Page 2 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
“Here’s a quote from Roseanne Barr: ‘The thing women have yet to learn is that nobody gives you power. You just take it.’ Sounds simple enough, right? The problem with that is that it assumes the source of power is outside you. It isn’t. You already have all the power you need, but you’ve been giving it away. You’ve been trading it, bartering it, squandering it, because your need to be liked is stronger than your need to honor yourself. Every time you don’t speak up if you’re disrespected, every time you say ‘yes’ when you should say ‘no,’ every time you put someone else’s needs or desires ahead of your own, you give away your power. And what do you get in return?”
I wait. The audience leans forward, a collective held in thrall.
“Frustration. Resentment. Anger.”
Heads nod; I’m preaching to the choir. Picking up energy, I turn and stride stage right. Every eye in the auditorium follows me.
“Here’s a fun statistic: women are nearly twice as likely as men to suffer from depression. Twice as likely. Do you think that’s fair?”
When I hold out the mic toward the audience, I get a blistering shout in return.
“No!”
“Of course it’s not!” I pace back the way I came, my legs eating up the stage, my hair tumbling over my shoulders, a lioness going in for the kill. Agog, they watch me.
“And can you tell me who NEVER suffers from depression?”
Right on cue, hundreds of voices cry out. “Bitches!”
“That’s RIGHT!” I roar. “Bitches never suffer from depression! They don’t suffer from anything, in fact, because if it makes them unhappy, they move on! They don’t try to change it, or whine about it, or spend hours with their girlfriends analyzing why. They simply open their hands and let it go!”
Clapping. Ah, how I adore the sound of clapping. It takes a great deal of effort not to break into another grin, but I manage it. I stand with my legs shoulder-width apart in the center of the stage and gaze lovingly at my audience.
Even in my thoughts, I’m careful not to call them my “minions,” as my best friend Darcy does. The word is far too disrespectful for a group of people who are putting half a million dollars in my pocket for a few hours of listening to me talk.
“The bitch’s motto is, ‘After me, you come first.’ Whether it’s a man, or a job, or a family member, the priority is always her own happiness. In this way, and in this way only, a woman controls her own destiny, and realizes and safeguards her power. She’s never at the mercy of anyone else.” I pause briefly to let that all sink in. “What you need, ladies, is simply a new interpretation of that old insult for a strong woman. A definition you can truly embrace.”
A new graphic flashes on the large projector screen on the wall behind me.
Bitch: noun a woman in control of herself, her life, and her destiny, who always gets what she wants.
Shouts of “Amen!” and raucous hoots of approval erupt from the audience. Now I can’t help myself; my mouth breaks into a huge smile.
“That’s right. A bitch always gets what she wants. A bitch isn’t bossy. She’s the boss. In life, in work, and in relationships, bitches always do better. Now let me ask you ladies…”
I throw my shoulders back, lift my hand to the sky, and raise my voice to the rafters.
“Are you ready to become a BITCH?”
The answering screams are deafening. Applause thunders. The audience leaps to its feet.
And I stand laughing on the stage, soaking in the adulation of over two thousand women, thinking there’s no way life gets any better than this.
Well, if Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury had turned out to be Mr. Four Hours of Foreplay, it would’ve been better, but because men are men, we women can’t always get everything we want, despite the claim of the empowering graphic projected on the wall.
Which is precisely why I own so many vibrators.
* * *
Seven hours later, after the seminar is finished, all the questions have been answered, all the books have been signed, and the last of the audience has finally filtered out the ballroom doors to wreak havoc on the men in their lives with their new, enthusiastically embraced titles of capital-B Bitches—and they have the lapel pins, mugs, and bumper stickers to prove it—I’m exhausted.
Unfortunately, I committed to dinner with Darcy tonight at Xengu, the new hot spot in Tribeca, and there’s no way she’ll let me off the hook, no matter how tired I am. Calling her a foodie would be like calling Jesus a rabbi: accurate, but completely missing the point. Darcy has turned dining out into an art form, and a highly lucrative business. She’s one of the most successful food bloggers in the States.
She’s also the only woman I’ve ever met who can make a grown man soil his pants in fear at the mere sight of her. If a restaurant gets a thumbs-down review from her, its owner might as well close the doors and start over. She’s utterly, unapologetically ruthless.
And brilliant. And loud. And hilarious. If there’s anyone in my life I’d use the L-word for, it would be her.
I’m back in my condominium building, awaiting the private elevator that will take me to the penthouse level, when my cell rings. My assistant Tabby is carrying it, along with my Hermès bag, my laptop bag, and my rolling travel bag.
