“By the way, she didn’t cheat on you”. The voice of one of the other officers at the window of the patrol car in which I sat startled me back into reality. I looked at him as if I were some kind of moron, an expression of WHAT THE FUCK on my face.

“Trust me,” he continued. “I know she didn’t cheat on you.” He turned his attention to the woman behind the wheel, exchanged a few more words, then waved and walked back to the one legged man waiting in his car.

(WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? HOW DOES HE KNOW K DIDN’T CHEAT, AND WHO IS HE ANYWAY? I DON’T EVEN RECOGNIZE HIM).

I took a deep breath and scooted as far as I could to the rear of the backseat of the cruiser. Thank gawd it was not a long drive to the police station, as my arms were beginning to ache. Still sore from being shackled to the towel rack in our bathroom just hours earlier by my beloved yet idiotic wife, I just wanted to be free to massage my arms and plan my revenge. But I had other things to worry about right now as the severity of my situation was beginning to set in — No money, no I.D., road rage and a physical altercation with a handicapped drug-dealing, book making pizza producing war veteran — and the more I thought about how much trouble I was actually in, the more I needed someone or something to blame.

And I didn’t have to think too hard or too much to pinpoint the source of all my trials and tribulations. L, L-Word, THEE L-Word, L-Word.com, L-Word Fan Fiction, Discussion Boards, Music, Reviews, Opinions, Editorials, L L L L L everyfuckingthing L . . . THAT was the source of all my trouble, without a doubt.

My thoughts were obsessed, 24/7 with images from the show. I was seeing the faces of Bette and Tina and Shane and Carmen and Alice and Dana, and yes, even Jenny, on the bodies of total strangers. If something happened to me at work or at play, I would think “what would Bette do” in this situation. I just couldn’t seem to experience life without relating it somehow to that fucking show.

Had I not become so addicted to everything L, I would not have started to miss work, to ignore my wife, to read that fan fiction, to stalk the authors, to cybersex fellow fans, to text message a secret admirer, and I certainly would not be needing the help of a shrink . . . The same piece of shit shrink who was now banging my wife, or so I imagined.

As the patrol car stopped for a traffic light, a group of cyclist s pulled up beside us. My heart sank as I recalled once belonging to such a club, a club where I had first met K. I stared at them and fought back the tears which seemed to well up in my eyes out of nowhere. And as I stared, one the riders turned to me and smiled as if she recognized me.

“You fucking moron, she didn’t cheat on you,” the woman yelled to me and rode off as the light changed.

The jolt of reality those words sent through my body could not compare to the fear that suddenly engulfed my entire being as I heard the beeping of my cell phone which was still in the pocket of my jacket lying on the seat beside me.

(OH MY FUCKING GAWD, THAT TEXT MESSAGE I NEVER READ . . . THE ONE I GOT RIGHT BEFORE K GOT THE CALL FROM HER LOVER, MY SHRINK . . THE ONE I FEARED THAT K WOULD SEE AND READ . . . OH MY FUCKING GAWD . . .I NEED TO GET THAT MESSAGE OFF THAT PHONE . . . OH MY FUCKING GAWD AND I NEED TO KNOW WHY EVERYONE IN THE FUCKING UNIVERSE SEEMS TO THINK THAT K DIDN’T CHEAT ON ME. . . OH MY FUCKING GAWD).

“Girl, what was that noise?” the officer in the front seat asked as I sat frozen with fear. I glanced at the jacket, then at her eyes in the rearview mirror, then back at the jacket, then back at her.

“Nothing, officer, it’s nothing at all, nothing ,” I lied without hesitation or remorse . . . . .

T.B.C. regrettably