I wanted a stand-up anti-hero, full of complex dynamics, artful persuasion, and subtle control. I wanted a genuinely well-balanced guy with a kink, so we put up an ad on one of those dating sites with the title—Hot Girl Seeks BDSM.
She conducted interviews, and eventually, I agreed to a date with one—Master Kirk—he called himself. He was a decent looking lawyer, but when he showed up with a thick leather collar dangling on his finger, I knew he wasn’t the one.
As it turns out, I didn’t want to call anyone Sir, or God forbid, my boyfriend because I didn’t care about their name.
I cared that they knew how to work their tool and their ‘tude better than the collection in the nightstand and under the bed. Possessing intimidating confidence was just as important as knowing how to thrust the ding-a-ling.
The complicated problem wracks my mind as I swivel back to stare at the ad on the underground website. Even the idea of seeking out a rapist was outlandish with an inherent instability. Writing the ad caused the wiggle of my hips in the chair.
“… What if you get a child predator?”
“They don’t profile the same,” I dispute, tucking my fingers under my chin as my elbow rests on the arm of the chair. “It’s not like I am advertising for that, but I should add in the word adult.”
“You already say twenty-something…” she adds as I twirl towards her and roll my eyes. “You’re right though, twenty-something doesn’t mean adult.”
I read it out loud. “God, maybe I am insane.”
“If you don’t think you can do this, you shouldn’t post it. People know The Village, and I guarantee some of these nerds on campus are on the dark web looking at these ads.”
Her assessment was accurate. Everyone in our small collegiate town did know about The Village, the hub of upscale retail, dining, and entertainment. I worked at the wine store, and while not obvious, if someone paid close enough attention, they would know.
“By nature, and my definition, the ideal suitor is inherently a stalker.”
“No, shit.” Her slender fingers brush over mine. “Let me repeat this one more time since you seem to have lost the ability to comprehend basic English. If you do not think you can go through with this, don’t do it, Echo. Research paper or no.”
I bite my lip on cue. “You know me too well.”
“I know this rapist/stalker/criminal mindset is what you’re searching for, and I understand the motivation for it as well, but you’re asking to be violently assaulted. You’re young, beautiful, and intelligent, but you’re soliciting for some egregious corrupt male to stick his dirty dick in you. And I won’t deny the notion is impressive, albeit crazy, but you’re playing roulette with your life. You’re basing the underlying safety of a sexual assault on your ability to read a person in less than one breath. You’re good, Ekky, but I don’t know if you’re that good.”
I ponder her words but focus on the phallic element. “Geez, I hope he can use that dirty dick.”
Tossing her head, she laughs. “You mean, what if you acquire the perfect rapist who can’t fuck?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, hitting the spacebar to stop the screensaver. “What if he doesn’t know his tool from a table?”
“It’s a possibility,” she snickers with a shrug. “You didn’t say, Wanted: Rapist Able to Give a Good Ride on His Bountiful, Engorged Cock. Must perform above standard.”
I giggle. “If I humor the guy, and we get to that point, then it happens.”
“I don’t think you fully understand the magnitude of what you’re asking for—you will not have a choice—regardless of what you say. You’re spreading yourself for a hotbed of villains. These guys may end up drop dead gorgeous and drool-worthy, but their psychological assessment will infinitely remain categorized as a scumbag.”
“And you warned me I might fall…”
“If the right bad boy comes along, you might,” Selia argues, sitting on the edge of the chair near me and locking her fingers together. “And you cannot deny that as a possibility. If you find the ideal, gratifying violation, you’ll want round two.”
“Because he’ll know how to move better than a vibe?” I giggle.
“No, because I know you.” Her expression hardens with sharp angles. “You’ve spent over three years during the day dissecting assault cases, and at night, you lay on your bed and pet the kitty to images most people would rather never see.”
I blink dumbfounded. “You’re saying I’m off.”
“I’m saying that this isn’t a joke, and you’re making light of the situation because you’re completely aware of that fact. You’re scaring yourself into a silly reverie over a paper.”
“I’m posting it.”
“So do it, and forget about it. Or it won’t work.”
The Paper she referred to would appear more like an audition for the FBI or police, but the exact opposite was true. I didn’t want a job on the state or federal level.
Ultimately, I wanted to be sought after by a private security team, running profiles, and chasing down leads with an investigative unit. Still, they wouldn’t take ho-hum in the highly competitive industry.
My resume and The Paper needed to show talent, creativity, and exposure to danger. I thought my idea was brilliant.
Brilliantly dumb, perhaps.
But it would garner the attention I coveted, warrant a one-way ticket to a psych facility, or put my ass permanently horizontal—either option I deemed acceptable when I hit publish.
Men would love the idea; women would say I just committed suicide.
But it was my life.
My decision to make.
“Just promise, if I end up dead, you’ll burn the research.”
“I promise, if you end up dead, I will end up in jail being Betty the Butch Mama’s lover.”
I crack a smile. “Why?”
“Because I will kill whoever hurts you.”
Jynx
“I don’t want to go to this meeting,” I complain to my co-worker and best friend, Wang, on Friday afternoon.
His name isn’t Wang, but Wendlin Rile. We call him ‘Wang’ because his standard lunch fare usually includes skimpily dressed waitresses and wings drowning in thermonuclear hot sauce. He doesn’t dredge them in a dressing to cut the heat as most human beings do. His steel tastebuds must be void of sensing any flavor.
He’s commonly late after lunch because he’s dipping his dick in the secret menu item of creamy goodness in a utility closet.
Wang has a way about him.
Ladies love him.
What the fuck am I talking about?
Guys love him too.
He’s the epitome of a best friend, the guy to bail your ass out of jail and bring you a twelve-pack just because. No reason is needed. He’s that guy.
I am not that guy.
I am a proud, card-carrying member of the asshole association.
Hit it and quit it.
Care about one—myself.
And do not, under any circumstances, get involved with anyone.
“You have to go to the meeting, J,” he says as I drop my credit card on the table. “You’re the boss’ son.”