I’m saying, “I am no Nicole.”
He’s nodding and talking about how he froze tacks and water into eight-inch-long popsicles and used that to get her going.
“And she got going,” he says while making the sound of an airborne siren.
Victoria, Gabriella, and Christine tasted the same. Butterscotch.
He used wax and fire and various vegetables.
I’m saying that it’s actually quite common for it to taste something like that if it’s clean, and I’m also saying that it’s also common for it to taste sour, too.
“It all depends.”
And then he’s not saying anything.
“Go ahead. Keep going.”
Crystal liked the sound of his voice when he was angry, so he got real angry and only managed a lick before he got at her with the pear of anguish. He’s saying she probably preferred to have it end this way. “Her way about things was dismal and defeatist.”
Green-eyed Nadia, somewhat of a drug addict, made for the usual torture and dismantling, but not before he tried her and recoiled in disgust. Sour flavor after a series of butterscotch really doesn’t work. He couldn’t stand her all of a sudden, so he drugged her, inserted needles, and various dosages. He made it look like one hell of an overdose.
He’s saying, “At least it wasn’t predictable.”
I’m saying, “You leave every single one in bed, seemingly post-fuck. You are predictable.”
I’m letting it hurt. It stings him deeply. Oh, it does.
With nothing else to do, he continues talking about quite a few more but they all sound the same—flavor, pear of anguish, followed by the same modus operandi.
It isn’t until Kayla, the flavor of vanilla, and the jaws of life that got me interested again.
Hazel with her—big surprise—hazel eyes had that cherry flavor, and he used saw blades he found in the alley on the way to her apartment.
Dawn was a musician of some sort, or at least she wanted to be. She tasted wrong, just wrong, not like any of the others, and how he reacted by inserting one end of the guitar as far inside as possible until she couldn’t take anymore.
Hannah was his second gunshot. He got the gun barrel really deep inside of her and he’s talking about how she liked it, “Didn’t even ask if it was loaded or not,” and how she was honey flavor too. The trigger pulled; he made sure to be out of there in no time.
Ingrid was tattooed in all the wrong places but had the flavor of strawberry, her clitoral hood pierced. He tasted her for what felt like an hour, smothering his face with her flavor. He did a little piercing here, piercing there, and she enjoyed it until he took the piercing gun right inside of her and pierced what wasn’t meant to be pierced.
He’s talking about how he played with her more than the others, how she was the one that really helped him develop his creativity.
Then what am I?
Now he’s talking about Marlowe, his most recent, and how he played out her fantasy, cuffing, beating, forced blowing and insertion, “The kinky sex stuff,” and then he waited until the last minute to taste her and heated water, pouring it over her body.
He’s never satisfied. Always left with more fight in him.
I’m saying, “You’ve used the appropriate chemicals with all of them right?”
He nods.
Can’t afford to leave behind a trace. She’s recovered like a mannequin smelling like it’s disinfected a dozen times.
He’s sweating and I’m starving.
Breathless, he’s staring at me and getting ideas. He wants what I want, and I’m ready to throw him back into his room, back on camera, but not before I tell him, guaranteeing three more, a trifecta, by the dead end of night.
“My dear, you are insatiable.”
He buckles as he’s blown.
I’m telling him, “Get in there.”
He does as he’s told.
I’m walking into my room and I feel damp down there. It couldn’t be.
That’s simply not possible. But it’s true.
I’m filthy. Everything I do and say is filthy.
Yet the acceptance does nothing. I’m wiping it away and having a taste, pretending to be him, and what do I taste like?
It’s a mystery.
5.
He’s trying to remember who he was before he met me. Time is always fading and I begin to relate explicably with time. I feel like I’m fading. I am here, barren. The webbing portal of perversion and perfection, crossing paths, always a promise. One last time, one last lusting. Tonight. Like the rain outside, it is ceaseless.
The searching. . . the savoring. . . the seduction. . . the seething. . .the need. . .
My needs. He’s here to satisfy my needs.
Don’t talk to me about needs. I’m not in the mood.
It’s under the pretenses of disappointment and the anxiety of it being, quite possibly, a wasted night that I discover a new thrill. I am going to hurt you.
You are going to try to hurt me.
Watch as I take this, and I put it where you didn’t expect me to put it. Watch me as I tell you who is master and who is pet.
I’ll tell you every sick little thing you’d like to hear. I’ll make you tag every single frame to watch again later. I’m willing to beat you senseless.
Is it good for you?
He covers his mouth in shame.
It’s great for me.
Every form of gratification is just a variation of the same climax.
End result and the desire for more.
You don’t know what you’ve lost until I’m finding it easier to resist rather than give.
You can’t have me until you’re on all fours, begging for supplication. No penetrations that aren’t my own. My taste changes based on my discoveries. I am ruler of a certain city and the populace is in shock. Tonight there was surprise.
Laying prone. Lotioned up and casual.
I’m waiting. He covers his mouth.
I’ll be watching as you taste them too.
I won’t let you move forward until you tell me what they taste like afterwards.
This body is young, firm, and glorious. These frames reveal the perfect paleness of my luscious skin.
You’ll get what you deserve.
He covers his mouth. He isn’t supposed to upset me.
Bloodletting is a certain fancy, often as alluring as any other bodily fluids in that it’s a reminder of so much that’s hidden inside. I’ve bled before.
I bleed and I am dripping wet elsewhere.
Tell me that I’m wrong. You’re only fueling me even more. I implore what’s wrong and detrimental to show me what it feels like to be too far gone to be affected.
You will bleed.
He drops his hand. His lower lip quivers.
You have bled before.
You will bleed again.
I wipe the blood across my body and I can see the room chatter, the fires blaring, the flame of their fantasies being fulfilled. The fact that it’s mine makes this natural.
I write a name, just any name, or maybe it’s a specific name. Her name. If we’re ever going to tell the truth, we’re going to have to confess. I wrote my confession out long ago.
What’s your fantasy?
He covers his mouth again.
Lust is lust no matter the color and shade, the force of each thrust. It’s beyond any mere sexual act, and it’s my reasoning that every sexual act is violent and every violent act is sexual. In that cluttered, cloudy pool that’s the result of your release is where satisfaction turns into continual gratification.
But you begin to adore the waiting period. It strikes your fancy.
I let blood dribble from both of my forearms while I beckon you to do a little bloodletting too. I see it in some of his eyes.
Commit to me, I ask.
He says he’s mine.
What you don’t realize is how you’ve already committed.
You can’t keep doing the things
you do without my support.
The age-old show me yours and I’ll show you mine. This was a pact. Throughout time, we show each other ours in hopes of making a connection that transcends touch and talk.
I clean this up but my sheets will continue to glow. Dots of erratic notice read like a book written in pain. The confusion I have—how will I ever top this satisfaction?
What else can I discover?
I crave. I crave blood from this breast.
And this leg.
And this finger.
The taste is familiar. The taste is undeniably mine.
My pale skin has brown streaks where I have left it smeared. Such a sight gets to arousal in no time and I’m only talking about the average. Where I am, I’m more than satisfied, but I keep going, laying here on my bed, white sheets speckled in reddish-brown dry spots.
I ask you what they taste like and nothing you say makes any sense. No one tastes like anything after they’re gone. It’s only what you imagine them to taste like while they’re alive that takes on any kind of sense. The way they are now, they’re dead.
They aren’t worth the taste.
Just like they aren’t worth the time.
He covers his eyes like he covers his mouth. He says and does what I want him to say and do. But he holds back.
I want him to uncover his mouth. I want him to have a taste.
He agrees but doesn’t pull his hand away from his mouth.
You tell me lies.
I remind you of what you are to me.
I remind you of what I am to you.
Now do as I say.
He is withdrawn.
Call me when you need someone to talk to.
1.
I went to class.
I went to the seminar.
I attended the conference.
All the while aware of what I was missing.
I talked about violence and future crime with fellow students and scholars.
The future of this. The future of that.
I would have been taking part in sex and violence if I stayed behind.
Days like these, I remind myself everything I do is in the name of research.
Fine research.
In the name of research all can and will be done.
Behind every subject is a slipstream of secrets and mysteries.
I went to class, went to the seminar, attended the conference, knowing beforehand that the majority here haven’t a clue about the breadth of any and all secrets existing around the concealing shroud of this, that, any mystery.
The mystery of ourselves.
And who we are there—beyond sculpting and repair.
Can’t teach that. Can’t even discuss that. Got to go out there and learn it like you do learning to tie your shoelaces, learning to drive, learning to survive the coldness of societies disinterest in your general well-being. Can’t even get extra credit for a single secret shared.
These mysteries are our first and last, our beginning and end.
No surprise that these mysteries are the ones undoing us, forcing us to unravel without being able to regain control.
We can’t ever remember our births and we will be incapable of seeing our death after it’s done. Oh my, my god, my beloved gentleman, if only you sat next to me as they spoke of serial murder and the lifestyle of a sexually active individual.
The mystery is there to keep us interested.
The mystery, a lot like our lives, is only there to be enjoyed.
The mystery is incapable of being completely solved.
2.
It’s just the answering machine. It isn’t her. It’s only her voice speaking in code that he hasn’t yet figured out completely. Time and place, and the dreariness of whoever’s involved.
These last few days he’s been less of a fighter and more like the dead. I’m finding loose ends unaccounted for. For instance, what did he do with the body parts, and where did he go while I was in class? He’s not supposed to be leaving the apartment at all. I do all the leaving and finding, but lately he’s been slipping out to a nearby park where he’ll sit there, watching the trees, sunlight coating his face. I know because I’ve followed him, seen him where he shouldn’t be. I call to leave messages. Lately my messages have kept him indoors.
My days have become a campus-throwdown where every moment of my waking day is dodging the rainfall as I move from building to building conducting residency instruction and working to write my thesis paper. Even then it isn’t over because I’ll have to turn my thesis into a real research project. It’s exhausting and, seemingly, it never ends.
I picture my pet frightened and drained, staring fearfully at the answering machine.
Not picking up. Not really listening.
What is it that I’m saying?
I’m telling him where we’ll meet up tonight, which club (they all seem to be the same), and what time we’ll meet. But he’s not picking up.
I’m talking, rambling really, waiting for him to pick up, but he’s not.
The machine cuts me off and I call back.
Fourth time it’s done that. I’m getting angry now, “Pick up, pick up, hey! Pick. Up.”
Eventually he does, but not soon enough, not fast enough to undo all that has been done. I’m starting to question what’s happening. What’s wrong with him?
I’m not working him too hard. The Gentleman Killer is barely considered obscene at this point. He’s a novelty item. He’s not my kind of big-news item. There’s so much left to be done.
If he wants to be a killer to remember, he needs to do more.
And over the past few days, ever since thirty-six, I’ve been feeling a sudden lapse in effort and care on his end of things. I’m the only one putting in the fight.
I don’t give a fuck what he does as long as he does what I say.
So why is he having trouble explaining himself?
Hmm?
I’m asking him, “Who’s the master? Hmm? Who’s the master?”
“You.”
“I didn’t hear you!”
“You are the master.”
“And what are you?!”
“Pet. . .”
“What are you?”
“A pet.”
“My pet!”
“Your pet. . .”
“So do what I say—okay? It’s not difficult! I’m doing this for you. You will thank me one day when you’re up there with the Ripper and the Zodiac. When the term ‘gentleman’ can’t be used without having people recalling your work, your legacy.”
He’s not saying anything.
This is irritating.
What is wrong with my pet? This can’t be happening. Not again.
Nothing happens for a minute or two. We listen to each other’s breaths.
I’m getting turned on, but now’s not the time.
I’m sitting in a campus diner, no surprise when I look at everyone around me I see the dead—no fighters. None are capable of doing what needs to be done to get what they want, and I mean what they truly want.
What anyone wants.
He’s muttering something.
I’m replying, “Yes, what?”
“Where?”
I’m telling him the name of the club.
“What time?”
I can barely hear him. I’m tired. I choose to ignore this.
He’s now used to me gathering the girls. He’s probably rusty.
I’m telling him this is something else.
And at first he’s not understanding so I have to make him understand.
He’s nervous, says that he understands, but I know he doesn’t; his words are empty, without aim or definition. I tell him to hang up before he makes a real fool of himself.
After every five or so, it’s worth finding a few suspects. Now’s that time.
We’re looking for two patsies tonight.
Two eligible bachelors, gentlemen of “some regard.”
Two lucky men will think
they’ve found me, only to discover that they’ve been lost. I’ll do my best to have it be the detectives that find them, cuff them, and tell them how their life, from this point on, might in fact be ruined. Once you’re mistaken for being a serial murderer, no one ever looks at you the same way again. So many lives are ruined on a daily basis.
I’m only doing my part to make that number borderline unbelievable.
3.
My dear pet,
As I sit here, between classes, I am in a daze, a desperate wonder. Why do you look the way you do? How can I save you? How can I know that you’re okay? It’s been a few days since you’ve been with her. Neither you nor I have found her, Miss Number 37. Is this why? Are you feeling deprived? My dear pet, I can’t have you acting all sick and tired. A gentleman does not pass on pity. A gentleman passes on pain. My dear pet, what will I do with you if you can’t be my pet tonight?
Love,
Claire
The body is still warm.
1.
I find a piece of paper in my pocket. It’s nearly illegible. Seems I’ve written a really bad poem in pencil. It’s addressed to my pet. I toss it as I go for my phone, making sure he’s here, inside the club, which is how I want this to play out.
I told him, “Just like before. Remember when we first met.”
It’s going to be just like that.
He will have to turn on the charm. I only hope he isn’t too rusty.
When he messages me back, I’m reading his words, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” and I’m finding his message more than a little disconcerting. Of course I’ve done this before. How could he not know that I’ve done it to him?
This is the pickup game.
It’s all part of being picked up, being found, being wanted, being with another. We are all alone, individuals of our self-righteous thrones, until we are searching for something to savor.
I text back, “In position?”
He’s quick to respond, “Yes.”
I walk inside the club. All clubs are the same. Same dynamic. Bar is the focal point, the touchstone and the dance floor is where peoples’ lives are made and ruined.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 8