By Lisabet Sarai
I'd like to strangle her with that oh so tasteful silk tie on the cover. Armani goes well with murder.
Or perhaps I could stage an “accident” at one of her signings. What if a huge pile of her five hundred page tomes were to topple down and crush her? Wouldn't that be poetic justice, for her to be suffocated by the weight of prose she has inflicted on the world?
Ah, but her sudden demise, especially under dramatic circumstances, would only make the problem worse. A dead controversial celebrity would be even more marketable than a live one. Posthumous mommy porn would rise up to smother us all.
Anyway, I'm not the violent sort, no matter how sorely provoked. That recent incident at the Bolshoi was so very tacky. And really, her ignorance is no more her fault than her fame. Jealous as I am, much as I'd like to erase her and her books from the universe, I can't hate her personally.
Sigh. Another approach perhaps. I could teach her a bit about the realities of dominance and submission. Perhaps I'll rope her to the bedposts, blindfold and gag her, then bring out the cane. Let's see how many orgasms she'll have then. Or maybe branding would be appropriate – I gather her steely-eyed hero is cruel enough to consider such extreme measures. I might tattoo “Virgin Slave” across her chest, or “Christian's Slut” on her arse. These visions offer me a few minutes of relief, before the torment of envy returns.
Better still, I'll kidnap her and lock her away in my basement, forcing her to read The Story of O, The Marketplace series, Nine and a Half Weeks, and Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns, until she has some idea what she's talking about. I'll make her watch videos from Kink.com and chuckle as she blushes and squirms. Lady, you have no idea what we pervs really do ...
It could have been me. That's what kills me. I've written a score of tales about a natural submissive's initiation into the dark delights of BDSM, some of them as romantic as her opus. A woman finding her Master and making him love her – I get the appeal, I really do. I've been through that experience personally, which is more, I suspect, than she can say. That's the basic premise of Raw Silk, after all, as personal a fantasy for me as her opus was for her. My heroine's no virgin, though, and no wimp. She has a mind of her own and a rich sexual history - not to mention a Masters degree in computer engineering. I guess the masses couldn't identify. I'm not a mommy and never have been. The demographics just don't work in my favor.
One's first novel is rarely one's best. I read Raw Silk now and cringe at some of my sentences , especially the stiff and unrealistic dialogue. Nevertheless, Raw Silk is far better written than the novel that shall not be named, at least based on the excerpts of the latter which I've read. No, I haven't bought my own copy of the infamous trilogy. I refuse to add to her wealth, as much out of petty jealousy as out of disinterest in reading books as empty and warped as hers are purported to be.
Do I really want her fate, her fortune? Of course not, my rational self replies. I couldn't handle the constant glare of publicity. For one thing, it would quickly unravel the life I've built for myself overseas. I wouldn't want the pressure either. What will she do for an encore?
But she doesn't need to do anything, the monster counters. She can, if she chooses, live off the proceeds of her revamped fan fiction for the rest of her life.
A virid mist rises up to obscure my vision.
It's not really the money. It's not the fame. It's the unfairness of it all, the fact that recognition has nothing to do with artistic quality or truth. I toil away at my work, trying to honestly recreate the thrills and confusion of a D/s relationship. I remain obscure and receive minimal remuneration. She writes nonsense, shallow fantasies without any grounding in reality, and wins worldwide recognition.
I'll suppress the monster – I always do. Jealousy is pernicious and unhealthy. Like acid, it corrodes your peace of mind. Still, these days, the green-eyed demon whispers poison in my ear, whenever I pass a bookstore or kiosk and see those books – and the many knock offs – staring back at me. That's when I start to fantasize about whips and chains, handcuffs and riding crops, and how I might teach my nemesis a well-deserved lesson about the dynamics of power.