I live for the chase.

One of my favorite parts is the walk to the bar. I relish in every little detail: the sound of my heels, the swing of my hips, the flow of my dress. That’s when I am most filled with intent, and it’s when I feel most alive. A purposeful woman is a beautiful thing.

I never tell my friends where I’m going. I know that’d be the right thing to do, but risk is part of the fun, isn’t it? To be honest, I don’t want them to take that as an invitation. I love being by myself. I can talk to whoever, however, whenever I want to. The only reason people avoid it is because they’re so afraid of being alone with themselves. But I love myself, I feel great by myself, and I have nothing to fear. 

It’s a Friday night, and the place is packed. I order something sweet with a cherry and stand by a corner smiling, moving with the music, watching the people. Three drunk college girls argue near the bathroom, a group of frat boys play pool and high-five each other, one guy shakes the jukebox because it swallowed his money. There’s always something to see; all you have to do is pay attention.

“What’s so funny?” a guy by the counter asks. He paired a decent button-down with old jeans and nice leather shoes. Bad haircut, but charming smile. The kind of guy who’d love a ditz.

“Huh?”

He takes a sip of his beer. “You were giggling.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “I didn’t even notice.”

“And you’ve only had half a drink, huh?” He glances at the bartender and they both smirk. 

“Light-weight,” the bartender comments with a nod.

“Oh, please. I was the youngest at my sorority when I joined. I learned to handle my alcohol real fast.” I down the rest of the drink to prove my point.

The guy smiles. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”

“Melanie.”

“Melanie,” Kevin nods. “Waiting for someone?”

“No, actually.”

Kevin pulls up the chair next to his. “Well in that case, why don’t you join me?”

I look around the bar as if trying to decide whether this guy is worth it. Never accept an offer too quickly, or you risk losing your charm and mystery. I place my glass on the counter and drawl, “You’ll have to get me another one. Extra liqueur, please.”

Kevin snaps his fingers at the bartender before I even finish the sentence. I giggle and sit down. He puts his arm on the back of my chair and leans closer. “So how come you’re all alone at a place like this?”

I shrug. “I take myself out when nobody else does.”

He shakes his head vigorously, turning to the bartender. “Can you believe no one took this girl out tonight?”

The bartender smiles and hands me my new drink. “It’s criminal, man,” he says.
“Why, thank you.” I press my lips against the rim and take a sip.

“So what do you do, Melanie?”

I cross my legs. A gentle swing, a show of skin. Then I tug at the hem of my dress absentmindedly, like only a subconscious level of me cares about thigh exposure. Kevin does not fail to notice. “I’m a paralegal.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Nothing sexier than a girl who can handle her jargon.”

“There’s a lot more I can handle.” I take the cherry in my glass, bite it carefully. His eyes flare, but I don’t let the suggestion linger for long. “How about you, though?”

He finishes his beer. “Music producer.”

“Ooh, that’s exciting.” You should say that to every guy, whatever the job. “Worked with anyone I know?”

He lists names I don’t care about. I drop my jaw and touch his forearm. “That is so cool.” He rubs his neck and smiles like he’s trying oh so very hard to be modest.

I down the drink, lick my lips, dab them softly with a napkin, and tell him, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

I always take a bathroom trip at some point. The way to do it is to slide off the chair like you’re a bit tipsy, but walk like it’s a runway. Look back at him halfway through, just to be sure he’s checking out your ass, and bite your lip in a smile. Make sure he won’t move on while you’re away.

I use the break to my advantage. I check my make-up, retouch it, then go into the stall and shove two fingers down my throat until I puke. It can get a tad unpleasant depending on the drinks you’ve had, which is why I always carry mints in my purse to freshen up. The harsh truth is, girls, you need to make sure you’re not getting roofied. You must stay sharp for what’s coming next.

Kevin’s head perks up when he sees me coming back. That’s the final sign he’s game. Fluff your hair up and smile, walk shoulders back, chest forward, towards him and only him. You can kiss him right then and there, if you want—depends how wild you’re feeling. I’m particularly hungry tonight, but I want to savor the chase for just a bit longer. 

“Listen…” Kevin starts, fingertips grazing my waistline.

I tip my head sideways. “Wanna get out of here?”

Kevin grabs his jacket, leaves the bartender a 50, and leads me out the door.

The cab make-out sesh is a classic way to steam things up, and not without reason. There’s really no need to be coy at that point; you know what you’re in for, even if he does not. You want to get the heart rate up, the blood flowing, the muscles twitching. Nothing works quite as well. Feeling that hard-on before you’re even at his place means you’re heading in a fun direction.

Call me kinky, but I just love doing it in the kitchen. What better allusion to ferocious appetite and raw pleasure is there? It’s where I always draw my men. And they never resist. 

Kevin barely needs directing. He probably would’ve fucked me in the hallway, in front of the neighbor that was taking his dog out for a walk. Guys like Kevin do not have high standards; that’s why they end up with me. He fumbles for the keys while I bite his neck, and he drops them on the floor with a moan before he can unlock the door. He has a beautifully furnished one bedroom studio—small, but for the better. No roommates.

The countertop should do just fine. Thankfully, Kevin’s is clean and spacious enough. I spread my legs out, luring him.

Girls, if you get this far, then it all works like a charm.

He does whatever he needs to do, crazed and mindless like the beast they all are.

You reach for a knife—chef’s, paring, utility, whatever you can put your hands on. One time I got a guy with a cleaver, if you can believe it. Now that was fun.

You see it all flashing through his eyes—confusion, disbelief, regret, sheer terror. 

He gasps, maybe screams, definitely hits you. You giggle because, honey, it’s way too late now.

You enjoy the sweet symphony of the metal swishing through his skin, of the blood gurgling in his throat, of your heart pounding against his squirming chest. His dick flops out of you pathetically, and his eyes rolls back into his head, and his body falls with a heavy thud, and you come so hard you can’t feel your face for a few seconds afterwards.

“God, that was fantastic,” you tell him as you lick the blood off your fingers, and already you can’t wait for the next one.