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DON'T MESS WITH MY PUSSY

T he Past

First serious boyfriend: I wish your ass looked like Britney Spears’.

You should really work on that.

Two hours later:

First serious boyfriend: Your ass looks like Britney Spears’, but better

The Present

I’m sitting at my desk, typing, when I notice Timmy looking at me from across the room. His gaze feels heavy and cool, like a weight pressing down on me. His eyes narrow, and I can feel the tension radiating from him, though I’ve done nothing to prompt it.

“You’re not very good with your cat,” he says suddenly, his tone flat, matter-of-fact.

The comment slices through me, catching me completely off guard. I feel like he just backhanded me across the face—sharp and unexpected. He knows how much Sabre means to me. Sabre isn’t just a pet—he’s been my constant companion for over a decade. And now, Timmy is reducing my bond with him to nothing, attacking something sacred with cruel precision.

I sit here, trying to laugh it off, telling myself he’s probably joking—or that I’m overreacting.

But he continues.

“You pretend to be this great cat mom. But he doesn’t even like you.”

I stare at him, stunned, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Where did this even come from? The accusation feels so personal, like he’s intentionally cutting me where it hurts most. I feel the sting behind my eyes, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“What are you talking about?” My voice is shaky, but I try to keep it steady. “That’s not true and it’s just… mean.”

Timmy leans against the wall, his arms crossed, smirking like he’s won some private victory. There’s a mean gleam in his eye, almost gleeful. “I’m the one who he comes to,” he continues, as if he’s listing facts. “I’m the one that cleans his litter box.”

His tone is condescending, his words like daggers, as if I’m a child being scolded for not doing my chores.

“Well, I appreciate you cleaning his litter box.” I try to stay calm, although I feel like I’m on the edge of exploding. “He comes to me as well, Timmy. He just knows that you give him treats every time he comes into the kitchen. And he loves cuddling with you. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. That has nothing to do with me being a good cat mom. And, as you may recall, I’ve looked after him since he was a kitten—through surgeries, vet visits, and everything else, and he’s a teenage cat in wonderful health.” I pause, my temper flaring. “So fuck you.”

Timmy’s smirk deepens, as though my anger amuses him, as if I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted. “There you go, swearing at me again,” he says, shaking his head in disappointment. “Margaux, you’ve really got to work on your temper. It’s becoming a real issue.”

The shift leaves me breathless, like I’ve missed a step on a staircase and I’m free-falling. A second ago, he was attacking me. Now, somehow I’m in the wrong for reacting to it. I feel trapped, caught between the need to defend myself and the desire to keep the peace.

A couple of days later, we’re in the apartment together as usual.

Sabre is lounging in his hammock, as sunlight streams in through the glass sliding door, casting warm patches across his sleek, black coat. He’s purring softly, staring out at the ocean like a little king surveying his domain.

Timmy glances up at Saber and smiles. “You’re so good with him,” he says warmly. “He’s so healthy—look at his coat. You’ve done a wonderful job of looking after him for nearly thirteen years.”

I blink, stunned. It feels like my brain is breaking, short-circuiting. Did he really just say that? A few days ago, he was telling me Sabre didn’t even like me. Now, I’m suddenly a wonderful cat mom?

“Um… thanks?” I say hesitantly, still trying to catch up with the emotional whiplash.

I mean, what he’s saying is true. Sabre is a wonderful, mischievous, cheeky cat who purrs and snuggles and loves the sunshine streaming across his back. He likes naps and biting my ankles and chasing lasers around the apartment.

I’ve nursed him through intestinal surgery because he ate my hair, some earbuds and a piece of an eyelash curler. I’ve cuddled him and loved him and fed and watered him his entire life. Bought him all sorts of cat towers and treats and toys and cuddly blankets and scratching posts. I know all of this.

But none of this is what Timmy said a few days ago.

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Margaux. I was just trying to give you a compliment. ”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay, thank you,” I say, carefully. “It just threw me because of what you said the other day.”

He tilts his head, frowning like he doesn’t understand. “What did I say?”

“That I was the worst cat mom ever, basically.”

He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “Oh. I was probably just being a jerk. You must have hurt my feelings.”

The words land with a heavy thud in my chest. How am I supposed to feel? Grateful? Flattered? Hurt? His words are like an emotional riddle—each side canceling the other out, leaving me dizzy in the aftermath.

And I want to scream. I hurt his feelings? That’s his excuse for deliberately saying something so cruel? And now, instead of an apology, I’m supposed to believe he was just lashing out because I somehow upset him?

It’s like trying to navigate a maze where the walls keep shifting. One moment, I’m the villain with a temper problem. The next, I’m the hero of the story—the perfect cat mom who’s done everything right. I feel like I’m constantly trying to catch my balance, only for him to yank the rug out from under me whenever he pleases.

It makes me question everything. Was he trying to punish me before? Test how much I can take before I snap? Or is this just his sick way of keeping me on edge, never quite sure where I stand with him? I feel like I’m chasing an impossible standard—constantly being pulled between approval and disapproval, praise and criticism, always trying to figure out what version of myself will make him happy.

I sigh, exhausted by the mental gymnastics. “You really confuse me sometimes, Timmy.”

He grins, as if my confusion is a joke only he understands. “It’s not that complicated,” he says, as if I’m making things harder than they need to be.

But it is complicated. It’s like he’s wanting to keep me insecure, always guessing, always needing his approval. I want to accept his compliment, but it’s as if something inside me cracked just a little hearing him criticize me the other day and compliment me now. It’s like every compliment has a barbed wire edge, and every criticism comes with an afterthought of praise. And I’m left trying to make sense of it all—trying to understand if this is just how he is, or if there’s something deeper behind the way he twists things around.

All I know is that it’s exhausting. And even though I love the highs—those moments when he’s sweet and affectionate, and like I’m the most important person in his world—the lows are starting to take their toll.

I want to believe the good moments represent the real Timmy, and that the bad moments are just an aberration that we can work through. But deep down, fear lingers—what if this is just another game? A way to keep me off-balance, always striving for his validation, always doubting myself when he shifts the narrative.

I’m seeing a vindictive side that I hadn’t noticed as clearly before, even though a nagging part of me reminds me there have been hints of it all along. A side that’s activated by any perceived little thing I do, say, don’t say, a facial expression, a tone, or even just because he feels like it.

I glance at Sabre, still content in his hammock, and envy his simplicity. He doesn’t have to navigate these emotional landmines—he just gets to exist, happy and whole, enjoying the sunshine and naps and snuggles and treats. I wish, just for a moment, I could be like him.

But instead, I’m here. Trying to love a man who changes the rules whenever it suits him, and trying to convince myself that I can keep up.