She was the kind of girl that I could imagine, in her youth, torturing squirrels and bugs in the backyard while her father was yelling at her mother about having to eat the goddamn fucking chicken for dinner again for the fourth night in a row and her brother drowned himself in television, pretending he wasn't there. She possessed the composure and disposition of a serial killer. Not the kind that leaves blood stains and sex fluids and DNA all over the house like an amateur, with the murder weapon, covered in fingerprints, still firmly indentured inside the victim’s skull. More like the kind where, if she wanted, she could make you seemingly disappear into thin air and maybe your body will be found sixty years later by an old guy fishing by himself off a canoe in a remote lake somewhere, but probably not. Probably you will just decay until your bones dissolved into the mud and that’d be that.
And she was a sex addict. Not in the cute, fertile way many young girls naturally are. She was a sex addict like a heroin addict is a heroin addict. The only time I ever saw her really lose her composure was when we were in bed or car or wherever and I failed to satisfy her, which, let’s be honest, was pretty much all the time. She would become unresponsive -- borderline unconscious, really -- until I remedied the situation which required…well, there’s no reason to get into the specifics. All I will tell you is it involved a great deal of persistence, physical labor, and the capacity to bear the weight of just a little more shame.
And she was bisexual. Again, not in the cute, I-like-to-get-drunk-and-kiss-other-girls-at-parties-on-new-year’s sort of way, but more in like the I-wish-I-had-a-dick-so-I-could-fuck-the-shit-out-of-Anna-Kournikova sort of way. She broached the subject of threesome, orgy, and general multiple-partner eroticism with the subtlety of a four-year-old on ADHD medication performing neurosurgery. When I told her this, she said, “Why use a spoon when you can use a bulldozer?” and, while I had no idea what that meant, I was kind of in awe at her beautiful serial-poisonist lyricism.
When we went to bed at night, she would invariably complain about how I don’t say any dirty things to her during sex, and I would usually respond to her that I didn’t know what to say, and even if I did, I would feel too self-conscious to say it. Before we went to sleep, she would set mousetraps all around her house. I have come to believe that she would wake up before me to check them and experiment on any mice unlucky or greedy enough to have their tail snared by the traps before disposing of them in a most grotesque fashion, though I haven’t yet produced any physical evidence in support of this.
I remember the first time I went to her house. She had lots of plants and things on the wall. Her kitchen was clean. Really clean. When we went into her bedroom later that night, she showed me some kind of self-pleasuring assembly that looked one third like a souvenir one would find in an aquarium’s gift shop, one third like a Nazi-invented scientific device whose purpose, though unclear, was most assuredly evil in nature, and one third medieval toothbrush.
To a man such as myself with, let’s be honest, below average sexual competency, it was intimidating. How could I compete with a device like this that pumps, vibrates, sings, dances, performs magic spells, and, I speculate, may have the capacity to travel through time? I can’t even make a grilled cheese seriously burning my fingers and ruining at least one, and more likely several, cooking devices.
Every night I slept next to her, thoughts of waking up in the morning inside of a trash compacter seconds away from being crushed into a tiny cube flashed through my mind. And I’d never felt more alive. It was, for lack of a more poetic or explanatory description, thrilling in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
While we are not actively dating, we still see each other from time to time. I've resigned myself to the rather alarming possibility that she may be the love my life.</span>