 Em Wycedee is a writer, journalist and English teacher. Her non-fiction has been published in academic journals, magazines and newspapers like The Chicago Tribune and The Washington Post; her fiction has been published in Ethos, The Backroom Press and Event Horizon. She lives with her husband, children and cats near Washington, DC. Her work is archived at Little Review. Email
Em Wycedee.
Broadcast 9:52. Less than ten minutes until I see her. Both kids are in bed, my husband is in the kitchen scooping ice cream. I curl up under the afghan and wait for the 9 o'clock show to end. I'm already in my nightgown, which is bunched up around my hips. My left hand wanders to the crotch of my panties, damp with anticipation. 9:56. They're showing a preview of what's next alongside the credits from the earlier show. There she is! Fighting off some creep who can't hold his own against her. No one can. Now she's talking to the guy who follows her around, trying to be a hero like she is. They're all in love with her; they live to take her orders, even though this guy has himself fooled that he's in love with her sidekick. What a dominatrix she would make, but they can't show that on television except in the parody episodes. Through the fabric of my panties, I flick my fingernail against my clit. Only a couple more minutes till it starts in earnest. 10:00. The crescendo of theme music fills the living room. My husband lies on the floor, flipping through the newspaper as he eats his Ben and Jerry's. I chew on my fingernail. My other hand is underneath the covers, pushing aside the elastic of my panties, glorying in the wet warmth of my pussy. I drink in the opening credits, watch her pull on her boots, straighten her breastplate, plant her feet and prepare to fight. She does this every week in the opening credits. I never get tired of watching. 10:04. She flexes her fingers around her sword as she talks about this week's menace -- nothing supernatural for a change, just a bunch of people trying to swindle other people out of their valuables. I picture her touching herself the way I am, maybe rubbing up and down the hilt. There's no time for that now -- she's got work to do. But no woman smiles as broadly as she does unless she knows how to flick her own switch. Maybe she gets her sidekick to do it for her; I know lots of fans who think so, but I've always thought the little blonde was too much of a priss. Silly girl. Onscreen, she winks at me. 10:18. Damn. She's falling for the guest star, typical square-jawed hero-type who's fighting alongside her now. The camera frames them together, catching her in profile rather than her standard in-your-face. I guess she's entitled to get laid if she wants, and it's not like she's going to tie herself down to him. Maybe she'll tie him up, though. Maybe he'll turn out to be a bad guy. To punish myself for hating him, I move my hand away from my clit and rub only with the palm. The friction is hot but unsatisfying, like I'm riding a horse. 10:25. After they battle together she kisses him, her silky black hair sliding like a bed sheet over her shoulders. My fingers scissor damply inside me, opening me the way her mouth opens his on the screen. My husband tilts his head as if he can hear the faint moist sounds coming from the couch, but my knees are bent under the afghan; he can't tell what my hands are doing. On television the man wears a smile of exultation. Bastard. He's got her for maybe two minutes; then she and her sidekick will go off again to kick some ass. Right now the sidekick is busy with her own man-of-the-hour, but she's keeping an eye on the action, same as I am. 10:41. She's in bed with the guest star, lying on top of him in the aftermath of making love. The blanket covers only her torso -- her bare shoulders and thighs gleam with sweat. Her hair's all mussed. I'm circling my clit slowly with my fingers, trying not to come too soon, watching her. When she gets up I think the sheet will slide away, but she grabs it, holds it against her body and smiles directly at me. Well, directly at the camera, but her eyes are fixed right on mine. 10:53. The guest star turns out to be a bad guy, like I thought! She holds her sword to his throat as he begs for mercy. Then she stalks off, blinking hard now that he can't see. I pinch my own nipple and sit very still, waiting, barely vibrating my fingers against my clit. When he starts to come after her, she turns and tosses her flying blade, and after he falls, as the camera zooms in on her sad, triumphant face, I press down hard and finally come. I keep my lips tightly pressed together and my eyes squeezed shut so my husband won't know. 10:57. When I open my eyes my husband is looking at me, but he thinks I'm upset about the violence on television. "We don't have to watch this show if you don't like it," he says. Onscreen she is polishing her sword, her expression melancholy as she twists the hilt. "I do like it," I insist. 10:59. Together my husband and I watch the preview and credits, watch the familiar images of her fighting and preening. I wipe my fingers off on my panties, which I'm going to have to change as soon as I get up. "I'm sort of hot for her," he confesses, and can't understand my howl of laughter. I guess he thinks that might upset me. 11:00. My husband pulls the afghan away to try to embrace me. But I get up and leave the room. The show is over until next week. He stares after me, blind to the fact that I don't care what other women he looks at. Unless she's already mine. Copyright © 2003 Em Wycedee. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post. 
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