The Goddess

I sit on the couch and pretend to read. I’ve been reading the same book for weeks - The Undomestic Goddess by Sophie Kinsella. He hasn’t noticed that I’ve been on page ninety-six for the past five nights. The unturned pages lie dormant in my hands, stagnating like our marriage.

Anne Robinson’s voice scathes out from the TV as she insults her latest victims on The weakest Link. I don’t know why he watches it; I think he prefers it to Judge Judy - another one of his favourites. Funny that, two women with attitude yet it seems to go over his head. Maybe he doesn’t see them as ‘real’ women. Women should be seen and not heard. He's always telling me that.

“Bank! Bank you twat! Fucking hell, that bimbo’s just lost em five hundred quid.”

Fuck me, it speaks!

I look over at him. Shit up from work, he sits in his armchair, tee-shirt full of holes and silicon gunk, jeans with the knees and arse hanging out. Even so, he looks horny, rough and unshaven, but shaggable all the same. I bet he made a few housewives heart’s flutter today when he fixed their broken down homes. He can say all the right things to them, I’ll bet. He really fancies himself as Charlie the builder from Coronation Street. Treat em mean keep em keen type. How will he react when I tell him what’s happened? He sees me looking and holds up his pint glass.

“Fill her up, doll and I’ll let you be a dirty bitch tonight.”

“Oh you will, will you? You want me to dress up too?”

“Yeah, crusty the clown would be good,” he says without looking up.

Thanks for that, shit head; that makes me feel so desirable.

I take the glass into the kitchen and fill it with cider. So much for knocking the drinking on the head. How long did he last? Six weeks? Still, he’s nicer when he drinks.

“There you go hun.” I smile my sunniest.

He takes it without looking up from the screen. Just like he will with the dinner, hours to prepare, gone in minutes. No thanks, no recognition.

I hope it fucking chokes you.

“So, what you been up to today?” he says, between giving wrong answers to easy questions that drone out of the TV. “Fuck, yeah Victor Hugo…that’s what I meant to say.”

Ooh, conversation time! Will wonders never cease? What the fuck do you know about Victor Hugo? You never read a book in your life! What did I do today? Mmm… Actually, I went out window shopping at Monsoon. I have to do that because you don’t earn enough for me to have anything more than that George shite from Asda. Well that’s a lie, you do earn enough, it’s just that you piss it up the wall every night. Should I tell him what‘s happened yet?

“Oh nothing much. You know, the usual, cleaning, laundry.”

Not that you’d notice if I’d spring cleaned the whole fucking house, you prick! Not that you’d notice if I served dinner stark fucking naked.

“I renewed your car insurance by the way, oh and it’s your Mother’s birthday on Tuesday.”

You forgot my birthday, you bastard, so at least remember your Mother’s

“Right, get her something nice then, yeah?”

What am I? Your fucking secretary? No, that’s too grand a title, more like your slave.

“Okay hun, I’ll get her a book and some flowers.”

Not that there’s enough in the budget to stretch to that. But you wouldn't know that, would you? You dumb fuck. Do you even know how much you earn? Do you know anything apart from how to drink and roll spiffs?

We sit in silence again. I usually make an effort to talk and ask him about his day, but it gets on his nerves, especially when the news is on. That’s when I get ‘the hand but the face ain’t listening’ thing. I’ve since learned when to speak and when to keep quiet. To listen to his rants without interrupting, because that makes him forget what he’s talking about. My fault that his memory is shite not his, no, couldn’t possibly be from years of smoking dope could it? Anyway he doesn’t cope well with an interacting conversation, you know, that two way thing.


I’ve learned so many things since becoming his slave. How to cook and clean, how to give good head, manage finances, make things balance. I do as I‘m told like a good girl cos he’s the boss and maintains control at all time. Yeah right! Like he’d know how to work the fucking washer or use the stove to cook a meal - if he could cook! Anyone can keep house, he tells me. Anyone! I know my place, ‘Domestic Goddess’ I think the posh title is, I call it ‘Drudge’. My mind is still my own though and he'll see that soon enough. I’ll bide my time, choose my moment to tell him.



The God

It’s silent when I get home and she’s sat as she always is, on the sofa with a book. I flick on the telly and see the filthy look she slides me. When she sees me looking, she quickly changes it to a smile.

She’s always fucking reading. Thinks she’s some sort of intellectual. Look at the state of the bitch in her saggy arsed jeans and baggy t-shirt, her tits half way to her waist. If only she knew what some of the birds look like that I meet at work. Gagging for it an’ all they are. And who am I to turn it down when it’s offered on a silver platter?

“Alright, luv? When’s dinner?”

“Shouldn’t be too long, babe.”

Fucking useless cow! Any decent wife would have it ready and waiting on the table. It’s not like she’s got anything else to do is it? Wonder what shit she’ll dish up today.

“Okay, no rush, doll.”

She waddles out to the kitchen, her arse dragging behind like a bag of spuds. What the fuck happened? She was proper fit when we first got together, I was the envy of all the lads and they were all desperate to get into her knickers. Jealous as fuck, they were.

Cabbagy and cauliflower smells waft in through the dining hatch. Fucking hell! I swear if I don’t get some decent snap tonight, I’ll lamp her one. I’ll have to have a smoke to work up to eating this rancid scented shite.

“Fetch us me gear and baccy while you’re there, doll.”

She slouches back in with my noggin pot and a pint of cider. At least she’s trained in something.

“Had a good day?” she asks.

Oh, here we fucking go. Yes, I shagged a right horny bint after I fitted her brand new work-top. Right there she was, sitting on the cool, shiny granite with that look in her eye. Short skirt, low top. Then she opened her legs wide and let me see what was on offer. She’d taken her knickers off. Wet she was too, all glistening with her pink slit winking at me. Fuck! I’m getting hard again at the thought.

“Yeah, did a kitchen. Then up to Wolverhampton to fit a shower. The new lad is a wanker. Full of himself he is. Thinks he’s the biz when the cunt can’t even put a screw in straight. I sent him off to Leicester to fit a door in the end, cos he was doing my cap clean in.”

“You’ll put him right no doubt, babe. Show him how it’s done properly.”

“Will I fuck! I ain’t paid enough to teach apprentices.”

I ain’t paid enough when I’ve got you squandering it either, you fucking leech.


I roll a spliff while I watch the ginger bitch on the telly. Another load of thick twats getting the questions wrong on the first round. I’d piss all over them if I was on there. I am the strongest link!

She comes back in and sits with her book again. What’s it called? The Undomestic Goddess? Yeah that’s about right. I reckon she fancies herself as that Nigella Lawson. Now I could give her one. I bet she’s good, can do a decent blow job. I bet she’d dip it in chocolate sauce and lick it off like a cat lapping at cream.

Now I’m listening to the questions on the box, or trying to, but that fucking tart keeps talking to me so I only hear half of it. It’s her fault I just got that one wrong. I turn look at her fat, bland face. She looks like a seal but not one of them cute ones with the big eyes. No, she’s one of them old ones you see at the zoo, grey skinned, and they have a tired look about their eyes as they do tricks for sardines.

Now it’s the news. Thank fuck! She knows to keep her gob shut while when that’s on. The spliff has done its job and I barely taste the gunky dinner as it slides down my throat. But what’s this? She’s started to fucking talk again while I’m trying to watch what’s been happening out in Iraq.

“I have something to tell you,” she says.

I Swear I’ll fucking pummel her in a minute.

“What, doll, what?” Eyes still glued to the telly.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” It takes a while to sink in. I swivel to look at her now. “Well that’s fucking great, just great.”

“You’re not pleased, are you. I can tell.”

“Course, doll. Course I am.” I give her bloated hand a squeeze.

The stupid fucking cow! Since when did we decide on a squawking sprog?

“So, how much is this little bundle of joy gonna cost me?” I say, trying to smile.

“Nothing,” she says, fetching out a black bag from nowhere, like Paul fucking Daniels. She puts a few final possessions on top of her dowdy clothes and turns to look at me from the doorway before leaving. “It ain’t yours.”

“Ain’t mine? Who? When?” I follow her outside and see the waiting car. Fucking Andy! I should have known. He was always sniffing around, like a fly on shit he was. “Cheers mate! I can’t thank you enough. Your fucking welcome to it.”

Back inside, I see the huge pile of washing-up the bitch has left behind.

I’ll fucking kill that Andy next time I see him.