This is work of fiction based on the stories of several women.
Sea Monster of Lake Huron
Gillian was afraid that Tom would come strolling up the steps in his best suit looking happy-go-lucky. He was the most dangerous then. She walked slow agitated laps around the foyer. Finally a bailiff came through.
“Excuse me,” Gillian cleared her throat. “My ex, well, my soon-to-be-ex-husband is in jail right now. Will he be waiting out here with me before the hearing?”
The bailiff smiled, “French? Don’t worry. We’ll bring him in the back way and he’ll be under my control.”
“Will he be in a suit and tie?” as soon as it was out of her mouth she felt how ridiculous it must sound. Gillian understood the concept of dressing for success. She had helped pick Tom’s clothing precisely for the purpose of giving him an edge in the courtroom.
The bailiff looked at Gillian and answered, “He’ll be in detention center uniform and he will be under my control.” He walked away muttering, “Why don’t we just stone these bastards?”
Cleansing breath. Cleansing breath. Cleansing breath.
She heard the sound of wingtips on granite and even though she knew it wasn’t Tom, her whole body tensed. It was the attorney. He had a bristle of close clipped gray hair. He reminded Gillian of a 1930’s heavyweight boxer. He nodded her into a conference room. Gillian had begun to suspect that Attorney Ireland thought she was flaky for staying so long and making babies with a loose canon like Thomas French. But it was too late now. It had been hard enough to find someone that would represent a brother lawyer’s wife and one that would accept the token retainer from the women’s shelter. She would rather have a lawyer that thought she was a twit than no lawyer at all.
The bailiff led Tom to the other side of the conference table. His wrists were chained to his waist, orange jumpsuit, hadn’t shaved since late October.
“So,” began Ireland, “you’ve had a chance to look over the motion. Mrs. French gets sole legal custody of the minor children and primary physical placement with periods of temporary placement at reasonable times and on reasonable notice.”
“No.”
“No?” Ireland looked as if he surely hadn’t heard correctly. Gillian looked out a window that wasn’t really there but should have been and thought this is how it starts.
“No, I’m contesting custody and placement. Mrs. French is unfit. The children would be better off with me.” Tom said.
“Even if we were to overlook your current lodgings and your history of violent behavior, Mrs. French has brought up some concerns about your use of pornography when the children are around. That alone would cast doubt upon your claim.”
“I expect to have my record expunged and if you bring up the pornography, I’ll bring up what I have on her.”
Gillian snapped back from her imaginary window. “You don’t have anything. There isn’t anything.”
Tom played his trump card, “You had oral sex with your brother.”
She was walking along the shore of Lake Huron. Her childhood home. Comfort in familiar surroundings. Same shoreline she had walked every day of her childhood. As she walked, she looked to the lake. The coils of a venous, fleshy sea monster broke the surface, rolled, sank back into the lake. Gillian never saw its head, never saw its tail. Just its writhing flank. Purple veins. The sea monster never frightened her. She was blasé about a repulsive, pink worm the size of a whale living just offshore in Lake Huron. That is what scared her. Breathless and sweaty Gillian awoke. There was no relief in waking.
“This is a hang-up from when you were little,” Tom said. “I’d like to help you through it.”
“Thank you, Darling. You make me feel safe,” Gillian said hoping it was true.
“I think you need to get back on that horse.”
“What?”
“Jill, if you suck me, that will clear up all these hang-ups and inhibitions.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t like it.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t like it because it’s associated with bad memories. If we do it together then it will be associated with good memories and you’ll like it.”
“I don’t feel comfortable.”
“Just try. Trust me.”
“I’ve tried, Tom, you know I have. It’s not about anything from my past, I just don’t like it.”
“How can you be so selfish?”
“Selfish?”
“You are punishing me for what Jimmy did.”
“I’m not punishing you. I just find it degrading.”
“It’s not degrading. It’s another way we can express our love—especially with that belly in the way.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t like it and I don’t want to do it.”
“But you let me do you. You know you like that. So you’ll take pleasure, but you won’t give any.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t like it when you do it to me either.”
“You said you did. Were you lying then, or are you lying now?”
“I just…”
“You just what?”
“Never mind. I’m sorry, Honey. I don’t want you to feel frustrated. That dream bugged me. I’m tired and the baby keeps kicking. Could you just hold me?”
“Fine.”
Gillian laid her head on Tom’s shoulder. She tried to ignore Tom stroking himself. He turned to her for what she hoped was just a goodnight kiss. There was no kiss. He penetrated, pushing, grating through dry folds of raw tissue.
“Wait. I’m not ready.”
“Just relax. You’ll be wet in a second.”
“It hurts.”
“Only for a second.”
“Could you wait a second.”
“No. You’ve got me too close.” And he came.
Gillian thought, thank God. Now he’ll fall asleep. She could go to the bathroom for a cool cloth to soothe the soreness. She opened her eyes and there, brushing her lips, was the sticky, spent cock.
“If you suck me till I’m hard, we can go again so you can come.”
He was straddling her neck.
Jilly loved Jimmy. He was a cool big brother. He was almost a grown-up. He could fix cars and drive them. He let her look at his Hot Rod magazines with him. They would laugh about the girls with big boobies sitting on the cars. Today he was sick and Momma went to the store to buy groceries. She asked Jimmy to look after Gillian. She was snuggled on his lap when he started tickling her in her underpants. It didn’t hurt, but it made her tummy feel yucky. It made her feel like she had to go pee and sneeze at the same time.
“Do you like that? Does it feel good?” Jimmy asked her.
“I have to go the bathroom,” she said.
“Do you need help wiping?” Jimmy asked.
“I can do it myself. I just can’t reach the water.”
Jimmy came with her to the bathroom. As she sat on the toilet, Jimmy told her jokes and made her laugh till she had the hiccups. Then he said, “Hey Jilly, can I put my thing in your mouth?”
“No,” she laughed. “That’s yucky. It gots pee pee germs.”
“What if I washed it with soap?”
“OK, but you better not tell Momma on me.”
“OK, Jilly, I’ll wash it good and I won’t tell Momma.”
The memory bobbed to the surface from time to time and she shook it out of her head. Sometimes when she would remember, she would hope that the memory of that day burned her brother with shame. Other times she hoped that his experimentation with drugs and failed relationships were not because he was burning with shame.
Gillian thought many times about confronting Jimmy. The talk shows all seemed to indicate that that would bring catharsis and healing for both Gillian and Jimmy. How do you go about that?
“Hey Jimmy, do remember that day when we were kids—I was four and you were sixteen and you tricked me into performing fallatio on you? (Can I pass you the gravy?) Well, I just want you to know that I forgive you.”
“Oh, thanks Jilly, I was wondering about that. Pass the dinner rolls, please.”
Should she tell her mother?
“Hey Mom, you crazy negligent bitch, did you know that day when you left me home with Jimmy, he molested me?”
“Gillian, what did you say to your mother? She won’t stop crying.”
She couldn’t even take it to Father Frank, although she couldn’t put her finger on why. No, she decided she would work it out in her own heart and mind. She would carry it herself as a secret gift to the peace of the family.
Then Tom began to demand more submission from her. The first time he asked for a blowjob, Gillian was so startled by the request she couldn’t think of what to do. She had just been through an “is it too much to ask” tirade and just wanted some peace. So she did it. The next day Tom was in an inexplicably foul mood. He treated Gillian with contempt; criticizing everything she did, including how she applied her mascara. She thought perhaps the sex had not been satisfying. Next time she tried harder to please him.
“How was it?” she asked.
“It was OK.”
The harder she tried to be appealing and skillful, the more critical and abrasive he got. She tolerated endless searches for her G-spot and acrobatic positions. The result was that he was always looking for the greater thrill but finishing faster without even considering Gillian’s comfort or pain. The only time he made sure she had a climax was when he was having difficulty achieving an erection. Then he would use his hands or whatever object he thought looked interesting to make her come. That would get him excited enough to quickly hump her and fall asleep.
Finally one day she said, “I would prefer it if you did not ask me to do that anymore.” In the interrogation that followed, Gillian could not tell Tom that she found him disgusting, that she was sick of his brow-beating, she found his sexual tastes demoralizing, and that she would rather gouge his eyes out than let him put that pathetic, crooked little cocktail weenie anywhere near her. She thought that perhaps if she told him about that day with Jimmy he would have compassion and leave her alone.
Instead it made him hot.
The boss caught Tom masturbating and surfing for pornography at the office. Highly skilled negotiator that he was, Tom convinced the boss to give him another chance. By the time the boss caught him a second time, Tom’s proclivities were a firm-wide joke. People were cautioned not to shake hands with him.
“You don’t know where it’s been.”
“If I were going home to Gillian French, I wouldn’t be cheating on her with Rosie Palmer.”
So Tom was out of work. He toyed with the idea of opening his own office from the house, but whole days were spent on the computer “choosing a font for the letterhead.”
Gillian offered to get a job until he could get back on his feet.
“Are you kidding me? At most you could make, what, twelve dollars an hour. I bill ten times that.”
“Yes, but even minimum wage is more than a hundred and twenty times zero. I can quit when you get going.”
“No. The kids need you here.”
“You’re here.”
“Yeah, I’m really going to invite clients into this dump. It’s a pig sty. What do you do all day? Sit on your fat ass and watch soaps.”
“You know I…”
“Maybe I could get something going if I had more support from you.”
“This is not…”
“After all I do all day for you and the kids, is it too much to ask that I get a little comfort and understanding from you.”
“What are you…”
“When was the last time we had sex? Huh?”
“I offered last night, but you…”
“Well, I was tired last night. I had a hard day.”
“A hard day?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like for me?”
“I know it’s been rough but…”
“The kids are napping and I’m looking forward to little time with my wife, and you come in here and bitch about money.”
“I wasn’t, I was just…”
“You were just what?”
“Trying to help. I’m sorry.”
“Look, Jill. Let’s not fight. This is tough time for both of us. I need your support now more than ever. Come on. The kids are still sleeping; let’s kiss and make up.”
“No, I hear Tommy.”
“Well, put on a video for him. We’ll be very quiet.”
When the foreclosure notice came on the same day as a phone bill with $400 in 900 numbers, Gillian wanted to die. She went so far as to drop the kids off at the sitter while Tom was out shopping for office furniture.
An afternoon of quiet did her a lot of good. She had looked over the house for a likely method, decided on pills, but for the sake of the children she changed her mind.
Tom can home late that night—late enough for Gillian to start hoping for a fiery car crash.
“I brought you a surprise,” he said.
She opened the brown paper bag to find a large battery operated phallus.
She held it up between her thumb and finger and looked at it. Unbelievable.
“I thought you could do me with your mouth and I could do you with this. Sound like fun?”
“No. It does not sound like fun, Tom. I thought you’d had an accident. You were supposed to be out getting your office together. Tommy’s shoes are pinching his feet, we are losing the house and you spent the Christmas money on phone sex.”
Just then Janie toddled into the room rubbing her eyes. Gillian did not get the dildo hidden in time. Janie asked what it was. Tom took a back swing that would have made Tiger Woods proud and slapped her little face and roared for her to get back to bed.
“I want you to leave this house right now,” Gillian said with surprising calm. “Go back to the bar and get a hooker. Go jack off until your head explodes. I don’t care. Just get out of here now!”
Tom grabbed Gillian’s throat and held her against the wall.
“Don’t ever tell me what to do.”
When Tom was asleep, exhausted from his exertions, Gillian took her hand-printed baby and her drowsy little boy and went to the shelter.
Gillian turned to face her orange clad, unshaven husband.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. I’ll tell the judge everything I know about you and your history.”
“I was four!”
Ireland laid his big paw on hear arm. To Gillian he said, “You don’t even have to answer that.” To Tom he said, “I would really advise against trying that in front of the judge. I can guarantee it will backfire.”
The bailiff came and escorted Tom to the courtroom. At the respondent’s table, Tom made a big show of struggling to pour himself a glass of water with the shackles on his wrists.
Gillian watched the production and thought what a thoroughly ridiculous little man. She felt a small pop inside her, just like a soap bubble. Gillian watched the production and thought what a thoroughly ridiculous little man. She felt a small pop inside her, just like a soap bubble. She snorted great gulping tears of relief into her sodden Kleenex. Ireland looked into her eyes worried that she might be too hysterical to proceed. Gillian gave him a blotchy smile and said, “I’ve won.”
