The author, and the author with her victim. She had to mutilate the Polaroids as part of the play.
I decided to pick a random stranger and stalk the shit out of him. Just for kicks. Here’s what happened...
I didn’t want to stalk a friend of a friend. I needed to find some jock in a shitty bar. Me and my best friend headed out to the lame part of Montreal, to a bar you normally couldn’t pay me to enter. There I saw my guy: blond-ish hair, ripped-up jeans, and a slick pair of shiny boots. Ew. My friend took off so I could be in complete control of the situation.
I pulled a chair up next to him, introduced myself, and bought him an incredible amount of drinks. Then I started telling him how wet he made me. He agreed to take me home with him. We had some pretty hardcore dark-alley oral sex, which actually ruled. You know when you take a piss in the shower? It felt THAT good. His tongue was as soft as a newborn lamb’s coat.
Then we got to his place and he gave me the most pedestrian pounding I have ever had. Yawn.
After he fell asleep, I took down all the phone numbers in his cell while hiding in the bathroom. Mom, Dad, Susan, Rita, Jeff, and some guy named “Coke Delivery.” Real subtle, dude.
I went back to bed with him and murmured “I love you.” He moved away from me. Everything was working as planned. He was getting stalked.
I woke up fairly early, but he was already up and claiming he had to go to work. I started hugging him and telling him that I had the best night of my life, and he just kind of stood there. I asked him for his phone number, and he said he didn’t know what it was since he had just moved in. I knew it was a lie, but I said, “Fine, I’ll just stop by sometime and we can hang out. I’d love to hang out with you, and I need more of this.” Whereupon I tapped on his junk. He didn’t say a word, but I could tell he was frightened. I also already had his phone number, stolen from his phone.
That night I showed up at his house piss-drunk at 4 AM with lipstick all over my face, and rang the doorbell six times. His roommate answered, and I ran in, jumped on my guy’s bed, and started screaming, “TAKE ME, FUCK ME.”
It was beautiful. He was almost crying from the stupefaction and he told me to leave. I begged him to come and sit on the porch with me to talk. I gave him a letter I wrote him along with several Polaroids. The letter is full of pyscho shit and it’s half in French. That makes it even creepier somehow. Dude couldn’t even speak. He was just like, “Please leave, you’re fucking insane.” I’m pretty proud, so this was the most awkward moment of my life, because I had to play it like a crazy whore with zero self-esteem. I kept telling him we were made for each other and that I wasn’t able to take a shower since his scent was all over my body. He yelled at me, told me to leave again, and I ran into the house and hid under the covers in his bed, crying at top volume. His roommate came into the room and told me to leave. I could tell they felt awful for me. So I finally left, sobbing.
Once I got home, I laughed so hard I thought my head was going to fucking explode. I called him five more times (my number’s blocked), leaving messages every time, that night. He doesn’t know my full name, my address, or my phone number, so I don’t think I can get in trouble. But I planned on fucking with him even more. Being a stalker is hard work, and I can’t believe people can do this in earnest. It’s exhausting. Every night during this experiment I slept like a log.
I decided that the next night, I would call his mom.
Me: Hello, is this [name withheld, a.k.a X]’s mom? I’m your son’s new lover. How are you?
Mom [after 20 full seconds of complete silence]: I’m fine...
Listen, bitch, you’re going to let him know that he better call me back or I’m gonna start with you for my new fireplace ornament. Get it?
Who are you?
I thought I was going to puke for several hours after that call. I had never threatened anyone before that, and it felt awful. Now I know how Courtney Love feels.
I was sort of running out of ideas, so I decided to show up at his work wearing a T-shirt I had stolen from his house the first night we met. I actually looked kind of sexy in it, so I slapped myself in the face a few times to make sure I looked like I was on crack.
X’s work was very close to my house, so I could actually take breaks from stalking him, come back home, have a coffee, watch the end of Desperately Seeking Susan, and get back on duty. I walked in front of the main window and waved for like an hour, then came in and waited for him to get off work.
His coworkers told me he didn’t want to see me and that I had to leave. I started yelling, “I LOVE HIM, I’M PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY, PLEASE LET ME TOUCH HIM, PLEASE LET ME TALK TO HIM.” Shit like that. He probably escaped through the back exit, because several minutes after they locked the front doors, my lover wasn’t coming out.
I went home, cried, and tried to slash my wrists open. OK, no I didn’t. Remember, I’m not really nuts. But I did take a shower and masturbate the fuck out of the shower pole.
I fell asleep after an intense night of drinking, only to be awoken by the ringing phone. It’s X yelling at me, telling me he knows where I live and that if I don’t stop harassing him, he’ll call the cops. I just told him I loved him and hung up. Too tired to deal with him right now.
I wish I could have stalked him more, just for pure fun, but he called the cops. I was away for about three days, and once I got back to Montreal, my roommates announced to me that the cops had been to the house and asked to “discuss” something with me. I don’t want to end up in jail or with a restraining order, so I called it quits.
Stalking is a real energy-sucker! I had no life for almost a week, spending all my time trying to get to this guy. You have to be completely insane to be a stalker. If anything, this experience has proven to me that I am not as crazy as I thought I was. Compared to the average stalker, I’m a pretty normal girl. Who knew?
MARY SECRET MYSTERYPANTS