Darling, you’ll never know what I do for you.  Here I am, reapplying my makeup just because I know you’ll be here soon, and I want to look good for you.  I can’t remember the last time you told me I was pretty, but I know you’d be distressed if you came home and I wasn’t ready.  I spent hours dithering over what to wear before putting my power suit back on, the plum-colored one with the big shoulder pads.  Maybe its just that I want you to know that I’m a professional too, that I work all day and then I have to have everything just-so for you, never knowing just how late you’ll be.  Sometimes you’re away all night, and it breaks my heart.

I slave away over a hot iron or a hot stove, or sometimes a veritable cauldron of fry oil, just for you.  But it’s never good enough.  Your always complaining that the meat’s raw, or that the vegetables are too squishy or that I burned the dessert.  Even when I go to special effort to prepare one of your favorites, you just look at me like I’ve done something wrong, and you won’t tell me what I could have done to make it better.

I’m waiting for you tonight, and I think I have everything just perfect.  The table’s set, the guests have arrived, I’ve even chilled a bottle of champagne.  It’s our anniversary, though I’ve learned better than to think that you’ll remember.  Of course you’re late.  By the time you come crashing in, the Irish Stew that I made with a good Black and Tan has gotten cold, and it doesn’t matter, because you’ve already started a row.  You never did like my friends, but I thought that, since I’ve had some of your police buddies pinned down since mid-afternoon, that it was only fair to have a few of mine over to keep them company.

You kick out my sewing circle and then your attention immediately turns to your friends.  You’re ignoring me completely, and something inside me just snaps.  I flirt a little with the Comissioner, just to get your attention.  It works too well.  I never know when I’ve gone too far with you: one moment I might as well not be here, and the next you strike me full across the face.  I can’t see what I’ve done wrong, but you’re up in my face shouting about my holding your friends hostage.  I was just trying to be a good host.

You hit me again, and I go flying to the floor.  I feel your boot in my ribs and then you’re on top of me, breathing heavy, into it.  I know you like it this way and, to be honest, so do I.  You’re pulling my hair, smearing my makeup, groping me furiously, slapping and smacking me about like a rag doll.  I’ll be your painted doll, I’d be anything for you, darling.

I’m pressed, face down, into the floor.  Your knee is in the small of my back.  I hear the seams pop as you rip at my clothes, exposing me to your baleful sight.  You have me, your every thrust like another blow, as you grunt and swear your way though my body.  I’m all awrack with pleasure and pain, pain and pleasure as you take me in front of your friends, who just watch the show.  I’m outside myself, taking photos of us, composing an album of our lovemaking, each moment lasting forever.

Until it’s over.  With a shuddering breath, you withdraw, leaving me beaten, exhausted, sated.  You take off with your friends, leaving me slumped on the floor.  You’re so hard on me, and sometimes I hate you for it.  But I’ll never leave you, I’ll never stop loving you, you are my everything.  As I get up, as I look for my pajamas and think about the cost of getting my clothes mended, as I put on fresh makeup over bruises, and dab alcohol on my cuts, I think of you.

I think of you, out there in that dark night, and I have to believe that you know I do it all for you, Bats.  All for you, darling.

for SDCC 2014