Most people will admit that meeting someone for the first time is pretty nerve-wracking; especially for the women.Women want the in-between type. They want the man with a well-paying job, good sense of style, movie star grin, and the ability to talk them down from the edge on a rainy afternoon. The perfect man: the funny guy, well-traveled, well-educated, born and raised for one specific purpose in life.For you.
Okay. Now that we have cut through the bullshit with a butter knife let me take the blindfold off your eyelids, sit you in the chair, breathe deep and remember that everything that you’d been taught is a lie. The perfect man that you’d imagined does not live and breathe in this reality. Pure science fiction. How would I know?
The dirty little secret that meeting someone new is much like playing a game of Russian roulette with a loaded pistol pressed against your cheek and my finger is pulling the trigger. Either this is going to go well or not so well.
So, who would go as so far as to invent the character of the perfect guy? Him, Mr. Fiction. The one you’re all looking for, the top of the crop. What would be the motive of the individual responsible for such a heinous crime? Would it be to get the women out into the open and away from her cellular phone? Out and away from her friends and family or anyone who could ever help her. Now you’re starting to think, aren’t you?
If the perfect man does not exist well then what exactly would I have in mind for you with my dirty little trap?
Would the women, much like the mouse that pokes its little head out of the hole to sniff the cheese that sits in the metal spring trap be tempted to meet a complete stranger among many more strangers in exchange for the possibility of a match? Well, I’ll have to tell you that just by definition the act of dating something that has developed into a massive board game for serial killers. Honestly, take a look at the fucking thing. In what other professional venue is it socially acceptable to meet strangers? The very idea of dating brings a shiver to my spine, the kind of shiver you get watching a scary movie with the lights off.
I’m HIM. I’m the guy that you ladies hear about on the television set or in the cheesy romantic comedy. You know the one starring the guy that you wish was your boyfriend. You’ll hunt for me far and wide and do anything to meet me and I know it all too well. I’ll use this to my advantage.
If you ladies were the mouse then I am the hand that sets up the mousetrap outside of your little hole and I am also the pack of wolves that eat strips of meat off the fallen carcasses gnawing and gnashing my teeny tiny razor tipped teeth until there is no more room for seconds. I’ll wear a nice tie, comb my hair and get a socially acceptable job with benefits and assume my new identity.
They’ll tell you to find yourself a nice and intelligent man, a handsome man if you can, someone like me. What better way to do that than to go out on a date with a complete stranger instead of a degenerate because this is what THEY had been taught. Of course; our smear campaign has been working thus far.
For people like me, however; the well-educated, good-looking, socially acceptable bastards who wouldn’t mind seeing what your gale-bladder looks like from the inside-out are never added into the equation.
If you’re such a genetically gifted individual with sharp cheek bone structure, and drive an expensive car with tinted windows would you want to spend your time butchering women? Seriously, weren’t good-looking individuals meant for so much more than to turn into mass murderers? Or is that what we would want you to believe.
If not for my bone structure, whom would we know to put on television or incorporate into mass media? To influence the culture of youth, decide when and what to wear or to run our companies. Who would we pin up on our wall, or declare secular division of worship? Who would you have been taught to trust?
The beautiful women that sit across from me smiles at the waiter after he stops to refill our glasses of water. I flash him the “fuck off” smile and he does just that. You’d lost her for only a minute, I remind myself looking into her eyes. Now it had come time to play the role that I had been born to play. If only I could remember her name; whatever she had told me it was tonight.
We already had quite a night planned. Later we would visit the theater and even later I would ask her to come home with me so I can show her my surgical kit which contains my rusty knife used to chisel through flesh and bone.
Her name is Janelle and unbeknownst to her, she is the first “Janelle” that I had ever been with so I feel like a complete mongrel in slipping up on her name. I’m bored well before our appetizers arrive; twiddling my silver fork on a lone noodle in a bowl of soup imagining it were my rusty knife playing with her spleen.
I’ll tell her I am thinking about us and gently massage her palm from my side, will do the trick. I’m almost too good that I have to smile and she smiles back at me.
I am pretty fucking spectacular by the way; in case you were wondering. You have to have a clear topic, well thought-out ideas and still able to listen to hers when she believes that she had one. But, most importantly what your saying has to grasp her attention. Just like this. Never apologize for babbling and never shrink mid-story and let your experiences diminish as you search for the right words. Chew the fucking scenery up. Extravagant hand gestures and target lock eye to eye contact like you’re a fucking marine sniper posted low in the tall long green grass.
Think of any time you’ve been to a good film. You have to be the main attraction. Discuss your travel and ambition or how you have grown as a person and avoid meaningless conversation such as pop culture references, gossip, or whatever you want to call “watercooler” conversation. Keep the focus on her. If she is interested in where you’re going in your life she’ll most likely follow you home later this evening.
Just like the stranger handing out delicious looking pink candy to a child from inside an automobile. The venue is jammed packed with handsome stranger faces and a loud assortment of stories from frolicking lips. All around me I can count them out; at least half a dozen of us seated around the restaurant tonight and a few recognizable faces that run in the same serial killer circle.
You’ll have to be sure to take her to the best spot in town. You’ll have to spend some of your hard-earned dough, although with the right candle-lit lighting and interesting conversation you’ll have her wanting more than to stuff her face. For our dinner tonight I had begun with the Thai Cucumber Shrimp Appetizer, which composes of sliced cucumbers topped with shrimp and hot chili sauce; easy and fun. Our second course for the evening is the attention grabber.
Lobster tail in a buerre monte slowly poached in warm butter with a plenty of spice for flavor with a side of small new red potatoes drizzled with truffle oil; simple and elegant. Do not forget the Julienne of fresh snow peas and carrots cut into julienne matchsticks with a refreshing lemon vinaigrette sauce.
For dessert order the Flourless Chocolate Sponge Cake served in a martini glass topped with whipped cream, chocolate ganache and toasted nuts. Share the spoon. The women named Janelle excuses herself from the table to use the restroom. I smile, kissing the top of her hand and Janelle or whatever the fuck her name is blushes a drunken raspberry red.
Here’s how it goes. Before a meal, you should order a drink such as a martini or a scotch or bourbon highball. These drinks are cold, light, and get the appetite prepared to receive your meal. Also, provides stellar conversation and game for steering her where you need her to be. Following the meal, you would only want to order a dessert drink, such as brandy, cognac, or some liqueur. These actually shut down the taste buds to aid in digestion, thus making her feel the need to use the restroom and allow me to make my most crucial move of the night.
She’ll excuse herself and hurry off to the ladies room. Her stiletto heels tapping across the floor like little pins and tiny arms flinging from side to side. Women either will love their heels or hate them. But sometimes; in Janelle’s case, they’ll try to alter that to fit a guy’s height.
As soon as she turns her back I reach into my coat pocket for the sleeping pill and pop it into her drink on the table. I can tell that Janelle’s starting to appreciate the Rohypnol I gave her towards the end of our dinner. She’s slurring her words and saying stupid shit so I figure that it’s time to tip the waiter and be on our way.
One can only imagine what’s going through her mind right now, well besides the sedative of course. To be honest I’d admit to not caring. If my plans go well her opinion won’t matter too much come tomorrow morning.
I have to apologize politely to a couple of the tables as we leave the restaurant hand in hand. Take her home as if you’d ordered her for dinner. Get in the cab with her. Be persistent but not intrusive, women like men who will take charge, they like for you to be the man.
She wraps an arm around my neck and kisses me as our yellow automobile takes off down the street, spewing exhaust fumes and a particular horror story to go. Then were home.
I turn the key in the keyhole and we are fumbling with each other’s clothing as if we were undergraduate students after a night on the town. I tilt her head back to nibble on the ear, both of them. She mumbles something as her tongue rolls out of her mouth like the red carpet at a Hollywood premiere and her eyelids roll up into the back of her head. Janelle falls to her knees.
You’d be surprised how difficult it is to lug a one hundred and fifteen-pound human being by each armpit. I push the door open, dragging her body inside and kick the door closed secluding both off us in my house of horror.
I take her to my room.
Janelle is out cold so it’s easier to snap the handcuffs around her wrists to the bedpost on my bed. Her arms are held high above her head as if she were pleading for mercy and her legs hang off the side of the mattress so I have to scoop them back on.
While Janelle is sleeping I get up and go behind the kitchen counter to get the rubber gloves beneath the sink and begin to lay out a clear blue roll of plastic sheet on the tile floor all around the bedroom. She looks so peaceful over there.
I take my shoes off and my belt and then my pants, folding them over the back of the futon and finally my shirt before moving into the bathroom to step into the shower.
The warm water hits my face and then my bare skin, washing away all of my grime and filth down into the circle drain beneath my feet. It feels good to peel this face off like a Halloween mask that I wear and pretend to be to fit into this society as if I were playing dress-up like a child. This is what all of you women want, to be something that you had been told to see. Well, don’t complain if you don’t like what you see underneath.
It might frighten you.
I turn off the hot water and step out of the shower stall and into the hallway, drying myself off with a black towel that hangs on the handrail too the stall. I drop the towel and strut out into the bedroom, newspaper scrunching beneath my bare feet.
Janelle’s somehow up and about, although her eyelids are heavy and fat. She’s pulling on the handcuffs, twisting her body from right till left. There’s drool on her chin like a baby before I wipe the spittle away with my left thumb.
Then I’m beside her. Close. The carving knife I’d taken out from the kitchen is hidden behind my back as if it were a bouquet of flowers for a lover waiting to be presented. A sliver off drool drops down onto her neck followed by the heat of exhaust of my breath. She struggles, half in and out of reality.
I reveal the carving knife as if it were the prestige to my magic act. I can hear her heartbeat through her chest like a ticking bomb about to explode. The carving knife in my left hand shouldn’t be there and I can see her coming to this realization. This does not happen to girls like her, but it did. She’s thinking.
“What did I do, I did everything that I had been told to do.” To- The carving knife cuts deep into the inner thigh, spilling bright blood across the sheets and drips down onto the newspaper. I don’t even hear her screams, nor do I care.
I’m not the same man that she had agreed to go out with tonight. He’s long since dead and she’s about to join him.