Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  I smile sweetly and say, “I’d really like to talk to the girl onstage with the long black hair and big boobs.” I look down like I’m shy.

  By the expression on the man’s face, I can tell he likes it when I act shy—and he most certainly likes the idea of me getting up on that stage. “Okay, honey,” Mr. Sourpuss says, “you can watch for just a little bit, learn what it’s all about. But you can’t stand here where everyone can see you. You’re too distracting.” He pauses, apparently thinking. “And you can’t talk to Bettie right now—you’ll have to wait ’til after her shift.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll just sit over there in the corner and I won’t bother a dead fly.” I smile again, but this time I make sure my smile is particularly shy. Before the man can say anything else, I glide away from him and scoot myself into an empty booth in the far corner of the room.

  The man seems to be contemplating something, but then he heads in the opposite direction and leaves me in peace.

  The big-boobs/small-boobs duo leaves the stage and yet another pair of gyrating girls—this time a medium-boobs/medium-boobs duo—comes out. I can’t tell if these two girls were born with their boobs, or if they bought them. The only girl I’m sure bought her boobs is the dark-haired girl with the bangs from earlier—Bettie with the big boobs.

  While the second set of girls dances on stage, Bettie Big Boobs enters the seating area of the club through a door next to the stage, all her parts now covered by tassels and sequins and such. Bettie begins flirting with the men seated around the room—and within half a minute, even before I can get up the nerve to walk over there and talk to her, one of the men hands her a bill and disappears with her into a back room.

  I leap up from my chair and head over to Mr. Sourpuss by the bar.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I say.

  He looks up at me, exasperated.

  “Can I pay to talk to the dark-haired girl during her shift? I just saw a man give Bettie money to talk to her—they just went into that room together over there. Can I be next in line, please, sir?”

  His exasperation turns into a chuckle. “Sure, honey. If you’ve got twenty bucks, you can talk to Bettie, too, same as anyone else. I’ll let her know you’re waiting on her.”

  Thanks to Mr. Clements, I’m a high roller these days, so the twenty-dollar fee is no problem. Even after paying for my bus ticket and motel room and splurging on the ten-dollar entry fee for this club, I’ve still got about forty bucks left from Mr. Clements’ wad of cash. And, of course, I’ve also still got Joe, Lou, and Babe hiding safely under my mattress in my room, too. Still, I must confess, at this rate of spending, I’m starting to feel like I’d better get discovered in a malt shop right quick. Hollywood doesn’t come for free, and Mr. Clements’ Scholarship Fund ain’t gonna last forever.

  After a few minutes, Mr. Sourpuss motions for me to follow him. He leads me through a door and into a small room with a couch where Bettie Big Boobs is already seated.

  “Thanks, Johnny,” she purrs.

  Mr. Sourpuss winks at Bettie, and then smiles at me. “Five minutes,” he says matter-of-factly. He leaves the room.

  Bettie pats the couch next to her, her long, dark hair cascading down her shoulders. “Sit down, honey.”

  I sit down on the far end of the couch, pressing my knees together. I figured this method for getting information would be more reliable and expeditious than randomly opening the phonebook, but suddenly I’m not so sure.

  Bettie looks amused. “What can I do for you, honey?”

  Now that I see Bettie up close and personal, this girl looks worn out. She’s not ugly, not at all, but up close, she’s more tired-looking than she looked up on stage under all that fancy lighting. Of course, it’s hard to concentrate on Bettie’s face because her boobs are so dang big and staring at me at full attention. I glance down at her boobs in awe, but quickly pretend to be staring at the sparkling pendant around her neck.

  “I... I just wanted to ask you the name of your doctor?” I say. “Your plastic surgery doctor? I’m new in town, and I’m gonna get myself—”

  Bettie bursts out laughing and I abruptly stop talking.

  “You paid twenty bucks to ask me the name of my plastic surgeon?”

  I nod. Why is that funny? I’m not sure if I should smile and laugh along with her, or make like I’m offended—so I just stare at her blankly.

  “Honey, you don’t have to pay me to tell you the name of my doctor. I would have told you that for free.” She laughs again.

  “Well, thank you.” I join her laughter. “Aren’t you sweet as pie?”

  “It’s Dr. Ishikawa, honey. He does all the girls.”

  “Dr. Who?”

  “Ishikawa. I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Can I pick whatever size I want?”

  “Of course. He can give you extra big ones, like mine”—she shakes her huge chest at me—“or, you know, more natural ones, though I don’t know why anyone would bother paying for fake boobs that look like real ones.” She laughs again, and I join her again, even though I’m quite sure I want natural looking ones.

  Bettie Big Boobs seems awfully comfortable sitting here without any clothes on, so I take this golden opportunity to stare at her chest. Honestly, her straining flesh makes me wince. I wish I didn’t need new boobs at all, to tell you the truth, but my destiny requires blonde hair and big boobs, and my boobs aren’t gonna sprout like Chia pets all by themselves.

  “You know, you don’t need to get yourself new boobs to work here,” Bettie says. “Customers like girls in all shapes and sizes.”

  “Oh, I don’t wanna work here,” I explain. I raise my small chest with pride. “I’m an actress.” It feels exciting to say that word out loud for the first time.

  “Oh yeah?” She smirks. “Well, good for you, honey. So am I. But I gotta pay the rent, you know, so dancing’s my day job.”

  This girl must think I’m a half-wit. She’s not an actress. Real actresses don’t prance around in their skivvies in nudie bars with boobs the size of melons. Yes, it’s true that Marilyn and Jayne took nudie-cutie photos for a famous men’s magazine, but that’s because they knew those photos would be seen by thousands and thousands of adoring fans all at once—and not just twenty guys in a nudie bar on a Wednesday afternoon.

  When I remain silent, Bettie adds, “Well, honey, if you ever do decide to work here, you can’t go wrong getting yourself the biggest boobs your back can handle.” She puts her hands under her boobs and smooshes them up toward her chin, making the heart-shaped pendant around her neck disappear into her cleavage. “My tips tripled after I got these babies.”

  This girl is pulling on my last nerve. “Well, thank you for the information,” I say primly. I stand up from the couch. “I’m grateful.” I smile at her, sweet as syrup. “Dr. Ishikawa, you said?”

  “Yeah, he’s not too far from here.” She writes his name and address on a piece of paper for me. “Here you go, honey. Our time’s up anyway. Gotta get back out there and get my rent paid.” She winks.

  I take the piece of paper from her and head out the door.

  Back in the main room, I march straight for the front door, Dr. Ishikawa’s name burning a hole in my purse. But just as I’m about to exit, Mr. Sourpuss catches up to me. “Wait,” he commands.

  I freeze. Am I in trouble?

  “The whole time you were in there with Bettie, everyone was asking about you. You’ve already made quite an impression on them, just standing there in your clothes. Do me a favor, go talk to my boss. He gives me a little bonus when I send him a really good girl.” He hands me a pre-printed card with a name and address on it. “Go see him, right away, and make sure you tell him Johnny from the club sent you.”

  “Well, thank you, Johnny, but I’ve decided I’m not interested in working here—”

  “No, no.” He laughs. “I mean, yeah, he owns this place, sure, but he’s a real big shot. He’s also got Casanova Magazine and a whole production com
pany, too, and he’s always on the look-out for girls who’ve got a little something special—”

  “A production company?” I blurt. “You mean, like a movie production company?”

  Mr. Sourpuss nods, grinning at me like the butcher’s dog.

  I look down at the card in my hand. “Kurtis Jackman,” I read aloud. I’ve never heard the name before, but it sends a shiver down my spine. There’s no doubt in my mind this Kurtis fellow is the one who’s gonna discover me like Lana Turner in the malt shop. “Okay, Johnny, I’ll go meet your Mr. Jackman tomorrow,” I say. Right after I pay a visit to Bettie’s Dr. Ishikawa.

  Chapter 23

  18 Years 10 Months Old

  436 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  I’ve enjoyed being Mrs. Kurtis Jackman more than I ever thought I would. I like living with Kurtis in our fancy mansion, lying around by our pool and shopping for more clothes and books than I could ever wear or read. But most of all, I adore giggling with Kurtis between the sheets about how gorgeous I am.

  “I’m so pretty, you should look at me with a flashlight in the daytime,” I coo to him when we’re lying in bed, naked as jaybirds, and he just laughs and laughs.

  “Tell me another one,” he begs, stroking my face.

  “I’m so good lookin’, I bring a tear to a blind man’s glass eye,” I say, and Kurtis throws his head back and guffaws.

  Kurtis sure does love it when I talk Texas. “Okay, now say one about me,” Kurtis pleads. My husband likes to say we two are like Beauty and the Beast—and even though he’s almost as good-lookin’ as me, I always play along.

  “You’re so ugly, your cooties gotta close their eyes,” I say.

  Kurtis hoots loudly.

  “If I had a dog as ugly as you, I’d shave his butt and make him walk backwards.”

  Kurtis whoops.

  “You’re so ugly, your momma used to take you with her everywhere she went, just so she didn’t have to kiss you goodbye.”

  Kurtis laughs so hard, he grabs ahold of his sides.

  “I’ve been to four county fairs, three goat ropin’s, a clown rodeo and a hangin,’ and I ain’t never seen a face as ugly as yours,” I say.

  Now Kurtis howls so damned hard, I think he’s gonna bust a spleen.

  These are my favorite times with Kurtis, when we’re lying naked in bed together, giggling and guffawing under our soft blankets. I especially love it when Kurtis sighs and touches my cheek like I’m a rare treasure—that’s when I catch myself thinking I just might be the luckiest girl in the world.

  Of course, laughing’s not the only thing Kurtis and I do when we’re in bed. In these past four months of marriage, my husband and I have had enough sex for fifty pornos, and then some. Kurtis loves to say we’re “making up for lost time.” Sometimes, the deed happens quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth, but that’s okay—that just means Kurtis loves me so much his body can’t stand it.

  Lately, Kurtis has taken to calling himself “Kurtis the Great,” like he’s a grand conqueror and I’m an unexplored continent. Every time we do it, even after four whole months, Kurtis acts like he’s getting away with stealing the Mona Lisa. Of course, Kurtis wants to try every single variation he can think of with me, and I always say, “Sure thing, sugar.” I mean, heck, the man married me just to get with me, after all, so it’s only fair to give him plenty of bang for his buck—especially when I’ve discovered I like the bang so damned much.

  The only time sex with Kurtis was anything less than thoroughly enjoyable for me was our very first time. Kurtis was gentle and careful with me, actually, so that wasn’t the problem. I reckon I just wasn’t prepared for what happened the minute Kurtis’ junk finally made its way inside me.

  Everything leading up to that precise moment was moving along like a cherry pit through a greased goose, actually. Kurtis and I were mauling each other just like we’d gotten so good at doing before our wedded bliss (except we were finally the both of us naked as babies). “Oh my God,” Kurtis kept saying to me, over and over, his voice ragged and strained, all the while stroking me between my legs and kissing me and licking me, too. Oh man, I was squirming and moaning and bucking like a bull at the rodeo, just aching for him to get inside me. When he finally climbed on top of me, his erection fixin’ to skewer me like a kabob, I held my breath and closed my eyes and threw my head back, bracing myself for him to finally give me what I was dying for.

  “You ready, baby?” he whispered in my ear, his voice trembling, and I could feel his erection poking at me, rapping on my front door.

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “I love you,” he said into my ear—and then I felt him burrow himself deep, deep, deep inside me, so deep my eyes sprung open and bugged out of my head.

  And that’s when I yelped like Kurtis had stepped on my tail—not because Kurtis was hurting me (because he wasn’t)—but because, right when Kurtis entered my body, Wesley entered my mind. And that’s the story of how my mind got fucked for the first time along with my body.

  An hour later, when Kurtis wanted an encore with his “little virgin bride”—and man, did his hard-on look ready to impale me that time—can you guess what happened again? Yep, there he was again—Wesley—popping into my head the second Kurtis’ arrow hit my bull’s-eye.

  That whole second time while Kurtis was inside me, thrusting and groaning and telling me he loved me, I couldn’t stop wondering what Wesley might look like naked and whether Wesley moving inside me would feel the same as Kurtis, whether he’d make me want to scream and groan and whimper, too—but maybe even more so? And the worst part of all was that, after we were done and lying together soaked in sweat, all I could think about was Wesley and wondering what it might be like to lie next to Wesley’s naked, sweaty, scrawny body instead of Kurtis’ big, brawny one. And that thought made me want to cry.

  Luckily, though, after those first two times with Kurtis, and during the past four months of our happy marriage up until about eight minutes ago when we were going at it like rabbits for the umpteenth time, I’ve learned how to focus on Kurtis and nothing else and just enjoy the sizzling ride. What would be the point in doing otherwise?

  Yep, once I figured out how to enjoy the husband I’ve got and stop wishing things could be different, I reckon that’s when I finally found true happiness in this life. Because these past four months with my husband have been pure bliss, they really have—and not just in bed, either. I haven’t even needed to nag Kurtis about my sacred destiny these past four months because my darling husband keeps bringing it up on his own.

  And he’s not just talking the talk, either; he’s walking the walk. Last month, Kurtis finally released the Casanova special double issue with my full-frontal pictorial in it—and true to his word, my husband made me the centerfold, cover girl, and “Casanova Cutie,” too—an unheard of trifecta in the Land of Perverts that, according to Kurtis, was gonna make the world take notice. Of course, my sweet porno-king husband was right as rain, yet again—that special issue with me on the cover beat the crap out of all prior Casanova sales records and made me an instantaneous “It” girl the world over, just like Kurtis had predicted.

  I had no idea how many people “read” Casanova, or at least take a peek at it, but it turns out it’s tons and tons—especially an unheard of special double issue like mine. The issue featured not only my cover shot and centerfold, but also a rehash of all my prior good-girl photos, too, plus an in-depth interview with me about my turn-ons and turn-offs, and a whole big thing on the back page about how I saved myself for marriage on account of my ultra-strict upbringing (next to a photo of me wearing a lacy, white negligee).

  The day after the special double issue hit newsstands, Kurtis gazed into my eyes in bed and whispered, “The world’s devouring you, baby—we’re having record numbers.” He cupped my face in his hands, looked deeply into my eyes, and kissed me—and when he pulled back from our kiss, his eyes were blazing. “The whole world loves you like I do,” h
e said—and I actually felt myself swoon when he said it.

  A couple days after that, when I was lounging by the pool reading my book and sucking on an Otter Pop, Kurtis came over, kissed my forehead, and said, “The whole world’s losing their shit over you, baby. Our numbers are through the roof.” I looked up from my book then, and he touched my cheek with his fingertip. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, his eyes on fire—and I felt my cheeks blaze a deep crimson.

  And then, just yesterday, while we were sitting at the breakfast table, eating cream of wheat and reading the morning papers like an old married couple, Kurtis suddenly slammed down his spoon onto the table and blurted out, “You’re so fucking gorgeous, it hurts to look directly at you—looking at you is like looking at the fucking sun.” He smiled broadly then, so I knew it was a good kind of hurt he was talking about. “I’m gonna make you the biggest fucking star the world has ever seen,” he added. “You can count on it.” Well, that last one didn’t just make me swoon, it soaked my panties clean through—mostly because I wasn’t even wearing any lipstick when he said it.

  In fact, the way Kurtis looked at me over his bowl of cream of wheat made me feel a pang in my heart—and not just in my panties—like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I’m not sure exactly what to call that pang-y feeling, but I wouldn’t poke you in the eye and spit on you if you were of the mind to call it love. My husband might not be perfect, it’s true—yes, I’m well aware I’m married to a porno-king, after all—but I reckon every dog’s gotta have a flea or two, and a girl shouldn’t throw the hound out with the pest.