by Alan L. Chrisman
One cold, windy late October day, SHE came into my little antiquarian bookstore. SHE looked plain on the outside, with big thick glasses. SHE told me she was a librarian and SHE looked the stereotype, quiet and shy. I seemed to also have a fantasy about librarians too (for they also liked books). SHE said her name was Veronica, just like my long-time fantasy, Veronica Lake, from the Noir Films, which were my favorite.
But despite her looking like a librarian, I couldn’t help but notice her small breasts peeking through the top of her red blouse, with the beginnings of an intriguing tattoo visible (I had a thing for them too- tattoos I mean, my dad had run a tattoo parlour, so I had grown up with them all around me). So underneath that prim exterior, there was also a sensual side to this intriguing woman, maybe hidden-but there. And looking back now, I think it was that combination of innocence on the outside and sexiness below that first captivated me from the very first time I met her.
Still it surprised me when the book she was looking for was by an infamous 19th Century writer, Marquis de Sade, known for his erotic S & M stories. I happened to have a regular customer who collected his books. I told her he might be willing to sell the title she wanted, but that he was away in Europe and wouldn’t be back for several weeks. But she started to come in often to my shop and we’d talk about books, etc. SHE always seemed to wear at least something in red, and I thought it made her look more feminine and pretty. In that time, Veronica and I got to know each other better and better. We had good times and laughed a lot. It was great to watch her come out of herself. There was a certain naivety about her, almost like a child, that was unusual and refreshing, in these cynical days, we seem to live in today. Before long, I was falling in love with her. And she knew it and would let me be affectionate with her. It was clear she liked me too.
Each visit, she would reveal more and more to me. And on one visit, she admitted she was married. I’d always thought she was single, as she hadn’t mentioned anything before. Then she broke down and cried and said she was also in trouble and needed help. This is the way SHE told it: It seemed that when her marriage had been having some problems, she had gotten involved with another man and had had an affair. This man had claimed to Veronica that he was a painter; he had even taken the name of the famous 18th Century Impressionist , calling himself, Monet. She later found out that this guy, Jack Monet, was a painter alright, but the only thing he had been trained to paint was houses. But not before he had somehow convinced Veronica in her emotional state and naivety to pose for him, wearing nothing but her tattoos. And that was the trouble she was in. For now he was now threatening to expose the affair and her painting to her still husband and children, unless she paid him $ 5,000.
There had been a craze in the beginnings of the 21st Century called nude selfies-where people would send nude photos of themselves to each other. It had started out with teenagers, but soon everyone was doing it-parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, employees, bosses, etc. But a reaction had occurred with all the blatant nudity and, as has often occurred throughout history, the exposing of and which parts of the human body, had gone through many pendulum swings, and it was no longer cool to publically expose oneself (which is why Veronica’s painting could be so threatening). We had studied, in school, the brief craze of nude selfies back then, as an example of a silly fad, and as with all fads, it had soon exhausted itself, and had disappeared by 2016. Likewise, in those old days, people had believed that diet, exercise, and stress affected aging, but we now know that, actually, aging is mainly caused by cosmic rays from space and as long as we wore our cosmic suits we could, most of us, live to be 200.
But Veronica didn’t have the money to pay the blackmailer and she didn’t know what she was going to do. I could see the jam she was in and I loved her. I didn’t have the money either. But I wanted to help this poor, innocent woman. The world had treated her badly, and it wasn’t her fault. So here was my chance to rescue her and show her how much I loved her, at the same time.
So then I came up with a plan. While the collector of the Marquis book was still in Europe, I could break into his place and steal it and we could sell it on the black market for at least that much. The next week, on a moonless night, I did break into the collector’s house and I managed to steal it. We soon found a willing collector out of town, willing to pay what we asked, and with no questions asked. I then met with the sleazy pretend-Monet painter and we paid him off and got her nude painting back and told him if he ever bothered her again, he’d regret it.
To celebrate after all this, Veronica and I made love, and as I suspected, she was no librarian in bed. She showed me sides of myself I didn’t know I even had. She also admitted to me later that night,that SHE, this shy little librarian, also worked part-time as a dominatrix. Now her wanting that Marquis de Sade book made sense.
Veronica and I were finally free, we thought. But a couple months later, the police came to visit my bookstore. I didn’t think much about it; I figured they were just checking to see if anyone had tried to sell the stolen Marquis. But it was worse than I thought. That fake Monet guy, had tipped off the police on us, anonymously, and had skipped the country to Europe (where he would no doubt try to take Picasso’s name).
I went to court and I had to admit that it had been my plan. SHE turned prosecution evidence against me, when they threatened to charge her too, in exchange for testifying against me. SHE got off scot-free and is back working at the library (and on weekends as a dominatrix, evidently still).
Me, I’m here in prison, serving my time, and writing this story. Let this be a warning, be careful what you fantasize about; it might just come true.
See below P.P. Arnold's 1st version of " The First Cut Is The Deepest ", 1967 , originally written by Cat Stevens, later covered by Keith Hampshire, Rod Stewart, and Sheryl Crow: