The Other Woman (2 page)

Random Seduction Tip: Obsession

Beauty and flirtatiousness can attract his attention, sure, but it’s not his attention you want, it his unbridled obsession that you seek. That is your goal – for him to become utterly obsessed with you.

In order for that to happen, you must create mystery, complexity. Be an enigma, and hint at the promise of absolute pleasure…if he is fortunate enough to possess you.

You want him to constantly think about you, become preoccupied with you, romanticize about you. Once he starts doing that, once he starts fantasizing about you, he will be on the edge of a precipice, and it’s only a matter of time before he topples over and into your arms. That kind of power will be lasting and effective and he will become your slave for life.

Like my book sample? Thought you would.

****

Unable to get Bradley Murdoch out of my mind and excited at the prospect of becoming one of the most famous ladies in the world, I got into my fancy BMW the following day and made my way to Norman, my friend with benefits of eight years. He was forty-one and had a fondness for coke. The one you snort, not cola. (I hated coke addicts; they were so self-absorbed.)

Norman also had a fondness for Valium.

And Vicodin.

And Xanax.

And Morphine.

And…did I mention he was a pharmacist? No? How could I have forgotten to mention such a vital detail? Well, Norman my cocaine-loving friend was a pharmacist.

His mail-order bitch, Monkey, was a waif from Nepal. Okay fine, her name is Mungi, but Monkey is so much easier on the tongue. Just glides off, don’t you think?

Monkey was just twenty-four, made a good first impression with her long, dark hair and her ever-ready smile, but she didn’t speak a lot of English. Fortunately. Bet she’d bore the crap out of Norman if she did. Thank God for mail-order bitches. If it wasn’t for them, who’d do all the cooking and cleaning for the old and ugly men of the world?

Yes, Norman was undeniably fugly. Fucking grotesque – coarse hair spiraling south, east and west, (not north for some reason) thick, black-rimmed glasses, and blotchy red skin (when it’s not flaky alabaster skin). He walked with a slight stoop, and had never entertained the idea of fixing his crooked, yellow teeth, even though the bastard had more dough than time.

At a first glance, it was easy to underestimate him because of his looks, but he was the sole heir to
Chemist and Things
, a string of nine pharmacies across Sydney
.
Chi-ching!

Norman was crazy about me, considered me a perfect playmate, provided me with all the
medication
I needed, and had even asked me to marry him many times (mainly after we’d done lines of coke together or when he was plastered). I always accepted his proposal, but the moment the buzz lifted, he forgot about marrying me. The reason I did not bring up the proposal? Well, mainly because I did not want to be married to a freak like him.

The reason
he
did not bring it up – maybe he felt I was too high maintenance, too shallow, or that I would not be faithful to him.

That was just ludicrous; how could he possibly think like…? Fine, he was right on all three. (What can I say, I am what I am.) Besides, it would be excruciatingly painful to be married to Norman, with his penchant for morning lines of cocaine, kinky sex, and golden showers.

After our first date, which comprised of a blow job in the car, Norman presented me with a Rolex worth fourteen grand, which I later sold for eight grand.

Then he presented me with a solid-gold choker. It was huge and expensive, but really ugly, and it stole attention from my face, which I absolutely could not allow.

When I walked through the doors of his pharmacy, Norman’s eyes lit up. I was sure he had a hard-on just by looking at me. When I saw the line of customers clutching prescriptions, I hung back and waited for them to leave, pretending to peruse the cheap array of Maybelline and Revlon Long-Stay lipsticks.

Nothing but the likes of Chanel, Dior, or Givenchy for me. Nothing but the best. (Did somebody use the words high maintenance? They should.)

Ten minutes later, Norman was still busy doling out medication to his regulars, a stream of hypochondriacs, mainly bent old hags, who considered a trip to the pharmacy an outing judging by their Barely Beige, one-hundred-denitex pantyhose (to hide unsightly varicose veins and help circulation), and garish, coral lipstick on lips that resembled stretched-out sultanas.

When he shot me an apologetic look, I nodded my understanding and started to leave. As I did, I texted him. He responded right away.

Me:
Cum 2 dinner tnite. xoxo

(Cum. Carefully chosen word. Wink.)

Norman :
Cant got kids concert.

I sighed. Within five years, he and Monkey churned out three anime-eyed kids.
Three
brats in five years! Clearly Monkey didn’t know when to close her thighs. It was 2014, hadn’t she heard of abortions?

Me:
fuck the concert cum to me baby Im aching for u xoxo

It was a while before he texted back.

Norman:
k 9 then

Me:
ooooh yeaaaah baby! Cant wait xoxo

I like my xoxos. They make me out to be as sweet as honey, and men, they’re dumb creatures. Unlike women, they don’t spend hours analyzing everything we say. They don’t give a shit that we speak with a forked tongue. To them, a blow job is even better when a tongue is forked.

That brings me to the subject of sex. I’m damn good at it. An expert in that field too. Highly skilled when it comes to reducing big, strong men into blubbering idiots. Putty in my mouth, if you know what I mean.

Hey, some girls are good at knitting, some are good at cooking, others are good at scrapbooking or Pinteresting, and some are good at pushing out brats (Monkey). Me, I’m good at blow jobs. Know exactly how to take it right in to touch the back of my throat, making him feel like Hercules.
I’m the man!

Samson was very grateful for my talents and generosity. Immensely grateful. I’m talking brand new Silverstone M6, double-clutch BMW convertible with 412kW engine power at 7000rpms grateful. Birdman dropped a cool three hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars for this baby, but hey, ask L’Oreal, I’m worth it!

And don’t you believe that crap he said about me blackmailing him. I didn’t blackmail him, I just reminded him that if his wife found out about us, and if my daddy found out that he took advantage of his little girl, Samson would not only be divorced and out of a well-paying job, but he would probably never find a job in a law firm in Australia again.

Now Norman, he too is grateful – three-bedroom, two-bathroom, modern kitchen, two sunny balconies, apartment-in-the-exclusive-and-showy-suburb-of St Ives-brand-new-and-purchased-with-cash a-year-ago grateful.

Norman can afford it, considering he’s also the heir to a string of real estate franchises in Sydney’s North Shore, where I am employed as business manager in one of them. My job is easy – I spy on the managers and inform Norman if anyone is being courted by other real estate franchises. I show my face twice a week with a clipboard, reading glasses, and a stack of files (containing zilch) to make staff think I am working. Since I report only to Norman, life is a breeze.

Now do you believe how skillful I am? Now do you believe just how talented and artful I am?

Don’t envy me; look, listen, and learn from me. My book that I plan to publish in the near future is going to show you how to get what you want, and believe me, it is going to become your life manual. Count on it. That’s my signature phrase by the way –
count on it.

The moment Norman arrived at our overpriced
cubby
house
in St Ives, I greeted him at the door and we traded gifts; I presented him a triple Chivas, and he presented me a bag of precious white powder that was guaranteed to blow our minds, lift our moods, and make the evening more interesting. Like it always did.

“God, I despise Mungi,” Norman complained as accepted the Chivas. “The bitch’s pissed off because I have to attend a meeting after work. Imagine that. It’s not like she works or something, yet she whines and complains about handling three kids. How hard is it to take care of a couple of kids? ‘I need some help, I need some help,’ she’s always bitching. Man, I hate that whore!”

Oh, yeah, did I mention Norman loathed his dumb wife? He was always complaining about her, grouching that she was unsupportive and demanding. He was right – she didn’t work, so she shouldn’t have complained about minding her brats. After all, she wanted them.

“Poor baby,” I cooed absentmindedly as I bounced the tiny white package in my hand, my anticipation at the snort sending a delicious thrill through me.

Just holding it brought on a rush and that feeling of invincibility that usually followed a snort.

On my glass dining table, I quickly and expertly chopped up two blurred lines, rolled up a bank note, and snorted first. Norman followed.

I slumped onto my couch and eyed Norman. “You look really nice,” I said. “Is that a new shirt?”

Norman lifted his head and turned slowly to look at me. He wiped his nose with the back of his finger and grinned at me. “And you look damn sexy tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeeeaaah!” he said, slinking toward me.

I shifted my body to look at myself on a wall mirror. My navy Prada skirt and matching jacket were tailored to absolute perfection and showcased my slim figure. My white Mondo Guerra singlet was cut low enough to get the attention my perky breasts demanded. My Louboutin PVC and glitter cap pumps in navy were sexy and current, not to mention frightfully expensive. In short, I looked fabulous.

But then, I always did. Every morning I stood in front of my mirror and asked myself – does my ensemble cost enough to feed a third world country for a month? If the answer was yes (which it usually was), I smiled to myself, picked up my Beamer keys, and sashayed out the door, ready to strut my stuff.

If the answer was no, I usually just added another piece to the mix, an expensive one at that, a Lorraine Schwartz bracelet, a Tag Heuer watch, a pair of Cartier earrings.

“You’re right, Norman, I look …awesome!” With a smile, I wriggled my body out of the couch and stood before Norman.

“Tell me about Bradley Murdoch,” I said as I dropped to my knees and unzipped him.

Norman knew everyone’s business in the North Shore, having spent all his life in his father’s pharmacies. Everyone eventually brought him a script and as a result, during our post-coital talks, I learned who had gonorrhea, who was on antibiotics after having had an abortion, who was HIV positive, and who was popping Viagra like Tic Tacs.

“Murdoch…he’s ambitious, hardworking…” he lifted and dropped his bony shoulders. “Nice guy, why?”

“Prospective buyer,” I lied as I fished out his semi-tumescent cock. “What’s his wife like?”

“She…” more lifting and dropping of scrawny shoulders, “she’s got…” he tapped his temple with his forefinger, “problems.”

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

My eyes popped. “Mental problems?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, really now?” That was the best news I had heard all day. All week. All month. Maybe even all year. The good news layered on my cocaine high, and I suddenly had the urge to dance.

I didn’t. Instead, I took him into my mouth.

“What’s she on?” I asked during fellatio breaks.

“Cerocal and Lithium.”

“Bipolar, is she?”

“Eh…think so. Could be.”

By the time Norman left my apartment, he was sexually satiated, but most likely still hungry for food. I had not prepared any dinner, and had absolutely no intention of ever doing something like that. “Dinner” was just a code word we bandied around when I needed a coke fix and he needed a cock fix. A symbiotic relationship, and my plan to get rid of Bradley’s wife was cemented in, well,
cement
.

I was going to send that stuck-up bitch to the nuthouse, then help myself to her husband and kids. Help myself to her whole life.

I was going to slot myself into her home in such a way that nobody would even realize she’d been replaced. Smooth Operator? That would be me.

Random Seduction Tip: The Significant Other

You don’t want to be known or remembered as a seducer. Ever! You want your target to think that things between the two of you happened organically. Therefore, I often track my target through someone in his midst like a wife or girlfriend. I cultivate a neutral and harmless friendship with her, before I surreptitiously extract vital information from her about my target.

Women love to talk about their soul mates, bore you with details, and often within a matter of hours, I know everything I need to know about my target.

Most times I find it difficult to hold back on the questioning, and I have to make a concerted effort not to sound like I’m interrogating, which of course I am. Curbing my enthusiasm is by far the most difficult part of the process, as patience is not a virtue of mine. I admit, I’m all for instant gratification.

To loosen the tongue, I bring along muscle relaxant – a bottle of tequila. The tongue is a muscle, remember?

I also find that if you successfully ply the soon-to-be ex-wife or soon-to-be ex-girlfriend with enough tequila shots, they don’t remember much about the interrogation.

To appear innocuous, it is wise to fake a boyfriend or a love interest. This helps prevent the wife or girlfriend from seeing you as a threat and stopping you from getting to your goal.

Obviously your target is smoking hot, and this means his significant other will probably have experienced her share of Scarletts vying for your target’s attention, hence her distrust and wariness of approaching females.

I charm and disarm, mainly by springing for tequila shots, not only for the wife / girlfriend, but also their girlfriends or sisters, who can sometimes see right through you.

My added measure is a ton of photos of my fake boyfriend (borrowed from the internet) on my phone and on my Facebook account, which I readily flash at them.

My fake boyfriend is usually in the armed forces, and I’m always pining for him. That provides an acceptable excuse as to why he’s not around, and it’s also very valuable in garnering sympathy from the wife / girlfriend, her friends, and…my target, of course.

If you can manage to squeeze out a few fake tears over your absent boyfriend at the very beginning of your friendship, you will accelerate the process of disarming.

****

“A jealous woman does better research than the FBI.”

Really? Allow me a moment to deliberate. Well yes, that is true. Except that I wasn’t a jealous woman, but a
determined
woman.

I did my investigation the old fashioned way; I tailed Rival Murdoch’s size-twelve arse for a week. Followed her around, noted her favorite coffee shop, the gym she attended (what for, I have no idea, as she was obese), her weekly schedule, and who her friends were.

Zumba dance class on Monday.

Pump class on Thursday. (Weights, not sex.)

Body Balance class on Friday mornings.

(No wonder she was a size twelve – look at her exercise schedule! It was all wrong. Any fool would tell you that to lose weight you needed cardio seven days a week and pump classes three times a week. That was my schedule, and look at my body – it was supermodel material, while hers was
supper
model. )

After each gym session, she’d stop at Starbucks and grab a Mocha lite with a dot of cream on the top. (Mocha lite with a dot of cream on it. Really, Rival?)

Having amassed pertinent information, I enrolled in her gym, started visiting Starbucks, and ran into her. Literally.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said, eyeing my Mocha lite with a dot of cream (yuck! I hate cream) now spilled all over her Adidas gym pants and Reebok sleeveless jacket.

“Damn lithium,” I muttered loud enough for her to hear. “Makes me so clumsy.”

For a moment she stared at me, before she sprang into nurturing mode.

“Come have a seat with me,” she said in a voice she probably used when talking to her brats. “It’s nothing really. Don’t worry about it. Let me replace your coffee. What are you drinking?”

“Eh…Mocha lite,” I said, my fingers on my temples. “But it’s my fault and—”

“Okay!” She turned and started to walk away.

“With a dot of cream!” I shouted at her massive, lycraed arse that resembled a lumpy bean bag.

She froze, then slowly turned to look at me, eyebrows arched, eyes wide open.

I summoned a sheepish grin. “That’s how I like it.” I followed that with a series of tiny shrugs.

She pointed at me, a smile on her face. “That makes two of us – I like mine that way too!” She actually seemed excited to have a mocha lite buddy.

I nodded and clasped my hands in mock delight.

Yes, simpleton Rival Murdoch fell hook, line, and Mocha lite (with a dot of cream) for my story the moment she thought I suffered from mental illness.

After handing me my drink, she put out her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rival Murdoch.”

I softly shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Rival. I’m Scarlett Smyth. With a Y.”

She was around five foot six with large grey-blue eyes. Her dark blonde, shoulder-length hair was held back in a ponytail. She was a little shy, not much of a talker, and had the tendency to smile behind her hand. My
rival
, upon closer inspection, was a sort of Lana Del Rey, but chunkier, and without the talent.

Looks wise, I won of course. I know that because I did some observations of my own. Of the nine men that entered Starbucks that hour we talked, six looked at me
first
, while just three looked at her first.

The day they stopped noticing me
first
was the day I would take drastic measures to amp things up in the looks department. Subtle cosmetic procedures, like Jennifer Aniston did. Botox here, fillers here, some cheek implants, a chin tuck…not as drastic as Melani Griffith though.

Start early I tell you, late twenties or so. That way, by the time you hit your forties, the changes aren’t remarkable and scary.

What was the use of wearing expensive clothes, working out every day, skipping Tiramisu, and snorting coke to dull your appetite if nobody noticed you
first
?

Not second or third, but being noticed
first
is what counted. Nobody remembered who came
second
in a Miss World Competition, but they sure remembered the one who took the crown.

At this point, I’m feeling your envy. Don’t envy me.
Become
me instead.

You will learn so much from me when you read my book. It’s going to be a blockbuster, and women across the globe will clamor to learn from me.

The Holy Grail
is coming soon.

****

By the end of that month, I was having dinner with Rival and Bradley at their house. The role of my boyfriend was played by Greg Barrows. Yes, I was
inside
their house, seated at the table, within touching distance of Bradley. I didn’t touch, though, I just broke carbs with them.

I had successfully won Rival Murdoch over. I had gone into Chameleon mode and mirrored her personality. I dressed like her (ouch!), talked medication with her (I googled Lithium and Cerocal to learn about them), cried for my boyfriend Greg that I was missing dreadfully, and soon she was comforting me, even asking to go away for a weekend with her and Bradley.

At this point I must ask you to hold your applause, as I need to fill you in on Greg.

Greg Barrows, who played the role of my boyfriend with aplomb, was a doting admirer who lived in Melbourne and visited Sydney once a month on “business.” Like Norman, he was immensely grateful for my many talents. I’m talking shopping in Paris, New York, and Italy, Kanye West Concert in London, holiday in Hawaii grateful.

His poor wife, Alexis, had no idea just how much fun his business trips really were. Actually, his wife was anything but poor. Alexis, who was a baker’s dozen older than Greg and as ugly as a bat out of hell, was heiress to some telecommunications empire. And because of his striking looks, Greg was the trophy husband.

Best part about Greg was his unlimited credit card. Alexis ensured he was well taken care of to make up for the fact that he actually had to have sex with someone as grotesque as she was. I did my bit by helping him spend the money. Often I returned designer clothes, bags, and shoes he had bought me and pocketed the cash.

When I set eyes on Rival’s house, I absolutely fell in love with it. The moment I stepped inside, I felt like I belonged. She kept a great home, I had to give her that. (See? I’m fair; I give credit when it’s due.) The place was surprisingly neat, designer-like, and even modern. She had that monochromatic theme going on – different hues of the same color – which gave the place a restful ambiance.

Pity about the children’s toys scattered around. That would have to come to a screeching halt once I moved in. There was no way I was going to let kids’ toys ruin my décor. I planned to have a playroom which would be for just that – to
play
in. All toys would be confined solely to the playroom.

Rival cooked too, which surprised me. I expected caterers. It was 2014 – you’d think she’d keep up with the times. But I suspected she was showing off.

Anyway, they seemed happy as a Disney family, which was rare and somewhat intriguing.

Most of the families I came across, after spending an hour or two with them, I saw cracks in their relationship, strain in their family unit, witnessed the exchange of snide remarks, heard little digs they shot at each other. With Rival and Bradley, I stayed till midnight, and I observed them closely. Sadly for me, I saw nothing that led me to believe that Bradley would stray, which only added to the thrill of snatching him away from her.

Bradley seemed happy to let Rival take the lead, and he did whatever she asked of him.

“Brad, we need some ice.”

“Sure, babe.”

“Brad hon, can you organize some juice for Phoebe, please?”

“Phoebe? Yeah, sure!”

“I need you to stir this, honey.’”

“Got it!” Bradley took the spoon and stirred the sauce on the stove for one
whole
minute.

Unlike some men, he seemed to relish fetching us drinks. He even remembered to pour his
wife
a drink after he topped off his guest’s glass, and appeared eager to make the evening easy for her. (I had noticed so many men top up their guests' glasses but forget all about the poor wifey’s empty glass. He didn’t. I liked that. I wanted that too.)

It was fascinating to watch big, strong attorney Bradley Murdoch turn into Rival’s bitch. My father, he would have a heart attack and die if my mother ever asked him to do anything around the house. We had a cook, a cleaner, a driver, and a handyman on call.

“Rival made this ice cream from scratch,” Bradley boasted, to my ire, pointing with all his fingers at the ice cream. “She’s a great cook,” he continued and patted his stomach. “Not good for my squash game, you know.”

She nudged his thigh under the table, an embarrassed look on her face.

“What? It’s the truth,” he said. “Look at this. He pointed to his stomach and smiled at her. “Big Mac is kicking the crap out of me on the squash court.”

She cocked her head and smiled. “Want me to stop?”

His smile disappeared. “No.”

She laughed.

I thought I was going to vomit when he smiled and leaned over to plant a kiss on her nude lips.

“Ice cream-flavored lips…yum!” he whispered.

The man of my dreams, the rare, uxorious one I was planning to marry, was cavorting with my rival in front of me. It gave me a bout of motion sickness even though I was far from the sea.

Patience. The war, the war! Not the battle.

Yes, I would allow my adversary her measly win for now, because my overall win would be epic.

But in spite of her being a nut-job, the bar she had set was high enough to force me to learn a thing or two about being a wife, something I really didn’t relish.

My aim was always to be a trophy wife. Why? Because men always treated trophy wives like princesses. A trophy is something you win – which man doesn’t want to win?

(Men love the idea of flaunting a trophy wife. Sure, they may snigger and gossip over Chivas and Cognac about so-and-so’s trophy wife with utter disdain among themselves and in front of their stuck-up, shriveled wives. They may mock the fool who chooses to sleep with a girl younger than his daughter, but make no mistake; secretly there is unmitigated admiration among those old farts for the winner of that scantily-clad scatterbrain, who you can bet has once worked in a brothel, but only as a “receptionist.” Who has once worked in a strip club, but only as a “waitress.”

In fact, when they get home, they eye their long-suffering, block-heeled, bob-wearing, flannel-pajama-loving, use-by-date, menopausal ball and chain and think to themselves,
I have more money than him, I am more important than him, why haven’t I got myself some young, sweet thing on the side?
Then he starts eyeballing all his friends’ and employees' daughters.