I don’t look like much; five-one, ninety pounds. Near-sighted brown eyes. Mousey brown hair that’s always greasy, no matter what I do. A-cup. Doesn’t matter. Guys want me. Pheromones? Whatever it is, I ping their radar. Hard.
When I lived in Chicago, I smoked. I was nineteen, looked about fourteen because I’m so small, and people didn’t take me seriously. I thought if I started smoking I’d be in the club. It worked, and I found out some guys lose it when they see a girl who looks fourteen smoking a cigarette. They try to tell you smoking’s not sexy? Bullshit. It’s totally sexy if you do it right. One guy told me how I came across – he said I looked like if I had a dick in my hand, I’d know what to do with it. I told him to fuck off.
I smoked for five years, until I moved to California a couple years ago. Oakland. Not as many people smoke here, so it’s not worth it. I don’t need it anymore anyway; I look like I know what I’m doing and guys can see it a mile away. Fucking radar.
When a guy looks at me, he gets two messages the split second our eyes meet: one – I can see straight through you; two – go fuck yourself. It’s about establishing control. If they don’t get it immediately, they get it when they walk onto the point of my psychic knife. Sharp point, wicked edge.
If I like a guy’s looks, I let him inside the psychic knife perimeter. I can pretty much tell when it’s going to happen, don’t ask me how. Fucking radar?
I wear tops that gap when I lean over. You can do that if you’re an A-cup, and I work it. He peeks, and I catch him. Predictable. I fool with things while we’re talking – a salt shaker, my keys – so he can see how I use my hands. I put things in my mouth, like pencils, pens, maybe a knitting needle. (I knit. I like needles and string.) I want him to look at my mouth and I don’t smoke anymore, so I use whatever’s handy. This goes on until his head is spinning.
Sometimes we’re fucking in the car fifteen minutes later. I’m tiny, so the car’s easy. (His car – not mine.) Married guys especially want it fast because they feel guilty, and hey, if they can get me off that fast, it’s all good. (I won’t fuck married guys who don’t feel guilty – they’re assholes.)
I make them look me in the eye when they come. Eye contact. Some guys like it, some guys can’t do it, and some find it humiliating, especially if it’s a married guy – guilty, guilty, guilty! Look at you, making it with a pip-squeak little girl you just met fifteen minutes ago! Come on, Mr. Man – you look at me. Now. That makes him come really hard, and makes me feel really evil, which makes me come really hard, so everybody’s happy.
I steal things from them, small things like sunglasses if it’s nighttime, or a CD from their car. Something small that they might have left someplace so they can’t be sure; as long as they know they lost something. I don’t know why I steal, I just like to steal. Nobody’s ever caught me at it except my fiance.
I met him in a coffee shop, and when I made him look me in the eye it was like we looked right into each other’s hearts. I stole something every time we fucked – his sunglasses, his change, his comb. When I stole his iPod he looked at me like, “Really? Come on.” Okay, that was going too far, so I left it someplace for him to find. But I couldn’t let that stand, so I took $134 from his wallet a couple nights later (I left him fifty). He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t give it back. Then he stole my silver cigarette case (my aunt gave it to me and I used it as a wallet). That was upping the stakes – fine with me. I stole the gold pen he got from his grandpa for graduation. That’s when he asked me to marry him. We were fucking and he asked me right when I was saying “yes-yes-yes” anyway. Very funny. Nothing’s gone missing since then. Trust, right?
He’s out of town this weekend for a seminar. When I kissed him goodbye he said, “So who are you gonna fuck tonight?” I said, “I don’t know. Who are you gonna fuck tonight? Bet you have to pay for it.” Then he said, “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.” Uh-huh. Like I won’t take a dare. Game on, motherfucker. The wedding’s in June.
Here’s what’s going through your mind right now: Slutty little shit. (Will she suck it?) Trashy little whore. (Does she do anal?) Sick, fucked-up, control-freak, daddy-issues psycho-bitch. (She fucks.) (When’s the next plane to Oakland?)
I can see straight through you.
Go fuck yourself.
See you around.