Stealing intimate pictures of woman has been in the news a lot lately.
Just don’t try that shit down here. This is how we handle such problems in the Gutter.
Just don’t try that shit down here. This is how we handle such problems in the Gutter.
Tribute by Grant Jerkins
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She sat on the couch in the apartment thinking about all of
this and realized that what bothered her most about the photographs was the
memory of who she was when they were taken. When she allowed them to be taken.
She had been in love with Jeremy. She trusted him. Completely. She trusted Jeremy
so much that she gave herself to him, physically and emotionally. She gave all
of herself to him. Like a child.
It was her smile—in the one photo—that disturbed her more
than any other single detail. Not the exposed labia, or the way her fingers
squeezed her erect nipples. Her smile told the viewer that she was comfortable
and proud. Comfortable with herself and comfortable with her lover. He was the
one who made her feel good about her body. So much so that she would reveal
herself to him. And allow the photos to be taken. And pride. There was pride in
that smile, because that was what she had been feeling. She had been proud that
Jeremy was so aroused by her, that he wanted these photographs to admire, to
get him through the times when they couldn’t be together.
And now, now those images of her were online for gross
middle-age men to look at and masturbate to. Or worse.
One anonymous gentleman had printed her photo and ejaculated
on her face. He put it in an envelope and mailed the repugnant results to her.
He called it a “cum tribute.”
Jermy (that’s how she thought of him now—filth-ridden,
disgusting, bacteria-laden) had posted her photos along with her email, phone
number, and home address. Now, whenever her doorbell rang, she cowered in a
back room, afraid of what sort of human mental-health-mishap might be waiting
outside her door. Maybe just a horny guy looking to offer her a real-life
tribute. Or maybe a darker sort, wanting to cut her up into a dozen pieces and
take her home to meet his mother’s corpse.
Why was there so much
hatred towards women? What was wrong with men?
She heard a cell phone ringing somewhere. A ringtone she
didn’t recognize. It sounded faint but close. Like it was just outside (or possibly
somewhere inside) the apartment. She knew what Jermy’s phone sounded like, but
that didn’t mean he couldn’t change it.
The photos had been emailed to her employer—the board of
education. Her career was over.
So she would be unemployed and homeless. She would have to
move back home with her parents.
The pictures had been sent to them, too. Now she would have
to see that knowledge in her father’s eyes.
There wasn’t anybody in her life who hadn’t viewed or heard
about the photos. Jermy had seen to it.
She was an electronic-age Hester Prynne. She had allowed
herself to be used. She was no longer pure. And now society was going about its
age-old job of punishing her.
The phone was ringing again. It was definitely coming from
inside the apartment. Maybe from the bedroom. She got up to investigate, but there
was a knock at the door. An almost timid knock. She started to hide behind the
couch, but decided to peek through the side curtain. A giant of a man stood out
there. Darkness twisted his features.
It was Rodney. She opened the door.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I left my phone here earlier.” His
voice was mellow and as deep as the Mariana Trench.
“Oh?”
“Yes’m, back in the bedroom most likely.”
“Oh.”
“May I?”
“Yes, of course.” She opened the door wider to let Rodney in
and followed him back to the bedroom. He knew where it was.
The room smelled like springtime in prison: Strawberry Astroglide,
blood and semen. Jermy—naked, spread eagle, and tied to the bedposts—was
starting to regain a murky consciousness.
“There it is,” Rodney said and pointed under the tripod. He
reached down and retrieved his phone, then leaned over Jermy like a doctor
checking on a patient.
“How you doin’?”
Jermy looked up at the large man and said, “Wha?” That was
all he could manage. Partly because he had been drugged with Rohypnol, and
partly because there was something seriously wrong with his mouth.
She had cashed in her 401K to arrange for this.
“You a good fuck, boy. S’prised me. Took to it natural. Damn
fine cocksucker too. Least once I got rid them front teeth.”
As if to prove his point, Rodney inserted a thick forefinger
through Jermy’s lips, where it met no resistance whatsoever. He gave Jermy’s
ear a rough, but playful tug. And then a little love bite on the lobe.
“Let me know soon’s them pictures is ready. I goan send you
a tribute.”
