| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** CYNTHIA JOAN PORTER is the co-founder of an international franchise, Positive Changes Hypnosis Centers (http://www.positivechanges.com/), where she served as Marketing Director for fifteen years. She ghostwrote her husband’s first published book, Awaken the Genius, Mind Technology for the 21st Century, which was awarded “Best How-To Book of 1994.” She later ghostwrote another book for her husband entitled Discover the Language of the Mind, and they co-wrote Six Secrets of G.E.N.I.U.S.
Cynthia Joan and her husband, Patrick, reside in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Today, while the business she co-founded is “going corporate,” Cynthia Joan is busy writing direct response copy for other businesses and organizations. She writes sales and fundraising letters, brochures, web pages, and more. She also offers ghostwriting services. She is working on a book about her life as an entrepreneur. Visit her website at www.cynthiajoanporter.com. |
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| © 2005 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| Glorianna |
| by CYNTHIA JOAN PORTER |
| I cross the room in three quick, painful strides and slap his cheek hard. His head turns. He doesn’t look back. A droplet of blood appears on his lip.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” Blood trickles down his chin. A crimson bead quivers and drops to the floor. An urge to wail and pound his chest swells and wanes like a tidal surge. What good would it do? I’d already struck him once and still the rage burns. I wipe the blood from his chin. “You’ll never be sorry enough.” “Glorianna, please—” “Just shut up and let me think.” He lowers his long frame onto the sofa and licks the red ooze from his lip. The sick sweet smell of too many Southern Comfort and Cokes rises from his open mouth. “I hate you,” I say. “No, you love me.” “Not anymore.” “Please, don’t say that. This doesn’t change anything—” “Are you crazy? It changes everything.” I moisten two paper towels in the kitchen. “Here.” I toss a soggy towel at him. “Wipe your chin before you bleed all over my couch.” I dab at the spot of blood on my floor. How could he do this? Everything was so perfect before that stupid blonde showed up. The slut should’ve never come around. No, I can’t think about her now . . . her tousled pale hair . . . transfixed eyes . . . firm breasts bouncing as she rode him. What man wouldn’t be tempted? He hands me the bloodied toweling and wraps his arms around my legs. “Please, can’t we just forget this? It didn’t mean anything.” He presses his head into the softness of my abdomen. My body quakes with a new fury. This is my fault. I took his love for granted and this was the price. How many times had he begged for my attention, brought me flowers, lured me to bed? And how many times had I shooed him away? Too busy . . . too much work . . . no time. But I’d prepared everything so carefully, took every precaution. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I should never have had that first drink. Please, please, Glorianna, you have to forgive me. I love you. I need you—” I pull away. “You should have thought about that before you bedded the whore.” “She’s not a whore, she’s a dental hygienist.” “That’s supposed to make me feel better? You fucked a dental hygienist, so it’s okay?” I grab a fistful of hair and yank his head back. “I’ve never heard you curse before.” “You’ve never given me reason to curse before.” I give his hair a final wrench and release him. He groans and his head rolls to the side. “It didn’t mean anything . . . I love Glorianna . . . only Glorianna. Should’ve never had so many drinks . . .” My God, the drinks—the alcohol! Jesus Christ, how could I have missed it? I pull him forward. “Here, baby, sit up. It’s not your fault. I love you, I do.” I kiss away his tears. My tongue parts his lips as I kiss him hard and deep. I draw back and gaze into his eyes. “You’re right, sweetie, it was just the alcohol. It’ll all be fine tomorrow.” I go to the bathroom and grab a prescription bottle. No, not that one. He’ll need to sleep at least ‘til noon. He’s been through so much, poor baby. I pull down a second bottle and then a third. This’ll do. When I return his eyes follow me like a lost boy. Christ, just a few years ago he was a boy—a beautiful, emerald-eyed, sandy-haired boy—and now he’s mine, in all his handsome, muscular, sun-tanned glory. I hand him the pills and a glass of water. “These’ll help you sleep.” “I don’t want those.” He pushes my hand away and reaches for my waist. “I only want you.” “You need to sleep now. We’ve both had a rough day. I’ll be here in the morning and this’ll all be behind us . . . I promise.” He takes the water and pills, then pops the tranquilizers in his mouth. “Good, very good.” My voice is as smooth as the Southern Comfort that had caused this whole mess. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” I stroke his hair and smile. “Together?” “Of course, darling.” In the bedroom I slowly undress him. I caress his muscled arms and chest, stroke his sculpted bottom, run my fingers through the soft hair on his belly. Such an exquisite body, and it’s all mine. I guide him to the bed. He walks like a drunken robot. He slides under the silk sheets, burrowing his head into the pillow. I walk to a closed door at the end of the hall and pull a set of keys from my pocket. I’ll be working all night, but it’ll be worth it. Shafts of warm sunlight stream into the room as I twist the rod on the shades. I check his pulse, just as I had every few hours throughout the night. He rolls over and his eyelids flutter. “Darling, are you awake?” “Yeah,” he says, his voice ragged. His pupils are dilated. I take the hypodermic from behind my back and thrust it into his arm. He shutters and moans. “Shhh, you’re going to be just fine.” His body relaxes and his breathing deepens. “Can you hear me?” “Yes.” “You will hear my voice, but you will not awaken. Do you understand?” His eyelids flutter. “Yes.” “You love only Glorianna, isn’t that right?” “Yes, I love Glorianna.” “Glorianna is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, isn’t that right?” “Yes, Glorianna is beautiful.” “All other women are ugly.” I pause and smile. “Especially blondes.” “Yes, other women . . . blondes . . . ugly.” “Alcohol disgusts you, especially Southern Comfort.” “Alcohol—disgusting.” His face scrunches. God, I’m a wicked genius. “Now rest and dream of loving Glorianna. Can you do that for me?” “Yes . . . Glorianna . . . I love her . . .” “When you’re done dreaming of only Glorianna, you will awaken with a hunger for Glorianna . . . only Glorianna.” “Only Glorianna,” he mutters. His eyes shoot back and forth under his lids as he dreams. It seems to be working—and the addition of antabuse to my sodium pentothal cocktail will make sure that alcohol never gets in my way again. In the bathroom I turn on the shower and slip out of my satin robe. I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Bloated and bruised eyebags. Limp, brittle shoulder length hair. At the crown an inch and a half of silver glistens in the harsh light. My breasts hang like half-filled water balloons, and my belly pooches and almost covers my yellow-gray patch of pubic hair. The skin on my rippling thighs and calves sag and are covered in lines of purple and blue like a map of New York. My smile widens. I chuckle. The Adonis in my bed will soon awaken with an enormous hard-on and wanting only me—beautiful, beautiful me. Oh, yes, I’ll have him. I’ve earned him . . . I deserve him. |
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| Dec. 2005 |
| 55 |