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Anonymous 9
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Anonymous 9
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killerorgasmgin.jpg
Art by Gin E L Fenton

Killer Orgasm
 
Anonymous 9

She has nerve, that woman, looking like that. Chopped, frizzy hair and a no-name purse. Flat shoes. Him beside her. They’re together like a cop and handcuffs. He looks like a goddamn starved dog on a leash. Silvery hair and a gut starting, but the blue eyes and rugged chin still blaze. I can tell he still gets hard but she’s dry as a bone. He probably doesn’t ask for it more than once a month. And here I sit, on hot lava, and no man in my bed. Things couldn’t get any wronger. I better stop staring, even though I got my Celeb-U-Dark eyewear on. Stir some sweetener in my coffee, pretend I’m not watching. It’s good this restaurant is packed. Couples everywhere, dammit.

 

For a long time I thought something was wrong with me. Then I realized women like her get men like him fresh out of high school, when he still finds the missionary position exciting. They marry, have kids, and somewhere after her 39th birthday, she decides sex is done. Add a decade of marriage on top of that, and there he is, house paid off, kids in college, and retirement just over the hill. Doomed. Well not anymore, Bucko. Baby girl’s coming to get you.

 

The minute she takes a big drink out of that glass of iced tea, he’s mine. I fixed it before the waitress got hold of it. Arsenic. Works fast. Looks like food poisoning at first. You’re thinking I’ll get caught, right? Nope. I have no ties to these people,  none at all. This is a public place with at least a hundred other diners, and before she turns her toes up, I’ll be gone. Until the funeral, of course.

 

Forgive me if I sound harsh. Life hasn’t been easy, and I thought my man-hunting days were over. Used to be, before Franklin rocked my world, I was sooo upset that all the good men were taken. It was after another affair with a married man—I could never tell they were married until waaay too late, and I’d already been kicked to the curb a dozen, yes, TWELVE times—that it suddenly dawned on me if the problem was all the good men were attached, then I should just unattach them. Problem solved. It was my bolt of lightning, maybe the only one I’ll ever have.

 

Let me explain a sexual fact; an aroused woman releases oxytocin, the hormone that triggers orgasm. No oxytocin, no big O—females can’t get off without it. Oxytocin makes women get easily attached, even addicted, to a man who satisfies them. Guys can just zip up and walk away, but oxytocin keeps a woman wanting. Dr. P told me that kicking an oxytocin addiction is like coming off heroin for some women. It was like that for me, TWELVE TIMES IN A ROW. Did I say that already? I was physically addicted to each man and the cravings nearly drove me mad. At one point I was going to kill myself, but then I got the lightning and forgot all about suicide.

 

After that, time was spent looking for just the right situation—a restless man with a contented wife. So contented she was downright complacent. Complacency is a sin. It’s a major ingredient of sloth, which is on God’s greatest hit list. I never worry about adult children or grandchildren because everybody, even Moms, have to die sometime. She just exits a little earlier than expected. In the movies, it’s usual for a femme fatale like me to get the man to do the killing—I have a  nice nose, now, and implants, real eyepoppers—but I’ve always been a go-getter and believe in the do-it-yourself approach.

 

I finally read about Franklin in the Del Mar Tymes-Journal, and decided he was the one. Didn’t know him, didn’t have to. I figured that a man with his business achievements, and home, and family wouldn’t have a personality I couldn’t get along with. I was right on the money.

 

Once I had Franklin in the crosshairs, I came up with a plan, nothing fancy, and pushed his wife down the stairs at the Del Mar Auberge & Spa. I mean, how hard could it be to kill a housewife from Del Mar, for God’s sake? I was right, it wasn’t. She was leaving a fund-raiser for children of the homeless, wearing an ass-flattening pant suit and no eye makeup, at the Auberge for Gawd’s sake. The fall didn’t kill her, it just laid her out so I could get a good pinch on her carotid artery. Not enough to bruise the skin. People saw, came running, called an ambulance, and the whole time I kept leaning over her like I was helping, keeping that carotid pinched off. She went to hospital and never woke up.

 

You shouldn’t waste any time thinking what a shame she must’ve been a good person and didn’t deserve to die. All the time that woman wasted on crochet when she could’ve been fixing herself up and romancing her husband? The husband who paid for the house and everything in it? Right down to the yarn in those god-awful afghans? She was no saint, let me tell you.

 

I met Franklin at her funeral. Figured if I hadn’t actually met the man before his wife croaked, I wouldn’t look suspicious.  I was just an attractive gal who happened along at the right time for a brand new widower. Wasn’t long before sleepovers with Franklin in that big, empty house of his, and it didn’t take much convincing to get him to sell it—even if the kids did do a whole heap of whining, right up to the time Franklin bought us a snappy new condo with a workout room, quadruple Jacuzzi, and Friday night cocktail mixers with the neighbors. Yeah, it was good times, all right.

 

It was a total freak accident that Franklin died. I truly wanted him to be my husband forever. We were making love in the afternoon, like always, and the big one struck his ticker. Maybe I overdid it on the daily Viagra in his OJ. But he died happy and we sure had fun while it lasted.

 

The last sixty days have been hell in the condo. I needed to get out, do something positive, so I started carrying arsenic with me, just in case I spotted someone special. And sure enough, he’s right over there, about to be unattached. Yessss, she’s raising the glass to her lips. . . . I’ll sip my coffee to make it look like I’m busy, fiddle with the empty Sugar Lo sweetener packet. Shit, it’s not the Sugar Lo. It’s not the . . . OH FU—

 

 

Witness protection is lonely. Contact Anonymous 9 at anonwrite9@gmail.com

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