Virgin Journal
Editor’s Note: Today’s post is a little…out there. Maybe it’s because I’ve been binge-watching Bridgerton or because I’m coming off my best friend’s bachelorette weekend, but either way this post is a bit more salacious than my usual content (and completely fictitious, by the way). I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
Xx,
Shiv
She was a really private person — she only shared her thoughts with her journal. But today, she did want someone to read it.
Not just anyone, but a specific person. Her husband.
He hurt her. Cheated. And now she wanted to hurt him too. To feel the same pain that she felt. She grappled with two conflicting truths:
I love him and I don’t trust him to love me.
I hope he doesn’t flip open these pages tonight. Just have to make sure I shut the notebook and put it in my bag. He’d never snoop. I mean “never say never,” I guess. Especially after the shit he’s pulled. It’s just not like him, really.
But the journal is an extension of me, and part of me wants him to read her. To hear my thoughts. To feel my sadness as I lament the weakness of our relationship. To bear the burden of what he broke as he pictures me writing at the desk we share. I know I have this power. I could make him read this pain if I wanted to.
I could leave the journal on the desk.
Not in an obvious, whorish way with her pages sprawled open ready for anyone. I’d leave my journal only slightly open and make a playful prude out of her. Sultry. Like she was wearing a floor length gown with an open back or high slit.
Classy. Tasteful. Enticing.
Especially to the wandering mind. I’d leave her closed with my pen carefully tucked between the folds of the smooth, satin pages. Right on the page where I wrote my last sentence for the day. As if it were keen that I not lose my spot in this never-ending novel.
He’d know right where I left off. He’d turn back a few pages to read today’s entry, stroking each line of the tragic events. My discovery of his deception. My depressed thoughts. Curiosity piqued at the mention of his name, he’d turn back a few more pages.
Yesterday.
The day before.
Last week.
Last month.
Each time he’d see his name in my journal, he’d furiously flip through with even more vigor than the previous page. Undress her further. Burning. Selfishly searching for more of himself in her. Until he’s climaxed and read every last word in the damn thing. Taken everything that she had to offer.
Then,
he’d clean up.
He’d place her back on our desk. Neatly. Pen between pages, just like he found her. Making her appear untouched. Unread.
But she was a virgin no longer.
Stories by Shiv is part of Wayfinder, a writer collective exploring questions that matter.