Wander Woman

Wendy Wixom tore her underwear to shreds. She had a sense memory of doing this as a child to her Wonder Woman underoos, though that had been an accident. Sometimes it felt like most of her childhood had been an accident, so she tried to be as deliberate as possible as an adult.

Her parents were not comic book fans, but they were partial to alliterative names. Her brothers Wally and Wesley could attest to that as well. Wendy was the lone girl and when she discovered Wonder Woman she felt an immediate connection. It was her go-to Halloween costume until she was seven. Shortly before her eighth birthday, she finally grew out of her underoos and while trying to stretch them,  ripped them apart. She knew well enough there was no super-strength behind this feat. In fact, she had no interest in pretending to be strong or pretending to be beautiful for that matter. If it wasn’t real, she wanted no part of it.

Age thirty, ripping up her panties, as though their annihilation would unmake the terrible choices that lead to such a shitty night. But the problem wasn’t just her choices, it was the amount of random she’d allowed into her life. She should’ve known better. This guy, she knew his type...and yet. And yet! Nothing serious would come of their coupling, which she’d known and told herself was fine. She could enjoy a little fun before the right guy came along. Wendy Wixom had never worked that way, but she figured she ought to try. It seemed like it would beat the alternative: remaining celibate while waiting for the right guy who may never come. And yet. Naked in bed, barely touched, some guy next to her dozing off. She wanted to hate him, but he wasn’t the one lying to himself.

“I’m cold,” Wendy said.

“Get under the covers,” he said, a mumble delivered into the pillows.

Wendy didn’t want to get under his blankets. She didn’t want to be in his lousy apartment. Default blinds shifting in air-conditioned currents, second-hand IKEA couch and desk. A coffee table that was just a plastic storage bin with a bed sheet draped over it. How could she be here on purpose?

“I’m cold.”

This time he said nothing.

“Hand me my underwear,” Wendy said. They were on the floor somewhere on his side of the bed. She could get up and get them herself, but why should she? She’d done plenty already.

Wendy waited. She was sure he was awake and certain he’d heard her. He had, but was in no rush to comply. He’d been the one who had taken them off and tossed them aside in the first place. Without looking, he stretched his arm off the side of the bed, feeling around for them on the floor. When that didn’t work, he sighed and shifted over, further and further until he found them. His voice was all sweetness then.

“Here you go baby.”

Wendy crossed her arms. “I’m not a baby,” she said. “I’m a little girl princess.” She wasn’t a little girl or a princess, but the words had come out anyway. His eyes were closed, still buried in a pillow, his arm lazily holding out her panties.

It felt wrong.

“Put them on me,” Wendy said.

“What?”

“You took them off. Put them back on.”

He raised his head off the pillow, shooting her a bemused look.

“You want me to put your panties on you for you?”

“Yes,” Wendy said. “I’m a little girl princess.”

The last orgasm Wendy had was by her own hand. And the one before that. And the one before that. She’d been seeing this piece of shit for, what, three months? He went down on her the first couple times for maybe five minutes, before getting on top of her and sticking it in. Then the routine settled in: Wendy blowing him followed by rote missionary. He tried talking her into anal, but she refused to even consider that unless she was married and unlikely even then. Fine, maybe she wasn’t the best lay either and didn’t give great head, but at least she made an effort. Today they had watched some porn together and that got her pretty hot, but it just lead to more of the same. He got his and she was left drying out in the cranked AC. The least he could do was put her fucking underwear back on. She wasn’t a goddess, but would settle for being a princess.

“Put them on me!”

“Uh, whatever,” he said, dropping Wendy’s underwear onto her chest, then turning away from her onto his side.

Wendy didn’t literally see red, but she felt what it meant. She looked down at her panties, expensive and sexy, silky smooth. She bought them because she thought he would like them. She wanted him to like them. And her. What a fucking waste. Her nipples were rock hard from the cold, she wished they could slice him into pieces. Hot tears came to her eyes and she leaped out of the bed, panties gripped in a fist. The movement startled him. He twisted around, annoyance on his face like a written word. Disgust melted into her fury, forging an emotional alloy she wanted to bludgeon him with.

“I AM A PRINCESS!” Wendy yelled, then tore apart her panties while staring him down.

His mouth opened stupidly, then shut just as dumb. She remembered in that moment that Diana, Wonder Woman, was both a Goddess and a princess. If she had a magic lasso with her, Wendy wouldn’t bother using it on this little boy. She already knew the truth. She let the soft tatters fall to the ground. She knew she could do better than him, that part wasn’t even his fault. Without a word she picked up her phone and put it in her purse.

“What is your problem?” he said.

Wendy didn’t respond. She was done wasting words on him. She was focused. Her keys were in her purse, good. She hadn’t had time earlier to scatter any belongings around his dumpy studio apartment. There was a bottle of champagne in his refrigerator that she’d brought two visits ago that they’d never gotten into. She’d known better than to leave a toothbrush in his bathroom, lest that trigger his anxiety. There was nothing there she needed.

“Hey! What are you doing?” he said.

Wendy walked to the door, unlocked it.

“Wendy! What the fuck!? My neighbors!”

She opened the door and dusk sunlight streamed in warm and welcome on her naked body. She walked out onto the landing and shut the door without looking behind her. She’d have to go down a flight of stairs and across the parking lot to her car. Maybe he’d come out and try to stop her. Maybe he’d lock the door and be glad to be rid of her. Didn’t matter either way, she knew what she was doing and it was on purpose.

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About Jerry White Jr. 

Jerry is a filmmaker, musician, writer. He began making films as a teenager through home movies and public access television in Metro Detroit, later studied at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and has continued to move across film, writing, music, and collaborative creative communities.

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About TANGENTS

TANGENTS is a new recurring literary section for flash fiction, short prose, and fragments that move outside fixed categories, published by STRATUM. It is a dedicated space for compressed narratives, strange turns, and writing that sits ambiguously between fiction, memory, humor, unease, and dream logic.

Edited By Yuyang Hu