rent a bitch

by Holly Woodward

When Rent-a-Saint launched, men vied for their gaunt women in sack cloths who came to cook and clean in grim silence. When not scrubbing the floor, the woebegone stoics stood on high columns; if they slept they’d fall to their deaths. Misery seeped into the soup. The crones served cold bowls of thin broth and lumpy gruel and muttered about vile bodies. Complaints spurred self-flagellation and more nails in the mattresses. The handmaids smelled of toilet cleaner; their skin bled from stone scrubs.

And just like that, Rent-a-Bitch burst onto the market. Sick of subservience, men hired women who descended like furies to upend the gloom. In lacy bustiers and thigh-high black patent leather boots, they wrestled whips from the holy relics. They sprayed whipped cream directly into mouths. The bitches threw hissy fits. They smelled of high maintenance. They were in such demand, disgruntled saints were rehabbed as dominatrixes.

Men murmured, “Yeah, baby, I’ve been a bad boy. Harder, please. That’s more like it. I love a bitch.” They wept with happiness. Men whistled and cleaned in aprons, on their knees, while the new crew went for girl’s night karaoke, where they sang “I Will Always Love You,” which was, for some reason, their favorite song.

Photo of Holly Woodward

BIO: Holly Woodward is a writer and artist. She served as writer in residence at St. Albans, Washington National Cathedral, and was a fellow for four years at CUNY Graduate Center’s Writers’ Institute. Woodward enjoyed a year as a doctoral fellow at Moscow University. She also studied at Leningrad University and has an MFA from Columbia. Her poetry and fiction have won prizes from Story Magazine, the 92nd Street Y, and New Letters, among other honors.