Chapter 9: Monday

Monday had the nerve to show up on time.

I woke sore in all the places I could not mention in polite society. I was dressed like a person with a respectable job, and drove to work rehearsing the version of myself that did not send photographs of her crotch to her boyfriend’s oldest friend before lunch. That version of me was already late. She also did not exist.

Tyler texted while I was still in the parking garage.

Good morning, beautiful. I woke up hard thinking about you. I want a picture of your pussy. Don’t try to get cute; I want you to show me what is mine.”

I stared at the screen.

“You do realize some of us have to enter buildings and speak to coworkers like we were not just issued instructions by your morning wood.”

“I do realize that. I also want the picture. Just be sure to send it before you start pretending you are only a professional.”

“I think you will need to wait; I need to clock in and see where things stand with the shift change first.”

She sent a photo. It was a picture of me in the shower, kneeling in front of him, looking up, my mouth open and displaying his cum that was collected there for him to inspect. My stomach knotted when I saw it. I looked exactly like the slut he kept calling me.

“This woman is the good girl who does what she is told. You need to remember who you are and follow her lead.”

I felt a little bile rising up in my throat, but I swallowed, just like the girl in the photo had done, and I replied, “ok.”

The single-occupancy bathroom at the end of the hall smelled like bleach. I locked the door, stood under the fluorescent lights that had never flattered anyone, and thought, with great clarity, that I had become a woman who took pictures of her vagina at work on a Monday. My self-respect sent a memo requesting a change. I filed it as “under review”.

I dropped my scrubs and panties and laid them, along with my purse, across the infant changing station to keep them clean and away from the bleach smell on the floor. I then tried a few different positions. I tried sexy, I tried refined, I tried to be alluring, but there is only so much you can do under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights in a hospital bathroom, so I went with what I knew he would like the most. I settled on vulgar.

I took three pictures. The first, looking up from below, showing my scrub top, looked clinical. The second, with my fingers spreading my labia, looked desperate. For the third one, I put my phone on the toilet lid and squatted over it. I was drenched, totally open and obscene. I sent all three of them because I am nothing if not committed to my own poor decisions.