The Juliette Society (20 page)

Prince Charming. The perfect male. Ken Doll. The perfect specimen. The Bachelor. The perfect husband. Because those guys, the impossibly good-looking ones, the charming ones, the ones that sweep you off your feet, the ones that seem too-good-to-be-true, well, they usually are too-good-to-be-true. There’s another word for charmer, a more accurate description.

Sociopath.

It’s amazing how many women fall for guys like that, fall for the same ruse, time and time again, and then rue the day they ever met them.

The game of love, it’s one of the oldest cons going. What it really is, is this:

A shell game.

Watch the cups move round and round, and guess which one contains the perfect man. Play that game and you’re going to lose. Always. It’s a foregone conclusion.

No one wants to believe they’ve been conned, especially in love. Because that fucking hurts. Probably more than anything in the world. It hits you right in the gut. Makes you feel sick. Makes you feel stupid. Really, really stupid. And so the best thing for anyone in that situation to do is this:

Pretend they saw right through him.

Pretend they knew all along.

Pretend it never happened.

Start all over again.

And this time, tell themselves, never again. I’ll never fall for the same trick again.

But they will.

They will because they don’t know what they want in life and, until they do, they’re destined to fall into the same pattern time and time again, destined to repeat their failures. Because they’re pursuing an unattainable fantasy. Of the perfect man. The perfect husband. The perfect lover.

And life isn’t like that.

It really isn’t.

People aren’t like that.

And this doesn’t just apply to women. Guys fall prey to their own self-deception too. The sensitive ones, at least. The ones who are evolved enough to think of women as more than just a convenient receptacle for their come. Sometimes they’re too evolved. They think too much. They put women up on a pedestal, idealize their perfect companion into something that no one can live up to. At least, I know I can’t. And to me, that just seems like a recipe for a lifetime of disappointment, a lifetime of failed relationships. Of looking for Mr or Mrs Right and always ending up with someone wrong. So wrong.

This is the game of love. A cup and ball game in which everyone loses.

You say, that’s cynical.

I say, it’s realistic.

I’m not saying that I don’t believe in love, because I do. And, if hard pushed, I’ll probably admit that it’s the only I thing I believe in. Not God, not money, not people. Just love. And I’m not suggesting anyone lower their standards, or settle for second best. Far from it.

I’ll tell you something else. My relationship with Jack, it isn’t like that. It’s not based on what we’re not, it’s based on who we are. And we’re imperfect, as human beings, as lovers, as partners. And I love the imperfections, I celebrate the failings, I worship the flaws. I’m comfortable with who I am, warts and all. I’m comfortable with who he is. I’m speaking for myself here, not for Jack.

He’s one of those sensitive souls who thinks too much and sometimes I despair that I can never live up to his hopes and dreams for me. And I do things that are really dumb and self-destructive, as if I want him to find a reason to hate me.

I do things like I did last night. And I can pretend all I want that it’s something else. That it’s even, in some way, honorable because I was being true to myself, true to my fantasies. But the fact of the matter is this: I cheated on my boyfriend. The man I love, want to marry and spend the rest of my life with. I didn’t cheat on him with my head. I cheated on him with my body. And it felt good.

But fuck it, you only live once. I can deal with the consequences of my actions. I’ll mitigate the losses. But there’s one thing I don’t intend to lose.

Jack.

17

Jack’s come home and I’ll do anything for him to take me back, to make him feel he’s wanted and loved, that we’re meant to be together.

I cook him a meal and while we’re eating I search his face for any indication that the ice has melted, because the conversation between us is stilted and awkward. And I realize that just the fact that he’s here, eating something I’ve prepared, is a good sign.

We’re still feeling our way around each other after our time apart. A week that feels like a month. But I’m so happy to have him here.

After dinner, Jack turns on the TV and catches the end of a campaign ad for Bob DeVille. He’s sitting on the couch like he’s watching the last thirty seconds of a football game that’s too close to call; perched forward with his elbows resting on his knee, his hands clasped below his crotch. His whole body tensed and poised. I have my legs curled up under me like a cat and my arm stretched over the back of the couch, exactly where Jack’s body would be if he was leaning back.

This is the closest we get to intimacy. And I’d do anything for that not to be the case. I don’t know if this means we’re back together or not. Jack’s sending out mixed messages and it’s so confusing.

We’re looking at a two-shot of Bob in some sort of factory, listening intently to a young man in a work shirt and a weathered face whose short life has clearly aged him way beyond his years. He looks like he could be Bob’s dad, when he’s probably young enough to be his son.

Bob is looking earnest and nodding sagely. And just in case we don’t get the message, he’s giving that impression in the voiceover too. He says, ‘People are looking for a change. They’re looking for someone who will listen, really listen, to their concerns and their problems and their fears. Someone who will listen, respond and react.’

He says it like he’s reciting Hamlet’s final soliloquy, or reading
Moby Dick
. It’s epic and intoxicating and you really want to believe him, because he sounds so damn convincing.

He’s talking in soundbites that convey a message so bland it’s inoffensive; so familiar, it’s comforting; something that really speaks to people, goes right to the core of their being, seems to mirror their values; even as it’s saying absolutely nothing – all of those things at the same time.

Soundbites are all well and good but they’re just words on a page that sound real phony without somebody who can deliver them. And Bob’s a natural at that.

He was born to be a politician, the way we think people are born to be artists, writers or sportsmen. But actually that’s a fallacy because people who are creative or who might excel in some particular field, although they might be born with the seeds of genius inside them, are only what they are because they’ve honed a talent over many years, focused in on it completely and made it the very core of their being.

It doesn’t take any particular talent to be a politician, just a particular psychopathology. So it’s absolutely correct to say someone was born to be a politician. They are part of a select breed of individual who thrive on using the quirks of their personality, their cunning and wiles, rather than a specific set of skills. Who’ve worked out the shortcut to achieving the same goal others reach solely through hard work and discipline. Playing the game and cheating the odds to make sure they go beyond.

And I don’t mean to do Bob down, because he’s very good at what he does. He’s one of the best and I totally get why Jack’s so in awe of him.

Bob manages to pull off the trick of seeming city slick and country at the same time – without alienating either one, the city dwellers or the country folk. He speaks from both the head and the gut at the same time. I reckon Bob could sell toothpaste to people with no teeth, shoes and gloves to amputees, and life insurance to inmates on death row. He’s that good.

And he looks the part as well. Bob has what I call ‘politician hair’. So perfectly set and wet and shiny that it looks like it was made in a Jell-o mould. A strand may get loose every now and then but, other than that, it never ever loses shape. Just quivers.

The ad cuts to a close-up and it seems like I can see every pore of Bob’s smooth, tanned, clean-cut face. He looks a little like Cary Grant, who I figure must be the model for the way all politicians see themselves – suave, intelligent, sexy and vulnerable. The kind of person that men want to be, or be friends with, and women just want to fuck.

Bob is delivering his coup de grace, the killer line that’s going to convince voters he’s a stand-up guy, the guy they want to send to Washington to represent them. He’s talking about what he’s going to do for the State if he’s elected. He says, ‘I want the people of this State to see the real Robert DeVille.’

And I have to stop myself from laughing out loud, because no one ever calls him Robert. Everyone calls him Bob. It’s like he’s got two personas: one for the public and one for everyone else.

Bob disappears from the screen and there’s just a caption that reads,
VOTE
ROBERT
DEVILLE
, and a voice stating that the ad was paid for by some SuperPAC or other.

His face is replaced by Forrester Sachs, Jack’s favorite anchorman.

Now, I really don’t know what Jack sees in this guy, because to me he just seems like a pompous ass. But if Jack’s at home, he never ever misses this show.

Forrester Sachs is Bob DeVille without any of the intellect or charm. He has a name that sounds like a corporation. And he looks and talks like one too.

All the stuff I said about the psychopathology of politicians? It applies doubly to news anchors. Anchormen are wannabe politicians whose vanity precludes them from entering into competition with anyone else except other anchormen; for more airtime, better slots, higher Nielsen ratings – all the things that really matter in life.

Forrester Sachs has the highest-rated news show on TV. He’s a shark in a designer suit, with short-cropped salt and pepper hair, a jaw so square it looks it was cast in steel, and arched eyebrows that are plucked to perfection; a look that conveys all his key values: sobriety, earnestness, youth and wisdom. He’s a sexless automaton talking straight to camera with all the mock seriousness and import he can muster. But nothing could prepare me for what’s about to come out of his mouth.

He says:

‘Tonight…

‘On
Forrester Sachs Presents
…

‘We investigate…

‘Bundy Royale Tremayne…

‘The man behind a website that drove four young women to suicide in as many months… ’

My jaw drops. Now it’s my turn to sit on the edge of the seat, even if I can’t let on. Because I’ve never told Jack about Bundy. Never even mentioned him. If he knew about Bundy, he’d have to know everything. And even if I didn’t tell him the whole thing, it wouldn’t take him that long to figure it all out.

In the background, in the top left corner behind Forrester Sachs’ smooth, strangely unlined face, they flash a mugshot of Bundy that some researcher on the show, who’s far too good at their job, has somehow managed to acquire.

From what or where I don’t know, but I can’t imagine he was busted for anything more serious than a DUI or possession of pot because Bundy’s just a jackass, not a major criminal. In the photo, Bundy looks tired and possibly a little bit worse for wear from drink and he’s got hat hair.

But it’s not about how bad he looks in the picture, it’s about how it makes him look. As far as the viewing public are concerned Bundy’s already a dangerous felon. In the thirty seconds it took for Forrester Sachs to trailer his show, he’s already been arraigned, tried, convicted and sentenced in the court of public opinion.

By the time the end credits roll, Bundy’s name will be trending on Twitter with some or all of the following hashtags:

#sexpredator

#suicide

#bundyfuckingrules

#pedofile

#molestor

#nipslip

#blowjob

#deaths2good4him

#hero

#winning

Facebook pages will have been created in his honor, both anti and pro, that bear his name, age, place of birth, city of residence, sexual history, and mugshot. Each with several hundred thousand likes already. Girls will have left their phone numbers and bra sizes in the comments section. There will be as many open death threats as there are words of encouragement.

Bundy’s an instant villain, an instant celebrity, a bonafide folk hero. His brand has gone global and it all seems so very wrong.

Bundy’s being vilified on national TV and he deserves it. He’s a jerk. Plain and simple. Even if I’m more angry at myself because I should have seen him coming. Just like all these girls should have seen him coming. But they aren’t here any more to talk for themselves and say what really happened. Instead, they have Forrester Sachs to talk for them. An anchorman who can spin their stories and their tragedy into ratings gold.

‘Twenty-two-year-old Kirstin Duncan felt she had no choice,’ Sachs intones. ‘Her one night stand turned into a nightmare from which she realized there was no escape.

‘A nightmare that lead her to take her own life.

‘But before she did, she made this video, to let the world know her side of the story.

‘And expose the sexual predator who made her feel like there was nothing left to live for.’