Chromebook of Doom

He found the Chromebook.

The secret Chromebook.

I’d bought the secret Chromebook a few weeks previous because I was becoming very paranoid that he’d installed a keyboard logger and/or some of that software that records all the internet sites visited by the user on my regular laptop.

It’s not that I had anything to hide.  I wasn’t sneaking around or lying to him about anything.  But you don’t have to be hiding anything to not want someone monitoring your private email accounts without permission.  Nor did I want him reading this blog.  Because it’s…well, nobody in my private life knows about it, and that’s just how I like it.

So, I went to BestBuy and bought a little Chromebook and paid for it in cash.

Then I went to The Strand bookshop and shopped until I found a hugeass hardcover book that was the right size for my purposes…and that book wasn’t cheap.  Cost me $125.

I hollowed out the book with an X-Acto Knife and put the Chromebook inside, and then put the book in the bookshelf in my bedroom…and that is the computer I would use to check my private stuff on the internet when he was away, or to maintain my dream journal, or drafts of blog posts.

Well, I came back to his apartment and walked into my room…

…and found the book open on top of my bed, with the computer inside.  There was no note, no nothing.  Just the open book.

You can imagine my reaction: I froze in terror and felt all the strength draining from my legs.  It was all I could do not to collapse on the floor.  My face went numb.

I closed the book and put it back in the bookcase where I stored it.  I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it.  My hands were shaking.

Then I walked stiffly out of the room and sat down on the couch, trying to calm down…but calming down was impossible, because now I had to look forward to the inevitable confrontation when he got home from work…four long, long hours from now.

It was uglier than anything I could have anticipated.

To Be Continued….

The Crate

When I came back to his house (I could come in by myself by then; all the security guards and front doormen recognized me), I found him in the living room.  He’d changed out of his suit and into gym shorts and a t-shirt.

There was packing material all over the floor–cardboard, foam–and he had a tool kit out and was…

…assembling something?

I’d seen this man assemble shit a few times before, and beyond replacing lightbulbs it always had something to do with ME, so I froze and took notice.

(The first time, it was removing the door from my bedroom.  The second, drilling a hole through his kitchen table to install an screw-eye so that I could be chained through it during dinnertime, like a prisoner in an institution. “What are you doing?  Are you really drilling a hole in your beautiful tortoiseshell furniture?!” I asked, incredulous.  I mean, this table is probably 100 years old, the material priceless and endangered, and here he is with his shirtsleeves rolled up, drilling away.  Not to mention: “How are you going to explain the hole to dinner guests?”  “Take out the hardware and cover the hole with a vase of flowers,” he said.)

“Hello, Darling,” he said, still working.  He was using manual tools and not the power screwdriver–consulting the manual.

“What is this you’re working on?”

“I bought something for you!  Ordered it online.  It just arrived today!”

I stepped closer and took a closer look at the pieces that were spread out on the floor.

It was wooden and had bars.  It looked like…

…a crib?!  For a baby?!  

For a moment, I didn’t know whether to be elated or completely horrified.  I’m going through some complex emotional issues right now concerning whether or not I’ll ever have a family, as I am rapidly approaching the later part of my child-bearing years, and I know my mother went into early menopause.  I never wanted children before, I was always against it and assumed I’d be happily childfree, but recently I guess there is something to that “biological clock” trope and I’m starting to think that if I decide that I DO want a family, I need to step on the gas.  This is completely new to me, and it’s stressful.  I know several women in their 40s who have happily born healthy babies and I still have time left to decide what I want to do, but it is stressful.

I can’t tell anyone about this anxiety.  I don’t have a shrink right now and I’m isolated.  I can only tell you, my 8 readers.

So, getting back to our narrative: I took a closer look at the packaging and what he was assembling.

It was not a crib.  It was a dog crate.  A fancy wooden dog crate.  Looks a lot like this:

 

dog crate

The first time he put me into it, we were having movie night.  He sat on the couch with the crate close by.  He gave me popcorn and a diet Pepsi I could drink through the bars with a bendy-straw.

It was not comfortable being in the cage because I’m tall and have long legs, so I couldn’t really relax, but, you know, for a few hours it’s tolerable if you don’t have joint problems and aren’t a crybaby. I did have a matress pad and a blanket.

As it ended up, he became too excited knowing that I was in the cage, and he could not focus on the movie.

He stopped it and let me out.

You can guess what happened after that.

 

Deprived of the Warmth

I forgot the rule about clothes again.  I can’t explain it, really.  I know Freud says that there are no accidents, but, it’s just…wearing clothes is just default human behavior.  I never SLEEP in clothes, unless I’m menstruating or sharing a house with others (roommates or guests), but, usually, even if I’m being a total slob eating frozen yogurt out of the carton with Abe on my shoulder and reading the paper, I’m wearing a pair of underpants.

Last time, after the nightly sexual experience, he said: “I hate to deprive myself of your warmth and comfort, but if I didn’t enforce the rules, you wouldn’t respect me in the morning.”

Then he took out a rubber yoga mat and laid it by the bed.  He gave me a pillow and a blanket.  That’s where I slept.

He said, “Next time, you’ll sleep in the kitchen like Oliver Twist.  Do you want to be mine, or a wretched foundling like him?”

I forgot, again, and so I slept–or tried to sleep–in the kitchen, by the table.

When the sun started to come up, the rosy-fingered dawn, I got up.  I got up before my bird, and Abe’s an early riser (an early bird! Ha! Ha! lame joke).  I was going to feed him, but I left him alone to rest.  The travel is stressful to him.

(As an aside…I love Abe SO MUCH that I feel guilty about it.  This little bird is such an innocent and joyful creature.  I know I sound like a crazy parrot lady…but every day, he gives me love.  If I don’t double-lock his cage, he opens it, walks to me at night, and wakes me up grooming my hair and staring at me.)

I rinsed off in the shower and shaved my legs and armpits and slathered on the lotion.  Time to go back to entertaining.

He was up already, as usual.  Probably since 4:30 AM.  Lifting weights in the gym.  Almost all of the men I attract do this.  Superficially, they seem different…but they’re still the same, just reiterations.

Meet the New Wolf.  He’s like the last one.

Only more deadly.

 

In My Handbag

Work Cell Phone (“Mistress Batphone”): Pay-as-you-go burner Tracfone from Target

Private Cell Phone: Samsung Galaxy S6

Tin of Altoid Smalls, peppermint flavor

Hairbrush

Chapstick, cherry flavored

Mascara, Cover Girl Lash Blast Volume in brownish-black

Miniature travel toothbrush with case

Ballpoint pens, 4 (four), all from different hotels

Hotel room key-cards, 3 (three), all from different hotels

Naltrexone, 3 (three) pills, in a zipper compartment

Visine

Compact mirror purchased at Mauritshuis in The Hague , depicting Girl With a Pearl Earring (c.1665)

Tampons, 2 (two)

Crumpled Used Kleenex, 2 (two)

Lipsticks, 3 (three): nude (Victoria’s Secret), cool fuscia (Sephora), cool red (Wet n’ Wild)

B1 complex with Folic Acid vitamins, 4 (four), because my last alcoholic relapse wrecked my health and I need these vitamins to get it back.  Doctor’s orders.  I eat them like pez.  If you are an alcoholic, you really need to get on B1 with folic acid as soon as possible.

Condoms, 8 (eight): 2 Skyn Polyisoprene (non-latex), 2 good-ole-Trojan, 2 Skyn Polyisoprene “large,” 2 Kimono brand  All for clients on outcalls, alas

A shit-ton of heavy change that needs to go in the change jar and be taken to CoinStar.

My wallet, which is printed with  van Gogh’s Almond Blossom (c. 1890).  

ATM receipts, four (4)

Ticket to the Legion of Honor

Bandages to keep my still-healing burn wounds concealed

Kohl eyeliner, one (1), brown “espresso”