1
Assuming the Position
Echo
“You’re fucking insane,” Selia mumbles, crunching on her carrot stick. “This will never work. You’re going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“No, I won’t.” Sipping on my sweet ginger tea, I thoughtfully stare at the blinking cursor. “I will have an excellent final research paper that will be the envy of everyone.”
“There are countless women you could ask,” she harshly scrutinizes. “You’re going well beyond what is expected. Write the damn paper on something that isn’t a calling card for every serial psychopath this side of the Rockies. Anything else. You aced your dissertation; you don’t need this bonus paper for the analysis class.”
“Not the same.” Tapping my nails on the desk, I consider her concern for all of two seconds before spinning in my chair to argue her accusations. “This is a fetish scene experience. I want it, like this…not planned. I don’t want to sit down over cocktails and negotiate, only to ruin the surprise element.”
“… Go to a club?” She waves her hands about and snorts. “Your surprise element may be a body bag and a toe tag.”
“Selia,” I whine, wishing she hadn’t walked in as I was mid-thought. “You don’t understand. I am a twenty-two-year-old virgin with a Bachelors, an almost completed Masters, and my one true experience was Daniel Turnip asking if he could hold my hand at the sixth grade Sadie Hawkins dance. I have never even been kissed.”
“I may be more concerned you held the hand of a guy named Danny Turnip.”
I laugh. “Fuck you. He grew up to play collegiate ball.”
“Echo Turnip would’ve been priceless.”
“One of my many mistakes,” I reply, swiveling back and forth in the chair. “Help me.”
She shakes her head. “There is no way you can handle this,” she garbles, using her half-eaten carrot stick as a pointer. “You’re asking for too much. One slip from the tongue, and you will run like the wind.”
“Bullshit!”
“I just don’t get why you want your inaugural spread to be via a ravishment scene.”
“Because I am sick and tired of using any number of toys stuffed in plastic bins under the bed. I want a real guy, a warm, hard cock, and a heartbeat.”
“You could date and fall in love like a normal person,” she bluntly suggests.
“I do not want to fall in love,” I scold, growing irritated. “I want to get screwed. Banged. Pounded into next year by one unforgettable man.”
“And then what?” she questions as her eyebrows lift with great exaggeration. “You know what happens next? One hit from the D, and boom! You’re only going to want more. Dick is like a drug.”
“One hit will be plenty,” I assure without any basis for my reasoning. “One time. One scene. One moment where I am lost.”
“And you may never be found again,” she points out. “I revert to my original diagnosis—fucking insane.”
The ad read simply enough:
RAPIST WANTED
Collegiate student, 20-something female seeks any race/age/profession of male for a sexual encounter. Platinum blonde. Hazel eyes. Works at The Village. Physical passed. No drugs/diseases. Psychological screenings passed. Records available upon request. Protection by you is required. Obviously, due to the nature of the request, no references are available.
“You should take off records available upon request. How are they going to contact you? You have no references, but you’re offering records? You start involving documentation, and the precious elements of surprise and fear diminish.”
I hit the delete key.
“… Should I include no anal?”
She stops and stares with a blank expression. “Girl, you want to be raped. If you think rape victims don’t get assaulted in all three holes, you’re further wrapped in the cuckoo nest than I thought.”
I watch as she flops on the sofa. Selia has been my best friend for years, and we’ve shared an apartment since our freshman year. She’s finishing her Masters in kinesiology with a focus on rehabilitation; I’m getting a Masters in psychology.
“You think it’s a bad idea…”
“I think,” she says, getting up and reading the ad over my shoulder. “That you’re getting in over your head. If you aren’t careful, this will destroy you. It’s a kamikaze mission.”
“Kamikaze or not, I want this.”
“You’re looking for this guy to do this, but somewhere in your mind, you’re hoping to find a long-term relationship with him. The problem with that is once you fall in love, you’ll lose your fascination with his savage tendencies. It’s all over after hello…”
“I don’t want a hello. Or a name. Or an address. Or a text message. I want eight-inches of hard manhood to rupture my sheath without care.”
“Dear God, I need to call someone for an intervention,” she remarks. “You’re asking for the impossible. You won’t be finding some wealthy as fuck playboy to whisk you away in his private helicopter to a remote island where you will be pampered and praised. You’re stuck on some societal romantic bullshit. You’re asking to attract degenerates and low-lifes. And believe me, they’ll show up in droves to take a number. You won’t just get one eight-incher, but sixty-four feet of them. One after another. You’ll be like a drive-thru.”
“Jesus.” I slump in the chair, shifting my lips back and forth. Selia doesn’t have the same issues I do. She is a gorgeous blend of Portuguese and Chinese. Her dating habits tend toward the perfectly sculpted African American male. More precisely, she only dates Black men. She prefers football players, but in the past, she has been known to date everything from a runner to a gymnast—not only was Spencer black, but he ended up being gay and became one of our best friends. He lives next door with his flavor of the month.
My social life isn’t even worth mentioning.
After my four-year high school crush deteriorated, I ran off to Northern California for college in hopes of finding Mr. Right, but my Southern charm and happy, bright attitude rendered a slew of do-gooders.
Flowers and kisses at the door led to my wanting more of a wise guy and less of a nice guy. I went through every sordid movie and dark romance book with my collection of vibrators in hand.
I didn’t want to be a submissive, sexual slave, or bottom because those all required some form of communication and consent. I wanted a thoroughbred of a real monster.
I didn’t want the choice.
With an inability to locate such a male, I subsequently gave up dating by the end of my freshman year.
When Selia agreed to share my apartment, she was convinced I’d turned queer. One night after a round of tequila shots, I confided the truth. I didn’t want a woman. Nor did I want a nice guy to take home to Alabama—this was before my parents moved to Florida.
I wanted a beast—a calculating and manipulative man to lay claim without warning.
Her suggestion of visiting seedy bars only proved a line-up of suitors that I found less than appealing. I didn’t want a man who had let himself go only to force his hatred of women upon me.