Trapped Between Her Legs

But the third…

Friends, since my transformation, I’ve had more sex than I ever did in a lifetime of affairs.

Now we get to the crux of the matter.

I don’t think it’s boasting to say my affairs were legendary. I know, I know. Surely every man likes to think he’s a modern Casanova, an unrivaled master of seduction.

But I’m not exaggerating when I say I truly was.

Oh, I wasn’t the pinnacle of male beauty or anything. But neither was I Quasimodo. I worked out regularly. I dressed well. I had a well-paying job that sounded exciting and meant I got to travel a lot. I knew how to talk to women without seeming either overeager or overly shy or formal or condescending…

At least, not out loud.

(God. How Karen used to smile at my jokes. Back when I could still tell jokes…)

In my head, in my private thoughts, was another matter. Or, rather, I thought they were private.

Anyway…

I can picture them all even now, over ten years after my awful punishment.

I’m not lying, every single face of every woman I ever seduced I can still recall in my mind’s eye. Every name, the names they swore at my trial I could never remember. Well, guess what? I can list every single one of them.

Doesn’t that show how unfair this stupid system is?

Ah, but I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say it’s not my memory that was at fault, but what I privately called those girls. What I privately thought of the women I was seeing, the women I was chasing.

You’re going to say that I always called the Cunts.

It’s true. I can’t deny it.

That word appeared in all my journals. In that contacts list the prosecutor made a great show of waving around the courtroom, brandishing it before the female jurors with a flourish, like she’d just found the smoking gun.

You probably remember how the list went. Blonde Cunt. Big-Titted Cunt. Cunt from Jackson’s Office. Cunt met at store. Secretary Cunt. And so on, and so on, ad infinitum.

Yes. I wrote those words. But only as a game. Only as a little sop to my male pride.