=Excerpt from "The Secret Diary of a Future Sex Crime Victim"=

It’s no surprise that “Mike” says that he’s not married, but I don’t believe that for a second. No one who answers my ad is ever married. It’s become a kind of joke to me when they make a point of saying they aren’t married.

“Mike” says he’s not married like they all say they’re not married. Like he’s trying to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. Like he’s doing a card trick. Like the quicker he says he’s not married the less like a lie it will sound. The more I’ll be convinced. The less I’ll see the tell-tale evidence of a trick in progress.

He says it like someone who says “Hey what’s that over there!” and points at something over your left shoulder, while he reaches into your pocket with his other hand.

I’m not fooled, but I pretend to look anyway. I already know there’s nothing over there. It’s just a social courtesy to pretend I’ve fallen for his lie. Even these sordid situations have their little social protocols. Besides, there aren’t any pockets in a babydoll nightie.

In spite of what I pretend, I know he’s married. I’d bet a thousand bucks on it. He has that hunted, looking-over-his-shoulder-in-case-the-wife-creeps-quietly-into-the-room look all married guys have, even when, like “Mike,” they’ve driven sixty miles from their home for a blowjob.

That’s right. “Mike” is willing to travel 120 miles roundtrip to stick his cock down my throat and ejaculate.

What does that tell you something about how horny he must be? What does that tell you about how desperate he is to escape his humdrum life?

Whoever Mike’s wife is, she’s failing miserably to make him happy. She isn’t doing much to satisfy him. Sorry, I’m not on her side.

I couldn’t care less if Mike is married or not.

In fact, I rather that he—and all the “Mikes”—were married. It would prove he’s not completely dysfunctional, not a complete troglodyte. That he doesn’t spend all his down-time sitting in a darkened room jerking off to death-porn on the computer. That he can have normal relationships.

Even if it’s not foolproof proof, if a guy is married he’s probably not as likely to be a serial killer, somewhat less likely to have AIDS or some other awful disease, someone less likely to have dangerous, anti-social proclivities than someone who’s  unmarried.

There have been plenty of married serial killers living secret lives. I’m well aware of that. I’ve read the books.

There are plenty of married guys with AIDS, more than enough who indulge in recreational sadism with prostitutes, who dabble in a little serial killing on the side.

Statistically speaking, though, a married guy is safer than your average lone wolf. He’s less likely to be the kind of guy you see on TV led away in handcuffs from some suburban abattoir. 

Of whom the neighbors say, and we’ve all heard this so many times we can recite it in chorus, “He seemed a nice enough guy. Quiet. Kept to himself.”

Mike says he’s not married, but he does cop to having an ex-wife. I figure this is a half-truth at one remove. I figure this is so that he has an excuse to bitch and moan about the woman in his life, who’s really still his wife, which he does, regularly.

I’ve been calling him “Mike” because he tells me that his name is Mike but I’ll bet it isn’t. I don’t know why he should lie about his name. But guys seeking sex through Craigslist ads are an odd lot. They’re very liberal in their definitions of the truth.

There must be a million Mikes in Brooklyn. It’s not like I’m going to be able to track him down by his real first name. I mean, not unless it’s something like Ubaldo.

Not that I have any interest in tracking Mike or any of them down.

I don’t. I assure you.

I don’t want to see them any more than they want to see me once they exit through my door.

When it comes to the men who visit me, I consider the door to my apartment the portal to a different dimension. They stop existing on the other side of it. I try to convey that to them. It seems to calm them.  But, still,  they don't entirely believe me. Why should they?

It does occur to me, how could it not? Maybe Mike doesn’t use his real name because he’s planning to kill me. He doesn’t want me using his name when talking about our sessions with a friend. Or writing it down in a diary, like I’m doing here. That this is always a possibility, that he doesn’t use his real name because he’s planning to kill me, you’d think I’d care about a thing like that.

And I do. Somewhat. At least in theory.

But not enough not to stop doing what I’m doing.

I’d probably start to care a lot more when he put his hands around my throat and started squeezing and didn’t stop, not even when I indicate by my increasingly frantic reactions, that he should.

Or when he grabbed the bread knife from the drawer and pinned me down face-first into the mattress and started stabbing. One stab in one lung, one stab in the other. Then lower down, piercing a kidney, the small intestine, flipping me over, the blade going into my belly, my chest, slashing across my throat. Oh please, not my face!

I’d bet I’d start caring a whole lot about it then. I bet I’d  even start fighting frantically against it with all my diminishing might.My will to live bleeding away into the mattress beneath me. If for no other reason than that’s how our bodies are wired. We’re conditioned to fight for our lives.

Most of us, anyway.

I don’t know for sure how I’d react. We’ll see, I guess, if the time ever comes.

Am I hoping it’s coming, is that what this is all about?

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.

Surely there are easier ways to kill yourself than this.