means that you will lose friends, respect, influence and even everything you have ever come to know and love, but I can sit on this stool with this red letter blaring on my chest and tell you that Johnny is not a road I want to go down again. I grew out of fuck boys. From where I am sitting that’s your department honey. You want to slum it in mile high stilettos and Fendi, you do you honey. You got the market cornered. Eat it up. Me? You were very quick to say that my reasoning was a lie. That it was some well rehearsed line, something you’re very familiar with my dear. You can read a script of bullshit like nobody I have ever met and make it sound so god damn sincere that God himself thinks you mean it. But in your line of work, you have to sound believable when you’re glad handing with your right hand and slitting that same person's throat with the left.
I actually meant what I said. I want to go out on my own terms. You had a lot to unload on me in that restaurant but I have some truths of my own.
++I casually stood up and a small crew of about 4 moved onto the set. The stool was removed. The video screen went black. I stood like a statue, a wardrobe assistant removing my sweater, revealing a dirty, bloody and ripped white mens undershirt. She reached around and unzipped the skirt letting it fall to the floor, revealing similar white boy short panties, filthy, bloody and torn. A blood red hand print was painted on my abdomen. A rig lowered from the top of the screen and two men picked me up by my arms and moved me to it, attaching me by my wrists and binding them with coarse rope. The rig was raised a little and a small stool was placed under my now bare feet. Dirty and bound. The pads of my feet barely touch the wood. Both men began writing on my skin with red lipstick. Across my chest “you got what you deserved”. On one arm “failure”, “waste” and “weak”. On the other, “used goods”, “broken”, “damaged goods”. The men continued writing painful, hurtful words and phrases. They applied dark color to my eye, making it look bruised. One man left the scene as the last one grabbed my chin, straightening my face to force it to look square in the direction of the camera, then wailed back his hand and cracked me across the bare cheek and gripped my neck just long enough to leave red marks. He cocked his head to the side, pleased, then walked away as the screen behind me returned with me hanging there vulnerable and discarded. The image on the screen changed to a simple white background with red bloody color mixing into the water++
Elizabeth: The hug I gave your husband, to you, was an open invitation to fuck me. You can’t see past your own narrative Blair. Or maybe it is just you saw what I wanted you to see? Maybe I just couldn’t resist myself knowing the entirety of that set up was transparent. A younger me would have believed that Johnny just out of the blue contacted me to meet up out of respect and business. The woman I am now knows far better. Johnny doesn’t trust me. He never has. He never will. I know him and he knows me. That’s a problem. You weren’t the only one blurting out things to save face that night. So was he. Your jealousy is well known. He set you up just as much as he set me up. He let you see what he wanted you to see too. He knows I have no romantic or sexual interest in him. But he knew you were quick to anger if you suspected I was trying to come between you two.
As for your statement that you thought I was trying to be friends...don’t be a fool Blair. You and I could never be friends. Not in this life or the next. You are the embodiment of everything I grew to hate in this business. You are the essence of every negative trait a woman should avoid becoming. I don’t mean your face. I don’t hate nor envy your beauty nor the effort and maintenance it takes for you to sustain your image and grace. I hate your soul, or lack thereof. I hate your ways, your ends that justify the means and do you know why? Because your sins and shortcomings of a woman are my own. We could never be friends because the similarities are too thick and the reminder you present of my own shameful behavior is too heavy to bear. Unlike you I grew to hate the woman I was. I despised the things I did. The men I used and discarded like garbage once whatever purpose they represented was served. You excel being that type of woman because you have no conscience. The world revolves around you. You and I both know that when the time comes that Johnny no longer fits in your world or suffices your ego, you will be on to the next fool. Your life has always been a revolving door of John’s and sugar daddy’s to maintain your status and the way of life you have become accustomed too.
If the IRS was to freeze Johnny’s bank accounts tomorrow, your shit would be packed and out with zero hesitation. You and Johnny do not love each other. You love the way you both feed off of each other's egos and compliment your visions of yourself. I call it as I see it and if you are foolish enough to believe that your outburst in that restaurant was due to fear of losing your husband, let me remind you, you were worried you were losing your meal ticket.
I don’t need his money, I have my own. I don’t need his time or attention, it does nothing for me. You have a price tag he can afford, whereas I am priceless. There was some truth to what you said though Blair. Me trying to screw you and Johnny over. More him...than you. As the wife you are just collateral damage. At the time it was a very lucrative agreement. Everything seemed justified. A man comes to you, seeking advice and assistance. Hearing his plight opens old wounds. Knowing Johnny would never say no to signing me because he likes the money my name brings in. That was one of the first things I learned in this business, know your prey. Your husband's weakness? Money. He likes money and ratings and both come attached to my name being in the program.
So what went wrong? What changed? Why did my agenda shift? A moment of self-realization. An ah-ha moment. Sam Jr. I want you to pay close attention to the words I am about to say. Your yacht is nice. The gifts were lavish and beautiful. You always know the right words to say. I do not believe for one minute that the things we discussed in private, after sex or during our clandestined meetings, were insincere. As a widower, it was nice in the beginning. It was a fairytale I could find myself getting lost in. A happily ever after perhaps I deserved. Everything was going according to plan. Except neither you nor I could have expected me to have a moment of realization that made me physically ill. I woke up one morning, alone, and realized that in order to help you solve your problems I would have to be comfortable with strings attached to me like a fucking puppet. I remember how it felt to be a pawn. To have to play by the rules someone else set and they could change them at their whimsy and I would have to scramble to catch up or learn the next board of play.
Never. Fucking. Again.
I spent the better half of my career dangling from puppet strings held by men who looked down on me mockingly. Blair is the one who got the wheels turning in my mind. When we had our little chat about why she was in this business. The hard truth Sam is that you desire me and want me, not because I am beautiful and charming like Blair but because you are a man who is very used to getting whatever he pleases. Money is of no object. Women see your billfold and their panties drop because they want even just a small taste of what the rich life is like. Let’s be candid. You tried flashing your money at me to convince me to help you. It didn’t work did it Sam? That was probably the first time in your life you heard a woman say no. Your money meant nothing to me and yet, you still tried to buy me. Take a step back from the situation for a moment Sam and realize that you are outclassed and outgunned. The people you are dealing with are not amateurs. The fact that your father let himself become enthralled and charmed by fake eyelashes and well rehearsed charm, is honestly no skin off my back. You yourself don’t even care if the old man lives, dies or falls off the face of the earth, as long as you get the company and the money. That has been your objective this whole time.
How does that make you any different than Johnny or Blair? How is your endgame, any more valiant than Blairs? It isn’t. And then there was me. You succeed and then what? You and I sail off into the sunset with all the tainted money and ill gotten gains and the blood on our hands? How does that make me a better woman than Blair? Therein lies the problem. Blair fucked her way to the top. She is shameless and has no problems exploiting men and her sexuality to benefit. It is second nature for her. While I am guilty of being a tramp, a common garden variety whore I can count on one hand how many times I used my vagina as leverage to rise in a company. ONCE. Blair and I have had two very different careers. We come from two very different worlds. Some of these Holly come latelys will call me a has been to my face and think nothing of it, but those cunts forgot where they came from and it shows. I never did. I have never forgotten what drives me in this business and it sure as fuck isn’t money or fame.
It is every man who ever put his hands on me backstage and made me feel vile and sick while they violated me, laughing, because both they and I knew they could get away with it. It is remembering the face of every booker who admonished me because I was on my period and my match was not as they expected because my fucking ovaries were screaming in pain. It is remembering every pregnancy test, while on my knees, crying and praying it came out negative because I was so close to breaking through the glass ceiling.
Sam I am more woman than you will ever be able to handle. I have walked paths that you could never even begin to try and understand. It is crystal clear to me now that my role in this business is far from done. My advice for you? Cut your losses and walk away. Realize that these people have you beat and just accept it and walk away. Me? I am staying right where the fuck I am because I am NOT Johnny Stylez pawn. I am NOT Roger Wright's puppet. I am NOT your China doll. Hate me if it makes you feel better Sam, but as you see me now, displayed raw and bearing my shame and everything that makes me who and what I am, know our paths diverge here. I can’t help you. Because in order to help you would mean dragging myself down to their level and quite frankly? You ain’t worth that Sam. I have grown too much and come too far to take two steps back all because...your dad was fucking stupid. THAT is the catylyst in the middle of all of this...your dad, was fucking gullible and stupid.
Your empire of chicken, at the end of the day, is all YOU Have but it means nothing to me. At the time getting revenge on Johnny for the way he used me and abused me, the awful things he made me feel, the way he manipulated my life for his own amusement, it all seemed priceless and worth anything. Then I sat across from him. I could look him in the eyes, recant what transpired between us and it dawned on me as the jazz music was playing, that I had nothing to gain. I realized, even though he had ulterior motives that night that, if I could just nonchalantly discuss things of that nature then...he nor it was worth all the effort. It was a moot point. My words were true when I said what he did to me made me a better woman. He was the one who was hung up on an alter ego he created eons ago. He sat there talking about how he did it for me.
As he spoke those words it reminded me of what you always said to me. That if we saw things through, you would give me the world. What good is the world when you aren’t even in love with the man handing it to you? That is great for a heartless harpie like Blair but I...am not interested. Blair I know you and he were spending time together. Sometimes when he would stop by I would smell your expensive ass perfume on his shirt. I guess that is the running theme of our relationship Blair, trading sloppy seconds for thirds. Honey you can have all the servings to yourself from now on. My appetite has changed. This match is for your ego and so you can avenge your paranoid assumption I was trying to woo your husband. To me? It’s a paycheck. You need this match Blair. I don’t. You need it because you won’t rest until I am punished for being a traitor in your eyes. Have at it. Look upon me now and memorize this image. See me as I am and know that if me dying on the cross you are hanging me on, will make your black rotting heart feel better than so be it. If putting your hands on me will justify what you THINK you saw. Have at it. I won’t lose any sleep and I won’t apologize as I have no guilt nor anything to apologize for.
I know you will come out swinging, throwing all the mistakes I made in my face. Bringing up the names of men this business has long forgotten. Our history is thick, I would expect nothing less just know that those were my battles and wars. It is MY past and I made peace with it. Meanwhile you can’t look in a mirror without perfectly applied makeup and your hair expertly styled. You are shallow and empty and that isn’t my problem. If I had to compare us using language you would understand easily, you are a pearl. Delicate, precious, classic and very much sought after. Me? I’m a diamond bitch. I exist only because of pressure and time. The keyword is clarity and I have it now. I had to forget to remember but it’s all at the forefront of my memory now. That glass ceiling that was so precious and was the only thing that mattered. The day I broke through it became a stained glass ceiling. Stained with my blood.
I was going to reach it and I was going to bust through it because I HAD too. You accepted your role in this business Blair and that is fine. It suits you. You’re a conniver. I’m a warrior. You bat your eyelashes and give hand jobs. I put the fear of God into mortal men. You’re a boss wearing Prada. I’m a battleaxe that rivals Davis and Crawford. Am I saying you are a lesser woman than I? No. Just the OTHER woman. Just like you have always been. Even back when you were showing your tits in a water tank. I was acclaimed for my wrestling skills in that match. You were on TMZ for showing your silicone orbs. It is what it is. That match was beneath me but I went through with it anyways because I had too. Because I worked for management that had women like you that they had to showcase. And I was on their shit list. To you it was a chance to score some shock points, to me it was a punishment because I wouldn’t play by the boys clubs rules.
You don’t ever get to sit across from me again and talk about how “hard” we women have had it in this business. It is 2020 and there are still men whose poor little assholes clench when a woman speaks up about indignities they suffered or who God forbid are independent and are willing to say “fuck you, I made you.”. Every word you see written on my skin are things said to me, about me, behind my back and that fuel me. My eyes have been bruised and bloodied for defiance. My panties ripped and dirtied because they could be. My womb was used and abused for the notion that one of my sole purposes was to bear a man an heir. My neck choked and left discolored from the pressure because I spoke out of turn or alcohol made poor judgement. My wrists bound and me left defenseless while my body was violated by men I loved or who saw my inebriated state as an opportunity to satisfy their appetite.
++As my diatribe ended one more man stepped onto the stage. Dressed in all black and wearing a ski mask to mark out his identity, he stood to the side, shaking his head disappointed and ashamed. He kicked the small stool out from under my feet and I began to dangle from the cross bar, the coarse ropes digging into my skin and causing brush burn and red marks++
Elizabeth: Once more Blair, this match is just for you. Your stage to act out your petty revenge and make an example out of me. Except I’ve gone and beat you to it. I owe you nothing. I don’t even owe you a match. If I will walk out on Eoin O’Rourke and make him fend for himself in the ring what makes you think I won’t do the same to you? I could miss my flight. Maybe not even show up. Then what Blair? What then? Go crying to Johnny? Make him book it again with the contingency that if I don’t show I am fired? You know what? I would consider that a career high note. Losing my job, costing Johnny sweet sweet moolah and ratings, all because I wouldn’t give Blair what she wanted. I guess we will just have to find out hmm? It seems as though I have said enough. There is a lot to unpack and digest here. My overlord has come to put me in my place and do the right thing.
Silence me.
++The unknown male actor placed his hand over my mouth firmly, them removed it revealing a duct tape covering with the hashtag #metoo on it. The screen behind me changed one more time, a black screen, with a white painted “whore” dripping with paint, with numerous capitalized red letter A’s, dripping with red blood. As the entire screen went black, a single gunshot was sound and a title card on the screen++
“You never hear the shot that takes you down.”