“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, please remind me. I can’t believe I don’t remember someone as, well rememberable as you are.”
“Rememberable isn’t a word.”
The truth is, he means it. I can see on his face I please him even if he isn’t attracted to women near his own age. Actually, I’m ten years younger, but to him that’s an old bag.
“You said in your email you wanted to talk to me about my businesses. Which one?”
“I was one of your early successes, I’m guessing.”
“Really! Refresh my memory.”
“We were in college, at least I was. You were older, somewhere in graduate school; I met you at a mixer. You courted me. It went on for a month or more. This was way before cell phones and the Internet. I waited by the pay phone booth in my dorm. You took me to your house. We drank a little wine, smoked a joint. You pushed me down–no more foreplay. You took my virginity. Then you disappeared and never called.”
Photo: Joel Goodman
We are standing in the doorway of his old fashioned white house in Kenter Canyon, up on a hill, where no one can see the front door for all the trees. It is practically like being in the country and perfect for my plans. No doubt he bought the place for three and it’s now worth ten times that.
He’s wondering what he should say. He knows I’m right. It had been a little hobby of his in business school: taking girls’ virginity after a little struggle and then well, never seeing them again.
Once upon a time he had possessed a little book with all of his “first” names, he had been very handsome, all his hair then, so the list had been quite impressive. But he hadn’t seen that little book since two moves ago, long after that little hobby had been discontinued—and another one had taken its place. Another similar, but different hobby: affairs with married women who admittedly were a lot more fun. What fun is a virgin after all, the blood, the emotion, the inexperience, the blind devotion?
“How did you find me?” He wants to know.
“That’s ridiculous, anybody can find anybody today. You haven’t changed your name.”
“Would you like to sit down and talk about it?”
“Sure.”
And in fact, he would love to talk about it. I can practically hear him crooning, “Bring it on!”
The black gloves I’m wearing, and the memories from the old days are turning him on. Porn has its gratifications, but memory can be the most potent aphrodisiac of all. It would be amusing to try and remember this thin, handsome woman of fifty-something quivering under him at eighteen or nineteen, in love and about to bestow the greatest gift a woman can give… who knows, maybe he can even get my clothes off today. I bet he hasn’t had sex with a real person in quite a while. I might be just the thing to take the edge off his slight, but growing depression. Especially if I fall for him the second time. It has been known to happen…
We’re still on the couch. He’s saying, “How about something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A glass of water? A glass of wine even. It’s just two hours before it’s strictly kosher.”
“Kosher? That’s an odd word for a Jew-hater to use.”
“Jew-hater?”
“You told me Jewish girls shook hands, and it was very pushy of them.”
“Odd. I don’t remember that.”
“How do you feel about Jews now?”
“I feel fine about Jews in fact….”
“Some of my best friends are Jews.” I finish the sentence for him and he doesn’t even seem to notice.
Then I ask, “Do you mind if I use the loo? Or is that too vulgar a word for you? Should I call it the ladies room? The powder room? Maybe the W.C.?”
“Please!” he smiles. “My loo is your loo.”
He sits there. The big house is so quiet he imagines he can hear me pee.
The screech of pipes, I’m taking a long time to wash my hands. He’s wondering if his cleaner has put fresh towels out.
He hears the door shut, and the sound of my footsteps coming toward him on the wooden floor.
“Get up!” I command.
In my hand is a small but surprisingly heavy Smith and Wesson .38 and the look on his face tells me he knows it’s not a toy. It’s the real deal. And Goddamit, though he is scared, his heart pounding, he hasn’t had a boner like this in five years of steady porn.
“I’m dying,” I tell him flatly. “A day, a week, a month, and killing you is on my bucket list.”
Mouth open, eyes wide–he’s scared out of his mind. I aim the gun. He puts his hands in the air…
I’m about to open the car door and go inside and confront him. The gun is in my bag. It’s small, but surprisingly heavy. I pull my gloves on tight; open the car door and head toward his house, wondering if I can really do it.
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