Cheater's Anthology

Cheater's Anthology

Cheater's Anthology

The Type Prequel Series

The Type Prequel Series

1/34 - The Stalker Part 1

1/34 - The Stalker Part 1

In the span of 1 decade, 1 year, and 1 day, Lyrou, heretofore a faithful married mom, would extramaritally and covertly fuck 34 paramours. Some men she would have lengthy affairs with, other men would be quick flings. Some men she would achingly miss when it was over with them and other men she would regret and wish to never see again. However varied, all her trysts, entanglements, ecstasies, catastrophes, and this new secret version of herself were made possible and started here on this morning in this mall with the first of them; Richard. Here, for Lyrou, began her cheater's anthology.

Morning Saturday June 16th, 2012

A woman in her mid-20s pushed a stroller through the mall. Surrounded by hundreds of strangers going about their shopping, eating, and socializing she felt alone, angry, tired, stuck, misunderstood, alienated, depressed, homesick, culture shocked, physically fatigued, unattractive, and worst of all she had felt more and more this way at an accelerating rate since becoming pregnant. The bad feels had magnified since giving birth, and now they were hollowing her out. The prospect of living the rest of her life in this state caused her to imagine something she hadn't before. No, not suicide. The idea of her husband arriving home finding her hanging from the ceiling fan discolored and then discovering their baby floating face-down in the bathtub was so ridiculous to her that she laughed internally. But she fantasized of not existing, of having never been born, of blinking out of time and space, of willing herself into oblivion. An erasing, a deletion from the material universe and blotting out of her name from the Akashic Records.

A man's voice, "Hello." snapped her out of her daze.

"Excuse me.." she stepped aside, rolling her stroller backward with her, assuming she had blocked his path.

But he didn't pass. Here stood a tall, bronzed, man in paratrooper boots, blue Nordic runes tattooed around his collar, and a leather biker jacket, handsome with a completely smooth-shaved scalp, "Aren't you the saddest lady I've seen?"

She saw her reflection in his black wraparound sunglasses; she did look bad. "Oui? Should I be happy about something?"

Removing his shades; narrow, deep set, hooded eyes under a heavy brow-ridge. "The kid."

Lyrou nodded, did he mean to tell her to count her blessings in having a baby. Fine, "Oh, he's my every..."

"How much?" he interrupted.

She furrowed her brow and thought he might be an expectant father curious about the cost of raising a baby, "A couple grand per month. Are you expect..."

The skinhead folded his arms and looked more closely at her baby in the stroller, "That's fair. I like what you're doing with the nappy, the teething ring. Say I lose the kid, like he crawls off?"

"Lose?" she hadn't caught on.

"Y'know.. I'd like to buy your coverage, and get a loss damage waiver." he put his finger to his chin.

She got it, he was joking that he wanted her child, right? "Oh!? What purpose might a big motorhead have with a little baby?"

Shrugging as if it was standard, "Baby-related tasks; eating pennies from under my refrigerator, smacking my television screen, waking me up at 3am.."

She cracked a smile, "This is the perfect baby for that, but I can't rent him to you."

The stranger playing incredulous, "Whaaaah? Why?"

She looked him up and down, "You're a creepy weirdo. And I'm this close to screaming for security because I don't know you and you're scaring the shit out of me." She let out a nervous little laugh.

Placing his hand on the stroller handle next to hers, "My name's Richard. Now you know me. What's your name?"

"I'm flattered, but... but I don't want to tell you my name." she squeezed the stroller handle with both hands, knuckles white. She meant for him to see her wedding ring and move along.

He looked down into her eyes, "I'd be happier to have your phone number than your name."

She wanted the fastest way out, "If I give you my number, you have to go away."

He nodded, "I promise." and readied his phone, holding it facing her. "Dial."

And she did, hitting the call icon, and her phone rang. Looking up at him under her brows, "It's not fake."

The skinhead swayed ever so slightly, like a tall pine in the wind, tucking his phone back into his jeans, "You'll block my number as soon as I go. But I'll still get what I want to say through to you. You're going to worry about your safety. Don't. If we meet again, it'll be because you want to. Only then should you worry."

He released the stroller handle and ran his fingers over hers, brushing her ring, and walked on through the mall, but for his height he might've merged into the shoppers. Yet so lofty and with the Jolly Roger on his back instead he seemed to float off away over the waves of heads and faces like a high pirate mast. She let herself breathe. Had anybody seen that? She reached into the stroller and lifted her baby out, hugging and nuzzling him, "Alan, Alan. Viens là, mon lapin, mon petit cœur."

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Morning Sunday June 17th, 2012

24 hours later he typed it out and hit send, "Testing, testing, have you blocked me?"

She had and he expected that. But he would get a message through to her regardless, "I'll ask you one question per day, Lyrou. Today's question; if you were bound and blindfolded and had to be fed by hand-under-spoon like a baby, what would you like to be fed?"

Lyrou was, at that moment she read it, home feeding her baby. She winced at the message, could it be? Had he gotten through? Obviously, nobody else would send her this kind of message. She looked at the number, different from the one she had blocked. Thinking it futile to block and ignore without rebuffing him, "You're from the mall yesterday? I want to politely explain that I'm not interested in you. Please don't contact me again."

Her baby sitting in his highchair, green mush falling down his chin onto his little bib, Lyrou was fixated at her phone now.

The reply from Richard, "If you answer my harmless questions, I'll be content with that. Maybe I'll get bored after a few and you won't hear from me again. Answer; what would you like to be fed?"

She looked to her baby, wiped his face clean, and then back to her phone. What could she do?

"I blocked you. How are you messaging me?" she called foul.

A braggadocious block of text, "I have workarounds. With your phone number I was able to find your name, and your address in Grantwood, NJ. Via OSINT I found your email addresses, social media profiles, and much else. From there I used VoIP, softphone clients, SIP, DID, API, and spoofing to send you an unblockable message."

She got goosebumps. He was serious. Setting her baby Alan's spoon down, she clasped her fingers together over her head, she had to think. Would she escalate it to play along, or would he swim off after a few light nudges as he said he might? She typed out an answer, "I don't want to answer. It's an uncomfortable question. If I answer you then you must leave me alone."

He sent her a multiple choice; "A. Peanut butter & chocolate B. Strawberries & cream C. Honey & nuts D. Something else:_______"

Lyrou, on seeing the choices, planted her face into her palms and gave it a lot of thought. The answer didn't matter, it was if she answered that made the difference. If she didn't answer, he wouldn't like that and he might get more persistent, he might welcome the challenge of resistance and push harder, he might become angry and unhinged, he might come to her and do who knows what. But answering him at all might encourage him to keep going, she might feed whatever power trip he was getting off to with this phone exchange, or like he said... he might sigh and find someone else to unnerve. She exhaled and typed, "The best option you gave is Strawberries & cream. I answered honestly. I'm trying not to be rude. Please don't message me again."

She watched her phone unblinking for a moment. All she could determine was that her answer was 'read' but beyond that, silence on his end.

She looked to her son, staring at her blankly with big bright eyes, "What should I have done, Alan? I don't know."

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Evening Sunday June 17th, 2012

Lyrou slept in her bed next to her baby, and her husband, Garin, came in around 11pm. She texted him, "Welcome home ma vie. I can't move because he's finally asleep at the correct hour, and he'll wake if I so much as put my foot to the floor. There is pizza warm on the rotisserie. Don't save any for me. I'm fat." And she signed it with a sad face emoji, :'-(

She listened as the sounds travelled up to her from downstairs, he was pouring himself a drink to go with his dinner, then the clink of a plate set on the counter. She could see Garin down there in her mind; he was sitting at the counter, pizza slice to his mouth in one hand, his phone in the other. And just then hubby's text came through, "Thank you for preparing it. It's not fair for you to stay thin as you make me fat, though. I'll bring a slice up for you to eat on your pillow."

She smiled in the dark, only the hall light and light of her phone on her face, "You can't bring it in here, the smell will wake him."

He replied also, "I'll stay on the couch, goodnight."

Lyrou set her phone down. She hadn't deleted the message from Richard. Now she thought if she should screenshot it to send to her husband, let him read it, and then be ready and out with it once he came up to get his explanation. Now would be the time, she reasoned, early. If she told him later his first question would be why she hadn't come to him with it immediately. But she didn't want to tell him about it. She just didn't. Was she still angry at him? Yes, underneath it all she was still angry, but that wasn't why. Was she scared? Yes, but that wasn't it either. Did she hope the stranger would text again? Honestly? Maybe not hope, per se, but wonder. She wondered if the weirdo would become 'bored' with her so soon. She would wait to see if another question came through. Then whether it did or didn't, she would tell her husband. Yes, she decided, that was the plan. And she put the issue away until tomorrow, laying still, touching Alan's tiny toes.

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Morning Monday June 18th, 2012

Morning sex. She used to like it. When it was good, she even loved it. Since giving birth, though, she often hated it and only tolerated any rarely to appease her husband in the way one eats dry, crumbly meatloaf not to offend your host. But Lyrou, in those days, was not yet a practiced actress. Garin could immediately perceive that she was passively letting him get it over with. "I don't want it if you don't want it." he'd told her midway into initiating, his hands under her clothes, finding her body unresponsive and rigid.

She let out a sigh, "It's so complicated, Garin. I want to, but I don't feel it. And it's not because of you at all. It's just the state of me, right now. But I worry about leaving you on hold. It's not fair to you... or to me really. I should make an effort to get myself back into the groove, but it's not simple. I can't force it."

To be denied the stress relief of sex in the most professionally stressful time in his life was to Garin a tough one, but he was sympathetic and had heard of women experiencing the same. She had given her body to gestate their firstborn son, and was now under layers of difficult adjustments and pressures in her own right. He could put aside his urges in this context, "I'll want you endlessly, and I'm not going anywhere. Take your time."

Could he have been more conciliatory, and could that make her feel guiltier? "Cheri... some women lament their husband doesn't want them sexually after their first birth, and they feel hideous. Others fear, sometimes correctly, their husband will stray to feed the need. But you want your wife like this, and don't look away from her. Merci."

Feeling appreciated for his goodness but catching her self-deprecation, "Like this? What does that mean?"

Lyrou gestured at her face and body, a tear in her eye, "I know. It's not objectively true, but it feels like.. like I'm disgusting. I want to be like I was."

Garin asking her to spell it out clearly, "Like you were?"

"I looked and felt different." she wiped her eyes. He nodded, not to say she was wrong about herself, just to listen and consider. She was frank, "When I take a shower at the pool, I feel like I'm showing up at a carved pumpkin contest with a half-rotten gourd, the face caving in, and setting it next to a row of.. colorfully bright, smooth, firm..."

Garin concerned, "That's not you at all."

She put her fingers to her temples and massaged in circles, "I don't want to be touched, or seen, or smelled. I know I'll get back to myself, I know I will, but I don't know when."

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Noon Friday June 22nd, 2012

Lyrou had two fellow-French friends in the US; Nathalie and Julie. Neither had married or had a child, and both intended to return to France.. to go back to the real-life they had left. For them Bosnywash was a kind of extended tourist adventure, they were guests in this country, and they meant to have fun. Planting her roots here, getting tied down with an American man, and now caring for a baby boy increasingly set her in a different world from them. While left mostly unsaid, their connection was dissolving and these meetings were vestigial, their questions about her baby and husband were usually mechanical, and when she answered them sincerely her truth bounced off them like a grape tossed at cats; they winced, sniffed, pawed about, and didn't know what to do with it. Worse, in front of her the two girls held back relating their free & single, unburdened lives. Not so much, but a little, and it was enough to set the friendship ajar. But today, sitting with them in the café, she had something new to say, something they might drop the glazed over fake interest for and find true curiosity. She told them about Richard and the mall, "J'étais au centre commercial hier et il y avait ce type vraiment, vraiment flippant..."

As she expected, they set their drinks down and propped up, waiting for her to speak. "Un type flippant? Il t'a fait quoi?" And Lyrou had them.

She recounted it as it happened, and they sat speechless, showing them the texts he had sent in the days since the multiple choice tasting. They put their heads together and scrolled through the messages;

"Do you like a man's face and body full of hair, shaved bare, or something taillé en topiaire?"

"Richard? I don't like this."

"You don't like male body hair?"

"It's a creepy question."

"Just answer."

"Anything is fine, but not too much on his back and shoulders."

"LOL. Until tomorrow, Lyrou."

And then the next day,

"If you couldn't go back to France, and you couldn't stay here in the US, which country would you move to?"

"Please leave me alone."

"Canada? Belgium?"

"I would choose Switzerland."

"If you can afford it why not? Until tomorrow."

And then the next day,

"How physically attractive do you think you are, to most men, relative other women your age?"

"I'm not attractive."

"You are and you know you are. But if a hundred men saw you naked on stage, how many would prefer your looks to their girlfriends and wives?"

"I have no idea. It's a strange question. I can't begin to say."

"Estimate."

"Maybe half. I don't know."

Then to the next day, yesterday,

"If your husband died suddenly in an unavoidable accident, how would you feel?"

"I will call the police and report you for harassment and threats."

"They can't trace me. It's a question, how would you feel if your husband died?"

"I would feel terrible."

"Why terrible?"

"You said one question per day."

"Fair. Maybe I'll ask that tomorrow."

Her friends looked at one another wild-eyed, hands over their hearts and mouths, "Lyrou, tu dois aller voir la police. Peut-être qu'ils ne pourront pas le retrouver, mais ils peuvent lui faire peur et il arrêtera. Est-ce que Garin est au courant? C'est trop flippant!" Julie advised.

Nathalie seconded, "C'est un harceleur, et il tire son excitation de tes réponses, à te faire répondre à ses questions débiles. Tu dois au moins faire une déclaration à la police."

Lyrou nodded, "Je ne voulais pas en faire toute une histoire, ni provoquer cet inconnu. Qui sait ce qu'il pourrait faire? Je pensais juste qu'il arrêterait rapidement. Mais ça fait des jours que ça dure, ces bêtises. Je le signalerai si je reçois encore un message de lui. "

And speak of the devil, one more message came through. At its buzz the three of them jumped in their seats, "Merde alors!" Julie seized her blouse and exhaled.

The three women quietly read it together, flat on the table between them, "Why would you feel terrible if your husband died?"

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Late June, 2012

Lyrou decided she'd stop answering. He still texted, but unreciprocated. "How terrible would you feel if your husband died?" On the toilet she sobbed thinking she might bring harm to Garin, totally undeserved and avoidable, and that she needed to tell him. But then, tissues bunched in hand, she recomposed and talked herself down, that this stranger was full of it and just trying to get a quick thrill out of her. She'd deny him that. Flush.

Then the next day, "When would you stop feeling terrible your husband died?"

But this silent treatment she sanctioned him by instantly filled her with paranoia that he would come for her to do... she didn't know what. Careful not to allow Garin see her shift into guard dog house prowl, she double checked that all their windows and doors were locked, that the garage was closed, and that blinds were shut so nobody could see in at night. Texting to Julie & Nathalie how she had become besieged, they shared an anecdote how a burgling rapist once gained entry to his victim's home by breaking into her car in the driveway and using the garage door opener. With that Lyrou marched in her house slippers into the garage to unplug the rolling panel door motor.

But Garin did notice. Thinking him asleep, she was ever more frequently peeking out their bedroom window after midnight, her finger poking through the blind. In the dark he asked, "Are you looking for something out there?"

She was startled and clenched her fists, dropping the blind down, "Non. I'm feeling scared."

Garin sat up, "Why? Did you hear something?"

She thought this was the right moment to tell him about the texts and the weirdo. Garin would wonder why she didn't tell him at first, and then he might become alarmed and angry when she showed him the crazy messages this guy had sent her, but it hadn't gone on so long that she couldn't claim, honestly, that she was confused about what to do. But if she told him, she was sure Garin would get involved, very involved. Could her valiant husband stop the messages, could he get Richard arrested, could he make it worse? Would he beat Richard up? Could he beat Richard up? She didn't know any of that, but she knew he would get very involved.

Garin repeated his question, "Did you hear something out there?"

"Non." This was her thing, whatever it was, and she would handle it her way, "I've read too many scary novels."

Garin's posture eased, "The hind brain takes fiction for fact, you've got it trained to look out for vampires and ghosts now." He opened his arms, she came back to bed, and he held her.

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Noon Monday June 25th, 2012

Sitting alone in her car in her garage, Lyrou texted Richard a copy of the harassment complaint she'd just filed at the local police station, admitting it's useless for now but there in case, "Don't cross the line, you won't get away with it."