Authors: Sean Douglas
Maybe white sheets on gurneys or maybe someone getting fitted for a neck brace if you’re lucky.
Enough foreplay.
Let’s get to the fucking.
I kill people.
Yes, people.
I didn’t say, or rather write, “I killed somebody.”
Not that that isn’t an important enough event that it might weigh heavily enough on someone’s conscience that they’d feel compelled to anonymously relieve the pressure of their guilty conscience on their daily lives.
And I didn’t say, or rather, write, that I killed people.
Although I have killed people and I still do when I
want to. What I mean is that it’s not like I’m planning on stopping anytime soon, so both the past and present tense are correct in this case.
Not that I’m killing anyone right now.
Killing somebody requires a fair amount of effort and attention, at least the way that I go about it.
And I can’t exactly type and kill someone at the same time.
Well, I guess I could, but that would just be ridiculously indulgent and I don’t think I’d enjoy it as much.
So although I wasn’t killing anyone while I wrote this, maybe I’m in the process of killing someone while you read this.
So maybe I am killing someone “right now”.
Wouldn’t that be interesting?
Think about that for a second.
Let that sink in.
Maybe you’re thinking, “What the fuck?”, or “Jesus Christ! What the fuck am I doing reading this?”
Like I said, you can walk away any time you want to.
Go ahead.
Put it down.
Call up your friends or spend some time with your family.
There’s hundreds of other better things to spend your time doing.
Maybe you’ve already moved past that and you’ve moved on to the reporter’s mantra.
The big six.
The who, what, where, when, why, and how?
I don’t mean to sound self-important, but it’s a little bit more complicated than all that.
The who is easy enough, but I’m not going to tell you who I am.
And it’s not like I’m going to tell you the names of the people I killed or where the bodies are buried.
This is not that kind of confession.
And it’s not like all of them are buried anyhow.
The what is rape, and torture, and murder, so if this reads like a hotlist of things you’re just not interested in reading about then you might as well stop here.
But it’s also about love and death.
Hope and disillusionment.
Beginnings and endings.
The where I’ll explain in due time, but as I already said, I’m not naming names or drawing maps to where to find the bodies. You’ll either find them and figure out who they are or you won’t.
The when just doesn’t matter, there’s no one reason why, and the how I’ll tell you in a little while if you really, really want to know.
But just be su
re you really want to know.
Maybe a better question is, “How many?”
But to be honest, and maybe it sounds callous, but I kind of lost track of how many.
Sure. I could sit down and figure it out, but that’s just too much like work.
I tried that a few times in college when I was really racking up some numbers.
Working out on a sheet of lined paper, who, and what I did with them.
Not murders, mind you.
Just girls I had been with since I had started being with girls.
I made a list of names and after the names I devised a key to keep track of what we had done together.
“K” was for Kissed, obviously, although I didn’t differentiate between plain kissing and French kissing.
A little pentagram star was for fucking, and if I remembered how many times, I put that next to it in brackets, although later on down the list it would’ve been too much work to figure out a proper number.
In high school when fate smirked down and saw fit to bestow a woman upon me the number of times we had sex was usually in the one to ten range. Then we’d drift apart or whatever.
Capricious youth.
“BJ” was for blow-job with a little check mark if I came in her mouth.
I didn’t differentiate between spit and swallow.
“C” was for cunnilingus, for the girls that I went down on, though I didn’t bother making any special notation for sixty-nine-ing.
“A” was for anal sex, but since I don’t prefer anal, that one was pretty rare. Usually with the girls that would look up at you, their eyes half-closed with passion and would breathily murmur, “You can do anything you want to me.”, which I always figured meant, “You can put it in my ass if you want to, I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I think I’d kind of like it if you did.”
I mean, what else is that supposed to mean?
We’ve already gone down on each other and we’re in the middle of having sex.
I don’t think they really wanted me to do whatever I wanted to do.
I don’t think they wanted me to bite off one of their nipples, probably the left one, and spit their severed nipple into their mouths while kissing them, or to try and find out what was the largest item in my dorm room that would fit inside their vagina without tearing it, and how far in it would fit before causing serious internal trauma.
I don’t think they really wanted me to do whatever I wanted to do.
I kept updating the list for a while, but after a while it just seemed petty.
It seemed like I was pushing for stuff just to be able to put it on the list as opposed to just letting things happen naturally, so I got rid of the list, tearing it up and flushing it down the toilet so no one would find it in the trash or dig it out of the landfill a hundred years from now.
I also got rid of it because the last thing I wanted was for some girl I was dating coming across the list for some unforeseen reason.
Everyone knows that everyone that they get with has a history, but it’s a completely different thing to see the history on paper. In chronological order. To see the notches on the belt or the bedpost.
I bet if everyone kept a list or there was some public record that you could look up online, a lot more people would make it a point to buy a pack of condoms before that first big date.
I’m sure the nationwide revelation of that scale would have an amazing impact on condom sales, but as with any major revelation, over time, the shocking would become familiar.
There are very few things available for people to do to or with each other that haven’t been going on since the dawn of mankind, so the artificial puritanical attitude about sex and sexuality never really made much sense to me.
Do what you’re going to do. But don’t apologize after you’ve done it.
Apologizing is supposed to imply that given the very same situation, you would have done things differently.
That’s just impossible.
What apologizing should really mean is that you did what you did because it made sense at the time, but now, having done it, you realize that it was a bad i
dea, and you’ll try not to do the same thing in the future.
I never understood the concept of guilt or remorse about things that you already did.
Maybe that’s part of what makes me who and what I am.
I wasn’t always like this.
I didn’t always do the things that I do now.
That would have just been ridiculous.
No one is born a racist.
No one is born a rapist.
No one is born a molester.
No one is born a murderer.
Not that I’m a racist or a child molester.
And just so you know, I didn’t torture animals when I was a child.
Actually, I’m quite fond of animals in the abstract.
It’s humans that I’m not so big on.
I like animals and children in much the same way.
I like to hang out with them and play with them.
And not play with them like, s
exually, but like playing fetch or roughhousing.
I like visiting other people’s pets and children, but I
know I don’t want either for myself.
Keeping an animal prisoner in your home for
your amusement just seems cruel.
I know that most people take good care of their pets, but it just doesn’t sit right with me and I’m not going to change my mind, so we may as well move onto something else.
Like going to the zoo.
Keeping animals in cages so that the human animals can come and look at them.
It’s like they’re being punished for being interesting.
You wouldn’t do that to people.
Well.
You wouldn’t.
That’s why I appreciate earning the friendship of stray cats and wild animals.
Any interested asshole can pet a friendly dog, but it takes a certain kind of calmness and patience to get a squirrel to trust you enough to come close enough to take a peanut from between your pinched fingertips at the end of an outstretched hand at the end of an outstretched arm.
And just so you know, my sexual development was pretty natural.
And by natural, I mean it progressed organically in fits and starts from curiosity to experimentation to a relative proficiency until I was a fully functioning adult member of sexual society.
Most people that do what I do are supposed to be sexually dysfunctional.
I’m not a confused and frustrated homosexual filled with self-loathing.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with homosexuality.
I just hate it when homosexuals make a big deal about their homosexuality.
I don’t make a big deal about my heterosexuality.
I wouldn’t put a sticker on the back of my car proclaiming my heterosexuality.
I wouldn’t get together with a bunch of other heterosexuals and march through the streets of the city to demand respect for or demonstrate the merits of heterosexuality.
Whatever.
In a thousand years we’re all going to be asexual anyway.
Oh, and that whole thing about crimes against women being a result of frustration at being unable to achieve or maintain an erection, and the frustration that this inspires causing them to vent their frustration as sexual violence against their victims doesn’t apply to me.
People that do what I do are alleged to be sexually dysfunctional.
I am not impudent, impotent, or suffering from “erectile difficulty”.
I think that the people that presume to know what motivates their behaviors have absolutely no idea what motivates those behaviors.
I don’t do what I do because I have a broken penis and I’m using a weapon as a replacement for my erection and metaphorically penetrating my victims.
I’ve never had a hard time getting a hard-on.
If anything I get them too often.
I’ve jerked off at every job I’ve ever worked.
Not in the line of duty,
that kind of shit will get you fired or arrested.
B
ut if I get a break, you can be sure that I’m milking one out in some relatively private and secluded place. Usually the restroom, but I’m not picky. Anywhere dark with a lock on the door will do.
And I know what you’re thinking.
Yes. I did work in the “food service industry”.
But I never put a load into the ingredients.
Every Burger King there’s some crazy motherfucker that just has to put his own special ingredient into the mayonnaise or the “secret sauce”.
Not me.
I always shot my load into the sink or toilet and washed my hands afterwards.