This is the place to read my Original Writing (big whoop!) Some are legit stories, while others are just Fap material…
Sluts, Strippers and Dirty Cops
Part I
Sluts
Chapter One
Lookin’ For Love (in all the wrong places)
I’ve encountered two of my own kind before. I killed both of them. One because I had to, the other because I wanted to. - Little known fact: when you kill one of your own, you gain their strength.
To say I live a solitary life would be an understatement. I’ve been alone, a party of one, for over three and a half centuries. My last date was before the Eisenhower era. You’d be right to believe that I’m a little antisocial. Did I mention I killed my last date? It wasn’t my plan, and I wasn’t happy that it happened before we had even ‘sealed the deal’ but self preservation is, believe it or not, a stronger urge than companionship.
Since then I’ve tried to date normal girls, but they really aren’t into my vibe. Or maybe they just get a little freaked out when they notice that my skin is smoother than theirs, and a little too pale for their liking. And oh yeah, I think they might also get a little creeped out by the whole, no heartbeat thing.
Women: you can’t get laid by them, and for the most part, you can’t kill them. Even the runaways are more trouble than they’re worth. In the mean time, I stick to the underbelly of the world. Things were a lot easier before the Internet and a hundred channels of drivel, all with a competing media department desperate to grab the attention of a more and more numb audience. The old adage ‘if it bleeds, it leads’ has been replaced with ‘if it can be exaggerated beyond comprehension, it’s worth covering 24 hours a day ad nauseum’. Dead girls always lead the news, whether she was unwanted by society and her own family in life or not, it is still sensationalism waiting to be generated by the hairspray and capped teeth talking heads.
I don’t do that, not for a couple centuries now, and don’t plan to, so there’s no reason for me to continue harping on that subject. I’ve been working on my attitude. I’ve noticed over the last few decades that I’ve been getting more and more pessimistic, and I have to say even I am getting tired of it. I’m sure if I had friends, they would have all been driven away by my negativity and trash talk by now. Thank god I don’t have any of those judgmental, condescending assholes to deal with.
Damn, there I go again. How to lose friends and alienate people. You might say I wrote the book on that subject. In fact, I not only wrote the book on it, I then took it to heart, and gave it a solid century of real world, man on the street testing, just to make sure I had it right. I did. No question about that . If I had a buddy, I’d win every bet that I can make a woman completely loathe me within five minutes of meeting me. Hell, most times I don’t even need the full five minutes. Sometimes I don’t even have to get started before they want to forget they’ve ever set eyes on me.
Contrary to my boasting, I am not proud of this talent. I call it a talent, because it is not something I had to practice to get good at, in fact it’s something that I never wanted, nor do I wish to continue impressing my not-really-there friends with this tremendous ability to repel women like a giant human size can of Black Flag.
To that end I am out of my lair tonight. My lair, what a grandiose term for a squalid split-ranch with a window unit air conditioner and a neighbor who is either a crack dealer, or the most popular person I have ever had the pleasure of avoiding. - I digress.
I am sitting at the bar of a local establishment of the evening. Not a house of ill repute, but rather a house of mindless imbibing followed by poor decision making which leads to either unprotected sex, or if they’re luckier, DUI’s and manslaughter charges. This particular watering hole for the herds of pretty people desperate to spread their genes as far and wide as possible is called Eddie’s Love Shack. The owner is either completely attuned to the genuine purpose of his clientele, or he is a hopeless B52’s fan with no sense of creativity.
I’ve come here for one reason, actually three to be technical about it. One, it’s the closest to my home, only two blocks away. Two, it seems to be the most popular of the meat-and-greet clubs, and three; I have to practice my social skills. If I don’t get laid soon, I might have to kill myself, and as that is virtually impossible to do, I don’t see that I have any choice but to learn to woo the ladies.
My plan is simple. I will sit here on my stool, in the farthest corner of the room, and pretend to drink the ridiculously over priced drinks until it gets late enough in the evening that the ‘Free Drinks for the Ladies’ has done its magic, and the voila, I’m instantly more attractive, witty, and charming.
Eddie, the presumed owner of this butcher shop for the recently siliconed and tattooed, understands one thing about his market: Get the women drunk so that the men can more easily prey upon them. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think this is a building full of unsuspecting young damsels of virtue, tiptoeing around the watering hole, unaware that the kings of the jungle are circling. In fact, when you consider who holds the deciding cards in this game, it’s obviously just the opposite.
No man in this place will get lucky tonight without the express consent of the woman he has targeted. Luckily for these young men fresh from the gym, recently enjoying the testosterone enhancing benefits of a shot of steroids in their rippling gluteus maximus muscles, these women are here to land a man.
Of course, if asked, each of these young ladies will tell you that they are hoping to find the man of their dreams. (It would seem that in their dreams, the men are all well built, tanned, raging alcoholics,) but the cold hard fact of the matter is; these women are just desperate to land anything that will pay their bills and provide a home to their current and future brood of children.
Damn, I’ve even managed to impress myself with my latest diatribe against humanity. I’m sure that many of these women only had their breasts enhanced at the age of 20 because nature was ravaging their youthful looks, and they needed a quick self-esteem pick me up. Besides, what woman doesn’t look better with a few shots of Botox and a bit of their ass fat injected into their lips?
I’ve been sitting on my stool since ten o’clock, but it’s only been in the last half hour that the bar has really started hopping. It’s now half past midnight, and my ass is totally numb, as well as my left testicle, and the two smallest toes on my left foot. The free drinks have been flowing for over two hours, and the first wave of women who wanted to get their money’s worth are already having a tough time asking for their next libation. This is where my smooth moves come into play.
I start working my way into a more heavily trafficked section of the bar, where there is an almost steady stream of girls with color coded plastic cups who are having them refilled so frequently that I have to wonder, are they drinking these concoctions, or just spilling them on the way back to their table?
In the high traffic zone the stools are long gone, slowly and steadily getting pushed further and further out of the way until they get caught in the Gulf Stream of people constantly circulating around the club, looking for their next meal, or trying to find their White Knight who will take them home to a brief tangling of semi-erect sex and maybe a little vomit session afterwards in an effort to alleviate the inevitable hang over at work the next day.
I finally gain purchase on a tiny portion of bar real estate, and lay claim to it by planting my still numb foot on the railing below the bar, and draping an arm half way across the bar, offering my empty Pilsner glass to the harried female bartender who has been giving me a comical mixed look all night. Her first time looking at me, the look was pure smoky sexualism, as she was sizing me up as an early patron most likely to be a heavy drinker that might be a consistent tipper. After our first brief and completely awkward and socially defective interaction, her looks have been a heady mix of ten percent sexy, ninety percent annoyed. And I have been a steady and very generous tipper the entire evening, placing a forty percent gratuity next to every outrageously priced beer I’ve pretended to drink.
I catch my bartender friend’s eye, and request another five dollar Bud Light draft, and place another hefty tip on the bar, and she of course rewards me with a smoky grimace. Never mind. The important thing is, I am now in the zone. The lovelies have no choice but to sidle up next to me in order to get their next glass of anesthesia, and I can now act as their interpreter, converting slurred giggles into calls for bay breeze’s and fuzzy nipples. Even someone as socially repugnant as me can’t lose in a situation like this.
Perhaps.
A girl who looks to be no more than fourteen, but judging by the wrist band and the enormous plastic breasts barely covered by a spandex belly shirt, is of legal drinking age, tips her shoulder into my side, using my rib cage as a set of bumpers in her graceful docking of the good ship Kamikaze Shooters. At least that’s how I helpfully interpret her muffled request.
The girl hiccups an affirmative and then turns her head left and up to make eye contact with me. I’m not that tall, in fact only five foot ten, but she’s that short, quite possibly no more than four foot ten. As I said, in my book, she wouldn’t go more than fourteen, if that.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it.” I say, being sure to make solid contact with her eyes, and not the nine inches of cleavage staring back at me.
“Yooo anat a reggla awounnds here. I no-nose all das reggla, an, an yoosna wonada wons…”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d offer to buy your next drink, but they’re all free…” I say.
“Wee! Wee fo da lay dees, ya ya”
“You don’t say. I’m in internet advertising myself. You’ve probably seen my work. Have you ever ‘Punched the Monkey’?”
“Waa? Da fugg ah.. Waa?” She slurs.
“Well thank you. Maybe you’d like to get together some time, have dinner, see a movie?”
“Where’s ma fuggin dring? I finks ahm gone hurl. Waa happen my fuggindring? I gotta hurl. Gemme mydring.”
“So could I get your number?”
The girl responds to my question with a resounding ‘later’, by vomiting onto her shoes so forcefully that she cracks her head on the bar. I’ve no choice but to grab her by the knot of hair on her head, which shockingly tears away much easier than I would have thought possible. I’m left holding up a clump of long brown hair like a hunter just in from bagging a particularly large swamp rat, while my erstwhile date does a header into her own yellowish green soup of liquor and cocktail nuts.
I really have no idea what to do next, but before I can even say anything to the barmaid, two of the security goons swoop in and scoop her up, whisking her away so fast, even I have to question if she was actually ever at the bar. It wouldn’t be the first time my imagination was responsible for the bulk of the evenings activities.
***
Sitting in a smoky bar all night is not exactly my idea of a fun way to kill time, neither is talking to airheaded bimbos, but damn if I’m going to give up and pay for it again.
Fuck. How many decades of practice do you need before you can pick up a chick with your personality and looks, rather than your wallet? Obviously, more than ten.
That’s it, the next bar slut who comes up to the bar to order her fifteenth bay breeze of the night is mine. I don’t care if she’s here with some wanna be drug dealer boyfriend or not, I am going to close the deal. And I am not going to use any chicanery or tricks of the trade. This one is going to be all me.
I look at the clock above the bar and see that I’ve made my declaration with minutes to spare… The bar closes at two, and it’s now ten till. Great. Nothing like a time clock to give you a boost of confidence.
“Scuze me” I’m rudely pushed aside by a rather tall girl; and I say girl because she doesn’t even look old enough to drink, despite her paper bracelet and plastic cup; who is wearing a tight little cotton jumper. The outfit stops just north of the bottom of her ass cheeks, and just south of the middle of her swollen breasts. In fact, as I crane my neck, I can see her left nipple peeking out of the top.
“I need another bay breeze.”
“Last call was ten minutes ago sweetie.” Says the second, male bartender, who is already well into the final stages of cleaning up behind the bar. He’ll be out the door within minutes of clearing the last of the barflies, and doesn’t look to be at all interested in fixing one last drink for a girl who has already had way more than should be humanly possible.
“God dammit . I paid for that drink, I want my mother fruckin drink right fruckin now.”
The bartender glances at me, and gives me one of those, ‘you believe this shit head’ looks, before turning away and starting to count his cash drawer.
“Uh, umm, maybe I could help.” I say to the woozy girl, tearing my eyes away from the nipple that is once again poking out of her top. When I make eye contact with her, it’s only with her right eye, the left one seems to be looking just slightly over my shoulder, and appears to be out of focus.
“I have a whole bottle of Stolichnaya at home, and fresh organic cranberry juice. I’m right around the corner.”
She looks at me for a moment, her one good eye working its way over my pale white face, taking in the smooth, almost too perfect eyebrows that arch over clear green eyes. She notices that I have a full head of sandy brown hair, which looks to be artfully styled, but in fact is the result of my having forgotten to comb it before I left home. I’ve worn a black t-shirt, one that I bought online from a site that specializes in trendy club clothing. It’s silk, and cost a hundred dollars. Personally I think it looks exactly like a Fruit of the Loom shirt, but what the hell do I know from trendy?
“What’s your name? Do I know you?” She says, a tiny bit of spittle bubbling over her bottom lip. I must admit that gross as it might sound, that is the sight that pushed me over the edge. Fuck.
“I’m Gideon, and yes, we’ve met. In another place and another time.” Fuck, fuck. I’m using fucking parlor tricks. Without meaning to, my eyes are lighting up, and she’s already mesmerized. As drunk as she is, it doesn’t even take a second to pull her in. Shit. I really wanted this to be all me.
“Take me home Gideon. I’m lonely and I’ve missed you.”
“Of course. Come” I take her by the hand and start to lead her to the exit. I notice a tug after a moment and look back. Shit.
In my excitement, I’ve failed to notice that while my date might be willing, she isn’t all that able. After the first few steps, she lost her balance, and now I’ve dragged her half way across the room. I look around, and the last straggler drunks are all staring at me. A few are hooting, laughing at the spectacle, but a couple have a suspicious look in their eye. I guess it’s not that kind of bar.
“Whoa. I guess I’m not the only one who can’t walk tonight. Get up honey, I can’t carry you all the way to the taxi.” I lean down and put my hand under her arm. Trying to be as inconspicuous about it as possible, I lift her dead weight up, and put her into a standing position, then I hook my foot behind her left one, and lightly kick it forward. I have to drag her right foot ahead, and then I kick the left one again. To the plastered crowd, it looks like she’s stumbling along under her own steam. It’s not a perfect show, but it’s enough to get her out the door and around to the back of the building.
Once we’re in the darker portion of the parking lot, I stop the charade and toss the girl over my shoulder. I can hear her giggling in a muffled way as I jog down the alley and around the block to my place.
This isn’t the way I wanted things to go, but hey, a boy’s gotta eat, right?
Chapter Two
Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and screw)
“Stop pinching my ass.” Apparently my date is starting to wake up.
I put her down gently on the couch in the living room of my apartment. After closing and bolting the door, I turn my stereo on, cranking up a DMX CD. Personally I think calling DMX music is an extreme exaggeration, but the kids seem to like it, and the harsh bass, along with an almost metronomic deep guttural rhyming style works wonders on urban bar sluts.
“Wow. I haven’t heard DMX since I was a little girl. I love this shit.”
“Yes, I thought you might. Would you like another drink?”
“Yeah! What d’you got?”
“I’ll be right back. Make yourself more comfortable.” One of the unfortunate side-effects of glamming someone is that it tends to sober them up. In fact, if she hadn’t passed out before I lost total control of myself, she’d be totally sober right now. With a few more stiff drinks, she should drift back into the late stages of total inebriation, and then I can hope to have a date using my own personality, rather than the damn parlor tricks.
“Here we are my dear.” I’ve brought back the whole bar. A full bottle of frozen Stolichnaya, and carafe of cranberry juice, and a bucket of ice. I’m not taking any chances. I haven’t gotten any in over a month, and if I don’t get lucky tonight, I might do something really stupid.
As I pour my date a drink, I realize I don’t even know her name. Not that I care, but I’m sure she’ll feel more comfortable once we’ve had a little small talk and whatever the hell else it is that people do in these intimate settings.
“I’m at a disadvantage darling. You know my name, but I don’t recall yours.”
“Huh? Oh yeah, I’m Katie. What’s your name again?”
“Gideon. That’s a lovely name, Katie. Short for Katherine?”
“Nope. Katie. My moms was a big fan of KD Lang.”
“The country singer?”
“Yeah I know, country.”
“Is your name spelled Kay Dee?”
“Huh? No. It’s Katie, like the singer. I don’t like country, I’m a hip hop girl. See this tattoo, it’s the same one Eminem has on his wrist.” She says as she pulls the leg of her shorts up all the way over her right ass cheek to expose the small of her back.
“My. Those are some very stretchy shorts.” I try to tear my eyes away from her plump rump, make eye contact with her, but it’s no use. My hunger flares up inside me. I have trouble hearing her next words, the blood is surging past my ears, on an express route to my crotch.
“Yep. I can slide right out of this jumpsuit without even unzipping it. Makes going to the potty a lot easier.” She giggles. It’s an inane sound, but it vibrates my scrotum, and I find me knees getting weak. I slide closer to her on the couch, tentatively placing my hand on her thigh as she tugs her shorts back down over her bottom and reaches for her double tall bay breeze.
“Oh. You’re hand is really cold.”
“Sorry, I just made your drink, it must be the ice.” I say as I let my hand slide further up her thigh. God. What creamy skin. I can feel her youth and energy sizzling under my palm. I’m already starting to soak some of it up. “You have an amazing body. Has anyone told you that you look very much like Katherine Hepburn?”
“Who? You mean Katherine Heigle? Yeah, I get that. And sometimes Jennifer Love Hewitt, but I ain’t got the tits.” She uses her free hand to squeeze her left breast while saying this. True, it isn’t as big as J-love’s, but it is a fine example of a natural, exquisite female form. “I’m saving up to get d-cups. My mom said she’d give me $500 towards titties if I can get into community college, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen, so I just gotta save it all up on my own.”
My vision is starting to blur slightly, more so for every inch my hand slides up this delectable young treat’s thigh. My finger’s brush the center of her crotch, and the heat that radiates from it is like a small furnace, nearly burning my fingers. I start to absorb her sexual energy, which is already starting to flow from her center.
“You think I should get D’s?” She says, oblivious to my exploring.
I look up at her, and she tilts her head down, indicating with her eyes that I should examine her chest. She reaches out with her free hand and grabs my hand that was just beginning to find the nexus of her energy. I think she’s going to bat it away, but instead she pulls it up to her chest and pushes it onto her breast. She squeezes my hand, forcing me to palm and fondle her tit. It feels amazing. The breast is so firm I’m almost sure she’s already had a boob-job, but I can tell there’s no saline or silicone here. I get another powerful shot of her energy through my palm that barrels down my arm and shoots directly into my heart.
For a moment I am totally paralyzed with the sheer ecstasy that courses through me. I start kneading and rolling her breast in my hand, milking the life-force from her, as if milking a teat. I’m losing what little bit of control I have. I lean down and pull her cotton shift aside, exposing the tiny pink nipple that was teasing me in the bar. Without a thought I place my lips over it and suckle from her. She immediately reacts with a deep moan. As I draw her sexual psychic energy from her breast, she experiences intense waves of pleasure. Her moans become louder, starting to come in rhythmic waves, her body sways as if there are deep ocean waves gently lapping against her. I am nearly blind now, my need is so strong, and she is full of life.
While still suckling her breast, I lift her from the couch while stripping her jumpsuit off in one fluid motion. I let her drop back down on the couch, now fully nude. I lean back for a moment to take in the site of her flawless body. Her skin is still smooth and seamless with youth. I let me eyes travel down her body and she that she is one of this new generation of women who shave everything. Her pubis is bare, like a little girl. I don’t understand the reason so many women want to appear like children, but I must admit it makes the sex cleaner.
Katie is looking up at me, her eyes glazed over in lustful excitement. When I feed, I exude pheromones that act like an anesthetic, just like a mosquito does when it sucks your blood. I don’t need blood. Sexual fluids work just as well, and are much more enjoyable to obtain.
I lean down and let my tongue lightly skim her flat belly, just touching the inner edge of her bellybutton. Her stomach flutters, and I hear her take a deep breath. She slowly releases her breath as I drag my tongue lower, over the smooth skin of her Mons. I let my tongue slip down further, and am finally rewarded with my first taste of the slick heat of her.
Instantly my member becomes incredibly rigid, and every muscle in my body contracts. I begin to lap at her moistness, absorbing her life energy, using it to replenish the cells and tissues and muscles of my body. Katie moans and utters incomprehensible sounds as I take more and more of her amazing youthful vigor.
My mind is now a total white blaze. I’m no longer aware of who I am or whom I’m with. All I know is that the force that is entering my being is the most beautiful and awesome sensation in the world. I don’t want it to ever end.
I suck and lick and bite, soaking up every drop of her excitement, until I begin to realize that I’m no longer tasting her. The well has run dry, and I’m starting to come down from my high. After one more hopeful jab of my tongue, I roll off the girl, and sprawl on the floor, my back resting against the couch, head lolling back so that I am staring at the ceiling.
I lay there for several moments, feeling the fibers of my body tingling and twisting as they absorb and consume the massive amounts of psychic energy I’ve just devoured.
I look at the clock on my television’s cable box. It is nearly four a.m. - I’ve been going at it for nearly ninety minutes. That’s way more than I ever let myself go at it. Not that I don’t want to, it’s just not good for the girls.
Speaking of which, I finally remember the young lady I’ve been enjoying. I reach over and nudge her knee. Nothing. That’s to be expected. Sex with me is like donating blood right after a five mile run. It takes a little time to recuperate. I’m not bragging, I’m just describing the physical realities of what I do to a person.
I roll over and get to my knees. Katie appears to be out cold. The light makes her look even paler and more porcelain than I had noticed earlier.
“Wake up darling. It’s time for you to go home.” I can only feed on a person once a week, any more and they might go insane. And if I can’t have another go at her, why on earth would I want her to stay around. It’s not like there’s stimulating conversation to be had.
“Wakey wakey.” I gently pat her on the cheek. Nothing. I pat her again, a little harder this time. The only response is her head rolls over and her chin hits her admittedly rather flat chest. I guess I might have been wearing beer goggles earlier.
“Come on honey. I want to go to bed, and you need to go home and sleep this off. Where do you live? I’ll call you a cab.” This time I shake her shoulder. Instead of rousing her, it causes her to slide over, where she settles into a shapeless pile of flesh. An almost lifeless looking pile of flesh.
Uh oh. I hope this doesn’t mean what I think it means. I can feel my newly rejuvenated heart start to pump a little faster. Shit. I don’t need this.
With a shaky hand I reach out and place my index and middle finger against her carotid artery. At first I don’t feel anything. With a rising sense of panic, I slide it around, hoping to find a little piece of good news in a shitty rainstorm of bad. As I’m about to give up, I feel it. It’s slow, but it’s there. A steady, lump, lump, lump.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I put my hand on her chest, and I can feel the faint but stable thump of her heart.
Fuck. I don’t need this shit. I’m way too old to be dealing with this high school kind of bullshit.
That’s it. I make a pledge to myself right then and there. No more barflies, no more picking up stupid sluts in meat markets. From now on, when I need to feed, I’m sticking strictly to the pros. Strippers never let you get this far, and a steady diet of nibbles and sips is way the fuck better than this kind of drama.
I stand up, look around the room, spot Katie’s tiny clutch handbag at the other end of the couch. I gather it up, then pick up her tiny cotton jumper, turn it right side out, and then start the much more difficult task of putting it back on an unconscious girl.
Once redressed, I lift the girl over my shoulder, peek out the curtain beside the front door, and once sure that the coast is clear, I unbolt the door and head out into the night. I’ve already gone through her purse, and there is no ID, and no indication of where she lives, only a set of keys with a Hyundai keychain.
After flopping her limp body into the passenger seat of my car, I drive the block and a half back to Eddie’s Love shack, and pull into the now deserted parking lot. As I swing around, my headlights fall across a lone tiny red Hyundai Accent sitting on the far edge of the lot.
My luck is finally turning as I discover that Katie’s key is a mate for the door of the Hyundai. A better marriage I’ve never seen. I look around briefly before picking the girl up and walking her over to the passenger side of her car. After laying her down, I decide to be merciful and scrounge around in her glove box, finding an old envelope and a Bic pen. I scrawl a quick note that I place on her lap before locking her in the car.
I head back to my place with a warm glow.
Chapter Three
Easy (Like Sunday Morning)
Hang over. Shit. I didn’t drink last night, but then, this isn’t the typical headache and nausea the average alcoholic suffers from. This is a psychic energy come down. Last night my entire body was buzzing and jittering with the sexual energy of that girl. Today, my system has metabolized her spunk, and now my muscles and nerves are crashing back down into a normal rhythm.
It happens every time, but that doesn’t mean I’m any more immune to it than the very first time I experienced it. In fact, like an alcoholic, I’m even more sensitive to it these days. I roll over in my bed, twisting the thin cashmere blanket in my hands, and slowly force my eyes open.
There is a thin gray light seeping in through the black wooden Levolor blinds. Thank god I live in northern Oregon. Most every morning is a dreary sodden morning. I can hear dripping water outside the window. It is no doubt drizzling again. I tilt my head to the left, and force my eyes to focus on the alarm clock sitting there. Barely past nine a.m., I’ve had a solid three hours of sleep.
That’s actually about an average night of rest for me. When I was a child I could sleep for twelve hours without moving a muscle. But my entire adult life, and it’s been a long adult life, I’ve never slept more than two or three hours. That’s really all I need, as my body doesn’t have to spend any real downtime rejuvenating itself.
I drag myself out of the bed and head for the bathroom. I don’t have to urinate, doesn’t happen anymore. I also don’t have to go number two anymore. That has been a big time saver. When I was a teenager, I swear I must have spent half my days on the chamber pot.
I look at myself in the mirror. There is the suggestion of color in my cheeks. That will fade in a few hours, it never lasts more than twelve hours. My eyes are also clearer. The whites are spotless, no broken capillaries. People often look at my eyes and comment that they seem almost hypnotic. They aren’t, it’s just that they’ve never seen anyone with no red in the corners of their eyes. Subconsciously they interpret it as a mesmerizing stare. Believe me, I can’t enslave someone with a look.
I start the shower, making sure the water is good and hot. I don’t sweat, and I don’t shed skin, so I don’t really suffer from body odor. The only reason I’m taking a shower is to take the chill off my body. I run on the cool side. If I didn’t have such an aversion to sunlight, I’d be much happier living in the southwest. As I let the hot water pound on the back of my neck, I think about last night.
Last night. What a royal fuck up. I about blew it big time. I haven’t killed anyone in ages. I never should have gone so long between nourishments. I lose my ability to control myself when I’m starving. It’s no different than dieting; eat small portions often, and you’ll never have to worry about gorging when you’re famished.
I don’t know why I felt like I had to pick up a woman on my own. It’s not like paying for it is an embarrassment. My neighbors wouldn’t think twice about driving through McDonald’s and paying for a hamburger, so why should I be uncomfortable with trading money for favors? We live in a modern, service delivery era. Nobody hunts for their next meal anymore. No one makes an effort to entertain themselves. Just turn on the TV, call Dominos, log onto an adult entertainment site, arrange for a call girl, and then sit back and wait for the world to deliver your life to you.
I finish my shower, dry off with one of my new towels that I just had delivered from an upscale website that sells only top of the line linens. Two towels cost me over a hundred bucks. Fucking ridiculous. But damn if they aren’t the thickest, softest, most absorbent towels I have ever seen in my life. Absolute decadence.
I treat myself to small pleasures whenever I can to make up for the large pleasures I’m forced to deny myself. I live in a lower middle class neighborhood in a modest two bedroom duplex. My car is a three year old Nissan. I don’t have memberships to any clubs. I live alone most of the time, rarely go out, and try to avoid my neighbors.
To make up for it, I dry my ass with hundred dollar towels, sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets with cashmere blankets, and watch television on a seventy inch plasma screen. I may not appear to the world as a rich person, but that doesn’t mean I have to live like a fucking monk. I just don’t flaunt it like a Columbian drug lord.
Over the years I’ve earned a very respectable living in a number of leading edge industries. I was one of the first to invest in telegraphs and radio. When television came along, I bought in big. As technologies have evolved, I’ve done my best to stay current, but it gets tougher and tougher every day. Revolutionary technologies used to come along once every few years, then a little faster, but still, a person could really spend some quality time getting to know a new technology before the next one came along to make the old one obsolete.
Not anymore. These days I spend several hours a day researching the latest advancements just so I can keep my head above water. Things are changing so fast these days that I’m about to give up, throw in the towel, and look for another way to waste my days. It’s not like I really need to earn another dime. Even if I were to never die, god forbid, I’d still have enough money to keep me living in a lifestyle ten times better than my current one till the end of days.
Luckily for me I never made the mistake of investing in the markets. When they first came along, I was one of the few who seemed to really see them for what they were, legalized gambling. I don’t gamble, the odds are always in the house’s favor. Give it enough time, and you will lose your money. Ask anyone on Wall street these days how things are, and I’m sure they’ll give you an ear full.
My investments aren’t as exciting or as quick to return huge dividends, but they’re the ones that will outlast any IPO or Fortune 500 company. Real estate. It has its ups and downs, but people always need a place to live and work and entertain themselves, so they’ll always be willing to pay you for it.
Of course I invest in new emerging technologies as well. Sure they fade fast, but damn if they don’t burn bright on they’re way. I’ve made vast fortunes in the last few decades, investing early in a number of technologies that seemed silly or unlikely at the time, but that are now absolute necessities for day to day living in our society.
The money doesn’t interest me anymore. Hell, I have a hard time even getting curious about the latest trendy gadgets. I think that’s what spurred my determination to get back into the social scene.
Talk about a trend that I’ve completely missed. I don’t understand the language of today’s youth at all. The few women that I talked to last night that were capable of coherent thought were babbling on about MySpace and Facebook and Twittering. I’ve gone to those sites, but honestly, come on. Why would anyone over the age of twelve want to waste even a minute of their time blathering on about themselves on those silly sites? Every woman on them has the exact same photograph of themselves, taken from slightly above as they give the camera a poor imitation of a sexy pout. They can’t spell. Not a one of them seems to be capable of spelling words, or even of forming complete sentences. It’s as if there is an anti-spell-check program that intentionally dumbs down everything you have to say, so that even a mildly retarded first grader could communicate with you.
I have no hope of ever relating to these simpletons. I have to resign myself to the inevitable fact that I will spend the rest of my life interacting with women on a one hour at a time basis.
I’m thinking of joining AA. I don’t drink. In fact, alcohol doesn’t affect me at all. (Other than giving me runny diarrhea.) At least if I went to AA meetings, I’d be surrounding myself with people. People who are forced to talk to you, even if it’s only to relate their sad, depressing story for the one hundredth time so that they can get their sobriety coin. They say don’t go to a junk yard to buy a new car, but I’m pretty sure I don’t qualify for a never been driven model. In fact, I think about the only woman who might be a fit for me is a broken, maladjusted, low self esteem social outcast. In fact, I think I just described myself to a tee.
I’m intentionally interrupting my diatribe by going into the kitchen to make myself a pot of coffee. I’m not going to drink the java, I just want to spend a half hour inhaling the aroma. There really are few pleasures in life as great as the smell of coffee in the morning. - Despite what Robert Duvall says about the smell of Napalm, I’ll take a cup of Joe over burning petroleum any day.
I pull out a bag of Hawaiian Kona coffee, a special blue mountain blend that runs almost thirty dollars a bag. Another mail order goody. I put a hefty amount of beans in the grinder, and then hold the button down extra long, enjoying the first whiffs of pungent coffee grounds. I like to make my coffee with ten scoops per pot. I’m sure if I were to drink the brew, it would peel the skin off my tongue, but I’m just in this for the aroma, so I don’t give a fuck. It’s all going down the drain when I’m done anyways.
While I wait for the coffee to drip, I pull open a laptop that I keep on the kitchen counter. I have laptops in every room of the house, that way I can access the net when the urge hits me. I open a browser and take a quick tour of my main investments. Some are down a little bit, but most are even or even up. Whatever. Next I go to the tech site I use to take the pulse of the industry. Google has another communications gadget ready to take the market by storm. As if. I was working on two gigahertz computers a decade before they became available to the public. The industry is a sham in some ways. The big technology players come up with giant leaps in product advancement, but in order to squeeze every last dime out of the paying public, they leak the advancements out in tiny drips and drabs. Wasn’t anyone curious why the entire 90’s saw computer processors doubling in speed exactly every six months? I won’t complain too much. I was one of the ones who cashed in on the greedy shenanigans.
Next I pull up CNN. The usual murder, mayhem, political intrigue and a world constantly at the brink. It’s been my experience that the world is always at the brink of destruction, it’s just that up until the last decade or so, people were blissfully unaware of it. There are definite downsides to massive amounts of information at your fingertips at every moment. I remember when an entire country could be dead from a pestilence, and it might be months before you found out about it. Now, the Prime Minister in China farts, and housewives in Nebraska can smell it before he does.
My last stop before the coffee is done is a local news site. I’m not that interested in local happenings, or even the local weather, (cool, rainy and overcast - no need to check that) but I feel it’s my obligation to know what’s going on in my immediate surroundings. If there are rumblings that could affect me, I want to know well in advance so I can take appropriate measures.
The headline for the local news is that a nine year old boy was stopped for a minor traffic violation, and the cops discovered his drunk dad slumped in the passenger seat, on his way to the store for more beer. That’s sure to make national headlines. People love to hear that there is someone more pathetic than themselves.
I scan through the rest of the headlines. City commissioners argue over how much to raise rates to add to their coffers, a local couple arrested for trying to sell their daughter for a pound of marijuana, another pair of teenagers were caught breaking windows at a construction site. God, who can stand to read, let alone write this boring pabulum?
I’m about to close the browser and pour a cup of the now finished coffee when a tiny headline below the fold of the page catches my eye.
LOCAL CLUB GIRL FOUND STRANGLED IN CAR OUTSIDE BAR
I’m sure it’s nothing to do with my evening, but still, it’s always a shocker to think that you might have had a brush with violence. I click the link and wait for the article to load. The pop-ups and flashing advertisements are the only thing slowing the page down, as there is only two thin paragraphs when the article finishes loading.
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Shit. I know she was alive when I left her. This is not good.
Chapter Four
A crow left of the murder
Step one in a crisis: Don’t panic. Step two, fuck if I know.
I’ve made an art of living under the radar. I’ve gone for entire generations without being noticed by anybody. This is the first death I’ve been associated with sense modern forensics was invented. I’m a technology geek, I know what I’m up against. Hell, that was one of the main reasons that I stopped killing my food over a dozen decades ago. I could see the writing on the wall. Modern man is much more touchy about killing off his females.
Fingerprints aren’t an issue, I haven’t spoken to a cop since they started using them to identify criminals. Obviously the same goes for DNA. In fact, I have to seriously wonder what my DNA would even look like.
Off and on I’ve tried to research my condition, but unfortunately it isn’t something that you can look up on the internet, or go to your family GP to get checked out. I’ve pieced together some of the pieces based on symptoms. For example, I have an acutely heightened sensitivity to light, a condition known as Erythropoietic Protoporphyria. In most people prolonged exposure to sunlight eventually leads to liver failure. I don’t get sick, so I just get major fucking sunburns that hurt like hell for a few hours before it fades away.
None of my research has helped me to understand the big issue, the numero Uno condition that is by far the biggest question that anyone could have, why won’t I die? I know a bit about how I came to be, I mean, I was there when it happened, but fuck if I know why I came to be.
I know that what I have is a blood and bodily fluid born infection, and that while it is contagious, it only effects an improbably small percentage of people exposed to it. I’ve personally done the dirty with well over ten thousand women, (I’m not bragging here, it’s just a fact - nobody would think twice if I said that I had eaten over ten thousand meals in the last decade,) and I’ve only infected one of them. That’s a long sad story that I won’t dive into right now, I have much more pressing issues to think about.
I don’t like dealing with pressing issues. You don’t drop out of society because you like dealing with problems. If I were to go to a psychiatrist, I’m sure he would tell me that I had avoidance issues. Luckily I avoid shrinks as well.
According to the article the girl was strangled. I never touched her neck, in fact I barely made it last her navel. That means that I wasn’t the one to kill her. That means someone else is the murderer, which therefore means that the cops will find the real killer and I have nothing to worry about. I’ve watched enough episodes of CSI to know that it only take fifty four minutes to collect all of the evidence, track down the killer, and get them to confess to everything. I have nothing to worry about.
All the same, I don’t think I’ll be going back to the Love Shack any time soon. Indeed, I don’t think I’ll ever go back there. Not because of this little hiccup, but rather because I’ve had my fill of looking for a meaningful one night stand. From now on, I stick to professionally prepared treats. Hookers and strippers have always been the best option for a person such as myself. Then again, that’s how I came to be.
I didn’t start using ladies of the night just to quench my psychic hunger . No, I was visiting them long before I developed my current condition. I’ve never been very good with women. I’m not unattractive, but I just don’t get the entire female race. Conversation is impossible. Nothing means what it means, a look is supposed to tell you every important nuance of what she’s thinking and desires. A denial is really a demand, and no means yes unless it’s something that you want.
Cash transactions are much more definable. I want what she has, she wants what I have, we exchange them, a few minutes later we’re both on our way to whatever else we’d like to do that day.
Naturally, as I said, it was just that sort of thinking that put me in this position today. My condition is basically an STD. What better place to contract an STD than with a prostitute. And what better place for a woman with an overwhelming hunger for human sexual psychic energy to be, than a whore house. I remember to this day exactly when I was infected, and exactly who did it. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what I had been infected with until it was much too late to track her down and ask her what the hell she did to me. For the first few weeks I thought I had malaria, or some other miasma induced infliction of the humours that was robbing me of my vital essence.
By the time I became aware that what I was suffering from was something else entirely, I was left to discover how to cope with it entirely on my own. It was a rough decade.
By now my coffee is completely cold. Even though I don’t drink it, cold coffee is still cold coffee. It loses it’s enjoyable aromas once the water cools below a hundred degrees. I step over to the sink and pour the cup out. I look at the pot, still nearly full, but the thought of another cup actually turns my stomach. Not an easy feat when there’s nothing in there.
I start to feel a little cold, and think to myself that I might be in shock from the news of the dead girl, but then I look down and realize I haven’t gotten dressed after my shower. I’ve been standing in the kitchen buck naked the entire time. Fuck. I really need to get out more.
I head to the master bedroom to get dressed. Today I’m going to wear more than just my usual jeans and a t-shirt. I’m going to go out. It’s raining, the sun is not going to be making a major appearance today, and I really need to get back into the swing of interacting with people.
I put on a pair of black gabardine slacks, a charcoal silk oxford shirt, and a black cashmere vest. I also select a dark charcoal cashmere sport coat and a pair of black leather JP Tod rubber soled slip-on shoes. I decide to forgo a hat, even though it would help keep the rain out of my eyes. I’m about to step out of my walk-in closet when I decide to slip a pair of thin kid leather gloves into a side pocket. I tend to run on the cold side, and I might need them later. The local news site called for a high in the mid sixties, and in my book, that’s cold.
I walk back into the bed room and cross over to my dresser. I pull out the top drawer to reveal my watches. I have a thing for watches, and have several dozen of my favorites arranged on a velvet liner. I select my newest TAG Heuer Monaco, a very pleasant, quietly elegant square faced timepiece with a brushed platinum case, and a mother of pearl dial inlaid with a tiny diamond at every hour mark. The band is a simple platinum link in a classic TAG design. I think it sets off the dark suit nicely.
I feel very dapper. Do people still use that term? Who cares, I feel good about myself, and that’s a pretty rare occasion these days, so I’m not going to spoil it.
I put my wallet and car keys in their respective pants pockets, and then turn to the armoire next to the dresser. I open it up to reveal a large flat screen plasma TV. Reaching behind the panel, I tug a lever, and the entire back wall of the armoire pops forward, and then swings open on hidden hinges. I’ve had this nifty piece of furniture for longer than I can remember, having acquired it from a furniture maker who catered to the aristocrats of the day. Behind the panel is a large safe. Technically it is a gun safe, nearly as tall as the armoire itself, but I use if for much more than that.
I have a few guns, but many of them are more antique than weapon. I also keep a nice selection of jewelry here. I don’t wear these trinkets, but I like to keep them around as easily portable wealth should I need to move at a moment’s notice. The top two shelves of the safe have stacks of currency. The majority are American greenbacks, the preferred coin of the realm, but there are also plenty of the new Euros, as well as a stack or two of bearer bonds. Although I’m not too sure I could still cash bearer bonds… they might have out lived they’re negotiability?
I grab a packet of bills from the American side, flip through it to make sure it’s all hundreds, stuff it into the inside pocket of my coat, and then close the safe and spin the dial. I press the false panel back into place until I hear a muted click, and then button up the armoire.
I have credit cards, how else could I raid the internet on a nearly daily basis, but in the real world, I prefer to use cash whenever possible. I might be taking along a bit more than I’ll need today, but it’s always better to have too much money than not enough.
I walk through the living room and into the kitchen. I glance over to make sure the coffee pot is off, wouldn’t want to come back to a smoldering home, and then make my way over to the garage door. Before exiting, I tap my code into the alarm panel, and then head into the garage.
I’m immediately startled by the cold. It’s much nippier than I had imagined, and I already begin to doubt my decision to forgo the hat. I slide into my car nonetheless, crank over the engine, and then crank up the heat. While I wait for the engine to warm up, and thereby start pumping some serious heat into the cabin, I reach up and press the automatic garage door opener. The motor whirrs, the screw gear grinds, and the metal door rumbles and rattles up.
The murky daylight streams into the garage and gives me another shock. It’s much brighter and harsher on my eyes than I remembered it. I pop open the arm rest storage bin, and select a pair of Serengeti sunglasses. There is dust on the lenses, so I use the liner of my coat to gently wipe them clean. As I rub the glass, I realize that this is the first time I’ve ventured outside during daylight hours in perhaps a year or more.
Jesus, I really need to get out more.
With the car warmed up, and the vents pumping crispy hot air, I slip the gear selector into drive, and pull out into a bright, beautiful new day. I think my first stop will be a Starbucks.
Chapter Five
Don’t Stand So Close To Me
Starbucks. Modern society’s opium den. For a measly four dollars, a harried businessman, or an aimlessly wandering trust fund princess can stop in and get a cup of super charged coffee with enough sugar blended in to rival a double line of cocaine or a mainline shot of methamphetamines.
I don’t get the same caffeine buzz, but for some odd reason I can’t explain, my body reacts to the aroma. Five minutes of inhaling a rich cloud of coffee steam gives me the same euphoric buzz as a cup of java gives any other bloke. The upside for me is that I don’t have to walk around afterwards with stale coffee breath.
I’ve arrived just a little past the morning crowds, and before the lunch junkies come in for a mid-day fix. There are only two people in line in front of me. A college aged girl with rings in her nose, her eye brows, her lips, her cheek, and even her neck, but for reasons I can’t imagine, not a single one in her ears. She’s also wearing the obligatory black garb with rips and chains and safety pins. It tickles me that these kids are so desperate to be unique, and yet they wear a uniform to declare their click. It’s literally a uniform. I’ve been to the websites that sell the pants with the rips and the safety pins and even the trendy patches already attached!
The customer in front of the desperate teenager is a professional wife. An attractive woman in her early thirties, wearing a designer track suit with rings on every finger and a Prada handbag with matching three hundred dollar flip flops. She’s between yoga classes, and topping off her pharmaceutically controlled morning with a double latte gingersnap espresso. I’m sure she’ll be leaving in her four mile per gallon Escalade to meet with her girls club to discuss how to keep their wealthy overworked husbands off of them in the evenings in those few minutes they’re home and still awake.
The trophy bride takes her large sugar frothed caffeine eightball and heads for the condiment counter to add a healthy shake of cinnamon and raw sugar. Wednesday Adams is next, and of course she orders the fru-fruist Tai latte caramel concoction on the menu. As she steps down to wait for her caffeine shake, I make eye contact with the barista, and immediately experience a cold trickle down my spine.
“Hey you.” She says. “I don’t suppose you want a Bud light this morning?”
It’s my aloof bartender from last night. Why do I ever leave my apartment?
“Ha ha ha,” I chuckle. At least I try sound like I’m chucking, but I don’t think I’ve pulled it off. I get the same slightly judgmental look she graced me with time and time again last night. “No, I think the last think I need today is another drink. No. I could use a good cup of coffee this morning. I’m looking for something strong and spicy. What do you recommend?”
“Well, we just got a shipment of aged Sumatra, it’s been aged for five years, it has really complex flavors, it’s extra bold with a heavy syrupy body and a signature spiciness.”
“My, that’s impressive, did you memorize all that?”
“No, it’s on the board behind you.”
“Oh.” Why do I bother. “Sounds delicious. I’ll have a large.”
“Venti?”
“Twenty? This must be an extraordinary coffee for that price.”
“No silly, a Venti is the size.”
“Oh, um, of course. Whatever is the largest.”
“Would you like whip?”
“Excuse me?”
“Whipped cream. Would you like whipped cream on it?”
“Heavens no. That would smother the drink.”
” Four twenty five.”
Another look. I can’t win. I move down to the end of the counter and wait for my drink like a good addict. Preparing a plain cup of coffee is a rare occurrence for the teen manning the espresso machines and blending the sugar shakes, and gives him a moment of pause. Before handing me my Venti large, he looks at me with an odd expression and asks if maybe I’d like a shot of hazelnut or French vanilla.
I assure him that I’m perfectly happy to have a plain cup of joe. He hesitates another moment, but finally grudgingly hands over my drink. I whisk it away before he changes his mind and splashes a shot of pumpkin spice or flings steamed milk at it. I head for the far end of the store, planning on sitting at one of the tables when I see an unmarked police cruiser park just outside the building.
I step back into the alcove that leads to restrooms and look out through the front plate glass window to see who gets out, and where they go. The driver’s door opens and after a moment I see a pair of shapely legs appear under the door sill. That’s followed by a puff of auburn hair that just peeks above the door frame. The driver then steps away from the car and I can see that it is a very comely woman in her early thirties, wearing a dark brown wool skirt and matching blazer. As she closes the car door and tucks her hand bag under her arm, I see a flash of gold badge on her hip, and just behind that, the grip of a holstered pistol.
I’m sure half the police force come through either a Starbucks or a Dunkin Donuts twice a day, but my luck hasn’t been running very hot in the last twenty four hours. I watch the police woman enter the store and approach the barista. She holds up an ID wallet, and asks the girl if her name is Amanda Linder. The coffee girl nods and looks around her, perhaps concerned that she’s about to be arrested in front of her coworkers. I’m not surprised that she’s been doing things to make her worried about her legal status.
I lean forward so that I can hear the conversation better.
“I’m detective sergeant Emma Watson with Ashland PD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay, what’s going on?”
“Do you work at the night club, Eddie’s Love Shack?”
“Uh, yeah. Oh, is this about that girl?”
“Yes ma’am. Were you working there last night?”
“Yeah, I was working the main bar. What happened, who was she?”
The detective pulls a photo out of her inside coat pocket and holds it up to the bartender come barista. “Do you remember this woman?”
“Oh shit, is that the girl? She looks familiar, but I gotta tell you, there was about two hundred drunk girls there last night. Offer free drinks for the ladies, and every lush in town shows up.”
“I’m sure, but I really need you to think about this. Do you recall if she was there with someone, or maybe left with someone?”
The girl stares at the photo for long moment, and then looks back up at the detective. “I don’t know. Like I said, lot’s of drunk skanks, and I don’t bother remembering their faces or their drinks. I mean, it’s not like any of them ever tip me. Ladies night is the worst night of the week. You make ten times more drinks, but only half as many tips as usual. Nothing but bay breezes and buttery nipples. And they’re all so rude by the third one. Dumb drunk sluts.”
“Please miss Linder, we’re investigating a homicide. Someone strangled this woman in the parking lot of your place of work. Wouldn’t you like to know that the killer is behind bars rather than possibly hanging out in your bar, looking for the next victim, maybe even yourself.”
“Jeeze. I didn’t think of that. You don’t think it was her boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend?”
“Oh yeah, hey! That’s so weird. It just popped into my head. I was counting the register when I heard a crash. I turned around and everyone was laughing because she had fallen down and her boyfriend was dragging her across the floor. I totally forgot about that. Cool!”
“You’re referring to the victim, the woman in this photo?”
“Yeah, for sure. I didn’t think too much of it, because these alky dipshits are always falling down drunk by closing time, and my drawer was short. Turns out I just miscounted, but that was a lot more important than watching another drunk get carried out of the bar.”
“You said her boyfriend was carrying her?”
“More like dragging.”
“Do you recall what her boyfriend looked like, or who he was?”
“Uh, no not really. I looked at her for a second, but then like I said, I was more concerned with getting my cash drawer to balance. I never really looked at him, sorry.”
“Is there anything else that you’ve remembered?”
“Jeeze, I don’t think so, but who knows? You should ask that guy, he was at the bar last night too, hitting on all drunks. He might have seen her.”
“What guy is that miss?”
“The guy over there..” She looks in my direction, but I’ve already stepped further back into the hallway that leads to the restrooms. “Huh, I guess he left. He just ordered an aged Sumatra. You should try it, it’s really good.”
“I’m sure. This man that was just here, do you know his name or where I could find him?”
“No, sorry. But he was like just here, you must have passed him on your way in, or maybe he’s in the bathroom, you know?”
I’ve heard enough. I turn and quick step my way to the far end of the hallway, thankful that I wore rubber soled shoes. There are doors on either side of the end of the hallway, one is marked MEN, and the other is marked WOMEN. Without hesitating, I enter the ladies room.
The restroom is about twenty feet long, with five stalls on the left, and three sinks on the right. I bend over and look under the stall doors. No feet. I’m alone. I walk to the third stall from the end, and push the door open. I enter, put the lid down on the toilet and climb up. I turn around so that I am facing out, and squat down.
Chances are, if the lady detective even bothers to look for me, she won’t think to check the ladies room, but I’m resigned to spending at least twenty minutes in here just to be safe. I hold my coffee up to my nose and take a deep breath, savoring the rich syrupy boldness of the Sumatra. It really does seem to be a spicy brew.
After about ten minutes, the coffee is starting to cool, and it is losing its robust bouquet. I’m considering calling the camping session off early when I hear the outer door being opened. That’s followed by the clack, clack, clack of high heels on tile. The steps grow closer, and I put my thumb over the hole in the lid of my coffee. The steps progress straight to my stall, and then pass by, going to the next one in line, the second from the end.
The neighboring stall door squeals open, and then is pushed shit, and I hear the metallic jangling of the latch being thrown. There is a rustle, and then I see a lovely brown suede shoe tip peek into my stall. A moment later, the sound of trickling water is accompanied by a soft sigh.
From the strong ammonia odor, it would seem that my companion is a bit dehydrated. Next I hear a muffled rattling. The toilet paper dispenser. More muffled rattling, and then the rustle of under garments and outwear being shifted into place.
“Fucking gun.” I hear muttered.
A half minute later, there is more clanging as the stall door is opened, and then three quick clicks of the tile, and water starts to run at the sinks. At least she’s a cop with a good sense of hygiene. I can hear the soap dispenser being used aggressively, and then quite a bit more splashing and rubbing than I think is necessary. Maybe my lady cop has a touch of OCD?
The sound of turbo fans fills the hollow tile room, and then I hear the click, click, click of heels on tile making their way out of the room. I sit there for a second, observing my body.
My heart is racing, but not out of fear or panic, or even anxiety. I’m pretty damn sure it’s out of sexual excitement. Who knew. I think I might have a golden shower fetish?
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