I've Been Wrong Before

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Disclaimer: This is strictly an AU story. I don't own any DC comics characters (unfortunately). Any characters remotely in resemblance by name is probably DC Comics' ownership; anyone that doesn't sound familiar is mine.

Author's Note: This will be my fourth Joker story. :) I'm kind of proud of myself. For now, this story is rated T for coarse to mild language and brief sexual content. As it gets worse, I'll up the rating. Read and review at your leisure, but I update quicker via reviews. ;)

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Chapter One: Same Old Thing.

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We made love in the night. The silence invaded my mind, leaving me to a deeper sea of thoughts. Despite the thrusts he committed to my ever-longing pleasure, a much-needed change from the absolute monotony he frequently delivered, I was compelled to moan out of obligation, not a result of numbing sensuality. What he lacked was effort; what I lacked was adventure. His enthusiasm of his hands probing my ass and snaking their fingers up my rib cage to grope at my breasts were empty efforts—I saw more effort in a suckling infant upon a mother's breast than his tongue that messily licked my bosom. He knew little of what he was doing.

Yet, here I was, trying to appeal to his ego like some unhappy wife, moaning like a porn star and with a vocalization that even an opera singer could master.

It was an admirable act.

I was married. I was unhappy. I was his wife. And I wanted to be anywhere but in a queen-sized mattress, showered by middle-class earnings of some dipstick lawyer who knew as much of pleasing a woman as he did acquitting his people. He could get a jury off on his charismatic appeal but the man had no evidence—regarding his defendant's innocence or my sexual pleasures.

He finished, pouring his seed inside of me. His harsh breath of alcohol and the dopey smile he sent me were regular signs of his own sexual satisfaction. In response, I only smiled back like the dutiful wife I had become. As a husband, he made do—a good job, fair wage, and we even had two cars we used to get to and from work on time, without a hassle. As a lover—I could fuck myself better than he could with both hands.

Needless to say, the man with a badly trimmed beard, slick, oily black hair, and dispassionate blue eyes made little to no effort in pleasing me on our fifth Valentine's Day together. Why I ever said 'yes' to a man who couldn't find his way around a bra clasp was beyond me; maybe I had been in the same position he was tonight: Drunk out of his skull.

Too bad I didn't take his offer on drinking five beers for this unhappy coitus...maybe I'd have changed my mind after all these years.

While he enjoyed the same missionary position every night, I was getting bored. I'm not talking about different settings or just general lack of enthusiasm. Gary always did it missionary, in the same bed, in the same spot, in the same way, at the same time of night. At nine o'clock, sharp, we were fucking (or what he considered 'fucking'). I didn't ask for much except for a little change: Throw me on the coffee table, fuck me in the shower. Show me a little knife play, get a little rough, Gary, come on! You'd be surprised how crazy he thought I was for wanting something a little different. Call me an anarchist, but I like to stir the pot a bit.

What I wanted was a little anarchy.

Then again, I always thought I was right. I never thought I could be wrong about these things, but then again...unfortunately...I'd been wrong before.