Tradwife Era

“I want you in the kitchen” — oh yeah? You want me in the kitchen, big boy? Me baking a casserole, me with my head in the oven, or me with my pussy flesh spread across the cold marble tabletops.

What a dreamy suburban life I live. I tend my red roses along the white picket fence in the morning — far too hot by midday! I use very big, sharp clippers. They’ll clip a pig’s dick right off.

Every Tuesday I sunbathe right when the fresh-out-of-high-school pool boy clocks in for his oh-so-gruelling hard labour. I want his calloused hands around my thighs while I smother him, his mouth busy. I secrete all over myself — no, I'm neither better nor worse than a man. But what do you want me to do? Never show my feminine curves and positions again? I eye-fuck him the whole time. He winks in slow motion and I've nearly spread my sun-tanned legs for him before I even notice I'm doing it.

Every morning my idiotic husband looks with those pathetic, perverse eyes at the poor naïf girl next door. He takes off his wedding band right before he walks out the door. He brings her his mother’s casserole, tells her his oven exploded. And after the naïf lonely girl says — yes, yes, come in! — he goes in for the kill. Maybe his wife died, like last time. Maybe this time he’s a fresh divorcee. Depends what he tells her. I can’t blame you, doe-eyed foe. His ego and his lust are his apex. In reality he’s nothing but a balding redneck.

Men get comfortable fast — spread your legs for him twice and you live the ouroboros of the power and the curse of the cunt. I let men drown in it, like in my dishwater — just kidding, of course! That’d be illegal, silly! I’ve heard you can make GHB with what’s inside the kitchen counter. Golly — I'm only fantasizing.

I keep my knives razor sharp. I keep cutting the courgette, rapid and clean, like a surgeon. The pointed end is my favourite. The way it perforates things, the shape of it, the sound it makes when it hits the wooden board. The juices of the courgette on my fingers feel like my own lubricant when I slip them inside my exquisite cunt. Don’t forget your kegel exercises, ladies — or your husband will threaten you again, with his fat belly and his brochette.

Lemon dish soap, soft against my skin. Degreasing for dishes, sadly not for husbands. Soap bubbles float up, follow me to the open window above the porcelain sink. The bubble wants me to follow. That’s what it meant to show me. You, fucking the whore next door.

You stroke my cheek. It feels bitter, like the artichoke in the fridge.

The burning oil in the pan spits at me from behind. Warning me, aggressive, to put the vegetables in. Or to throw it on someone, only if totally necessary. I jump and turn fast, holding the middle of my back where the oil assaulted me, the precious knife still in my hand, my husband standing right against me. I’ll be finished after I finally get the orgasm I was promised when I married the porn-drooling little man. I stab him in the heart. Accidentally, of course.

And when I call 911 I’ll cry to the dumbest cop about my deadbeat husband’s tragic accident. I’ll snot and shake, handkerchief in my hand, apron still on. This time there’ll be a delicious casserole in the oven.

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— Love, klara