The Bangmaid

She doesn't say it out loud, because who would listen?

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Of course she made the bed.

Of course she put the dryer on so his clothes are warm and dry.

Of course she knows where all of the things are.

Of course she has the grocery list memorized.

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"You've had a long day, baby. Go lay down, and turn on the game.

I'll take care of it.

I always do."

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He say she's a good woman.

He means "She's convenient."

He means that she is the database of the things he forgot.

Like picking up the toothpaste. Refilling the toilet paper. Like how to feel anything more than hunger, anger, and horniness.

But that's okay. That's what she's here for.

Your everything. Your nothing.

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She is made made of comfort and blowjobs.

Of bandages and backrubs.

Of his favorite dinners and a sparkling home.

Of lunch boxes and lingerie.

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He loves how the house stays standing, and so, his ego can, too.

She is background magic, infinite patience,

his sexy little safety net.

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My Gods, she used to be somebody.

At least, I'm pretty sure she was.

Before she became the default setting.

Before "What did you make for dinner" was foreplay.

Before "Can you deal with the kids" was his Alexa automated command.

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She is the nurse.

The therapist.

The chef.

The teacher.

The maid.

The personal assistant.

And the moment his loins twitch, the whore who says "Don't get up, let me handle it."

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That's the real job, isn't it?

What every woman should aspire to be.

The Bangmaid doesn't need love, nor partnership.

She doesn't need the myth that romance novels and Disney sold of a true, blossoming partnership built on love and mutual respect.

Only the gnawing performance that nobody clapped for.

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She remembers so that he can forget.

He drops things because she will pick them up.

He doesn't say thank you, because she shouldn't need it.

She's built for this.

She's a good girl.

She's low maintenance.

She doesn't have needs or goals to aspire to, her aspirations have been met by simply meeting a man who would tolerate her.

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He reaches for her, groggy, hard, and unbothered.

The Bangmaid would never say no.

Even if she's tired.

Even if she's sore.

Even if she's bleeding and cracking beneath the pressure.

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Love means giving, yes?

Love means sex, yes?

Love means being useful, because if she isn't, he may stop looking at her altogether.

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Then who would she be?

Not his woman.

Not his Baby.

Not his savior in a thong.

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Just a woman.

Hungry.

Angry.

Alone.

Tired.

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So she folds the towel.

She turns off the light.

She lays beside him.

And tells herself she's never wanted anything more.