The first man I ever called my father won me at a card game
when I was three years old, lost me at seven, won me back at eight, lost me
again. In between, I’ve lost count of the number of men among whom I’ve been
passed.
To keep things simple I called them all “daddy.”
Who my real father was is a mystery to me. I have never
known a time when I was a virgin. I guess you could find in these facts an
explanation for my troubles with men.
I killed my first man the month before I turned eleven. He
kidnapped me outside a convenience store in Camden, New Jersey. I let him rape me in the back of a van.
All in all, it wasn’t as bad as Camden.
I was so passive, so perfectly compliant, that he felt
comfortable enough after he came inside me to fall sound asleep. It is then
that I picked up the tire iron I found lying on the floor under the cot and
beat his brains out. It was then that I learned a most valuable lesson: men
often mistake passivity for weakness.
As I sat there regarding my handiwork, I was suddenly seized
with an irresistible, inexplicable urge. I gnawed the bastard’s cock and balls
off. I did it purely by instinct. I had no idea what I was doing or why.
I munched my way through all that flesh and hair and
cartilage. It was a bitter, foul-tasting experience, a lot like my life up to
that point, but somehow more satisfying.
I screwed up my face with distaste, but I got through it as
I’d gotten through so much up to then: somehow.
The second man I murdered I did away with in a fleabag motel
somewhere between Iowa and Kansas. I never was very good at geography.
The circumstances of our meeting were a little more
ambiguous than those of my first victim. I’ll spare you the details. It
followed the general pattern. “Come here, little girl. I’ve got something for
you.” Hand over mouth and nose, pointless struggle, tied, tossed in the trunk,
etc.
Tires squealing.
Bumpy ride.
The ending was much the same.
I cut his throat as he lie snoring and farting his way
through a drunken stupor. He’d been careless with the electrical cord he’d used
to bind my wrists and ankles. Big mistake.
As the last of his blood spurted out, I grabbed his cock
before it could go completely flaccid. I pumped him up real hard. I stared
right into his terrified eyes and bared my teeth. I ducked my head over his
lap. This time I didn’t hesitate. No tentative lick.
I dug right in.
Yum.
The third one…well here is where my memory starts to get a
little hazy.
In my experience, you really remember only the first couple.
All the sights, the sounds, the stenches. The reassuring heft of the tire iron
in your hand. The wet and satisfying squelch of that initial meaty blow. The
effortless way a blade melts into flesh. The alarmingly beautiful pattern of
blood as it sprays across a mildewed wall.
And most memorable of all, the first sweet taste of candied
man-flesh. Because that’s how I’d come to think of a man’s death-stiffened pole.
As a smooth, shiny candy. A sweet treat. A Valentine from me—to me.
Just like pink chocolate!
A guilty pleasure except I don’t feel any guilt.
After sixty, seventy, eighty, who’s counting? You get jaded,
the details start to blur, it’s like being on a merry-go-round. Names, faces,
the order of events, it all starts to bleed together. The truth is that it all
resolves itself into one archetypal Ur-story of sex, murder and mayhem.
Well, that’s okay. Order and sense have nothing to do with
it. I don’t plan on making a confession. That’s not my intention. At some point
I slipped up, got cocky (pun intended), and found myself underestimating my
prey as they had once underestimated me, the stupid pricks. It happens.
I got caught, muzzled, convicted, albeit, the judge
conceded, with extenuating circumstances. I’d lived a tough life. I was never
shown the proper love. I was more sinned against than sinning.
My crusading lesbo-feminist lawyer argued on my behalf with
maternal ferocity and righteous indignation; no one ever defended me from the
cold cruel world like she did, not even my actual mother, whoever she might
have been. She convinced the jury of nine men and three carefully chosen closet
dykes that I was more victim than victimizer.
But most of all, what saved me from hard time was simply
this: I was too pretty for the penitentiary.
Someone took an interest in me. He—naturally it was a
“he”—rescued me from the prosaic prison in which they would have interred me
for a minimum of five years of tedious counseling and ultimately futile
rehabilitation. He brought me instead to his mansion on a secluded ranch in the
mountains surrounding a pitiless stretch of Nevada desert. I have no idea how
he accomplished this feat of legal hanky-panky, but I suspect it involved
considerable sums of money and a crooked politician or two.
My new captor wasn’t interested in my rehabilitation. He
wasn’t interested in justice. He wasn’t even interested in the truth, not the
way the police were interested in the truth, for instance, or the
court-appointed psychiatric worker, or my legal aid attorney, or any of the
well-meaning but clueless social workers from the Division of Youth and Family
Services.
No, my captor simply wanted to hear me sing. He knew that song has it’s own truth, a truth that can’t
handcuffed to morality or even facts, because the truth cannot be held
prisoner, not even to things like right and wrong; the truth is Houdini-like,
it always escapes. The song, like violence, belongs to a higher order of
things, where truth and beauty merge...and emerge into something that
transcends this world.
Like an angel.
That’s what he called me. Daddy’s Little Angel.
And that’s what I did: I sang. I sang inside the pretty white cage he kept me confined
inside day and night. I sang of all the glorious, terrible, ecstatically bloody
things I’d done in my short incredibly violent life up to that point.
My captor was anonymous to me. I never saw his face. He kept
it carefully concealed behind a mask whenever I was to perform for him. He was
a careful man, not at all foolish, like all of the rash and careless men I’d
known up to that point.
When he fed me the candied sweets I craved from his own
hand, he always wore a thick leather glove through which he knew my teeth
couldn’t penetrate. Not even once did he fail to put on this glove when he
reached between the bars of my cage.
Believe me, I was waiting for him to make a mistake, for him
to trust me. I was waiting for him to grow careless just that one time like all
the other men I’d ever known. One
slip up and I’d have snapped, taken his hand right off at the wrist if I could,
chomped my way through the salty veins and cabled tendons.
He never slipped up though, not even when he was tired from
the labors of his long days away from his desert mansion getaway, not even when
he was intoxicated, and, most impressively, not even when his cock was standing
straight up against his paunchy, furry belly, poking up to play.
At those times he had me turn around, bend over and present
my bottom. And he took me just like that, from between the bars of my ornate
cage.
He never forgot—even at the moment of his most explosive,
thought-shattering orgasm—what I was, how lethal I could be, and because of
that ever-vigilant watchfulness I understood that he was the first man who ever
truly respected me.
And it was for this respect that he had for me that I in
turn felt for him something equally special. Something that I never felt for
any other man. Something that I imagine is akin to what other people must mean
when they talk about “love.”
I “loved” my captor, my latest daddy. Because if he so much
as let his guard down for an instant, I’d kill him without so much as a second
thought.
But he never did.
He never, not once, disrespected me.
I don’t know how much time passed like this. Years, maybe.
If I’d gone to a regular prison, I would probably have earned my release by
now; provided, that is, I didn’t kill one of the guards, an all-too real
possibility given the prevalence of sexual harassment in the prison-system.
Eventually I noticed that my captor was coming to see me
less and less. Perhaps he’d gotten tired of me?
When he did come, he looked drawn and rubbery-faced. He
appeared to be dramatically losing weight, his skin taut and yellowed. He had
trouble lowering and raising himself from the chair he pulled up in front of my
cage. He moved cautiously as if in anticipation of pain. He winced often when
it came.
Eventually, he confided in me. He had a complicated cancer.
It was seated in his liver like a nest of spiders and was eating away the rest of
his gut. Recently, his doctors found new colonies nested in his lungs and
brain. He laughed. He could see I didn’t give a damn about his problems. He
could see the question plain on my face. My one and only concern. What was
going to become of me?
The answer came some months later, when all the various
experimental treatments only the rich can afford had failed, when the hope of a
spontaneous remission was less than the likelihood of a miracle.
He rode into the room one afternoon looking like a skeleton
in an electric wheelchair. In his bony fingers, he held up a key. He inserted
it in the lock and left it there.
He said, “Free yourself.”
Then he said what we both knew already. “I am your Daddy.
Your real Daddy.”
He stood back and waited.
I reached through the bars of my pretty cage, the only real
home I’d ever known, and turned the key. The lock snapped open.
I strode out, free as a bird, naked as the day I was born.
I knew what he wanted.
He wanted me to kill him and eat him. He was so certain that
I’d jump at the chance he didn’t take any precautions. His shriveled up,
impotent thing sat in his lap like a dead baby bird in its nest of ashes. But I
didn’t bite. Instead I walked right passed him and out the door. I let the spiders
in his gut finish him off.
The son-of-a-bitch deserved nothing better.
I crossed the desert, killing only as the need arose.
Strangely I found that I no longer derived any pleasure from it. Or not much.
The flesh of my victims no longer tasted like pink chocolate to me anymore. I
guess I lost the taste for it, if not the aptitude.
I’d gone straight.
Well, as straight as a girl like me can go.
I made it to Las Vegas. I managed to hustle a job as a
housekeeper. I met a high roller in one of the casinos who regularly dropped
small fortunes at the roulette wheel just to pass the time.
“Who is that man?” I asked one of the guys who worked casino
security.
“He’s an oil tycoon” was the answer.
He wears a ridiculous ten gallon hat and has steer antlers
fixed to the front of his Caddy. We were married eight days after we met in his
unmade bed. I had taken it upon myself to augment hotel policy for high-rollers,
going to his room to comp him a complimentary wakeup blowjob along with some
extra bath towels.
Now I stand on the balcony and survey a stretch of Texas that extends all the way to the
horizon—and a good deal beyond that, too. You’d need a telescope to see it all.
The land, the oil rights, even the senators …one day it will
all be mine.
His legitimate children, all well into their middle-age,
hate me, of course. But there’s nothing they can do about it. They’ll mount
legal challenges that will last years. I’ve got a great attorney—the crusading
lesbo-feminist, now my lover. Meanwhile, I’m already diversifying investments,
moving mountains of money to the financial equivalent of Pluto. Sherlock Holmes
wouldn’t be able to track it down.
He’s on the far side of eighty. And when I step on his
accelerator, I can hear his heart stuttering to make it to the finish line.
It’s just a matter of time.
Just to piss my new brothers and sisters off, I call him
“daddy.”
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