Page 20 of Intoxicated
The woman who never has enough money or victims beneath her belt.
So, no, I don’tenjoywhat I do. Although it means I sleep with a lot of beautiful women. Half of them are flat-out crazy and I seriously risk my life with my neck sticking out around them. In a natural setup, I would not touch half of them. I might admire them from across the room, but it takes a rare mark for me to almost risk my own heart in the deal. That’s only happened once before. The only woman who truly did not deserve what I did to her. Of course, I didn’t discover her actual innocence until after the deed was done.
I often wonder what happened to her.
Cher intrigued me from the moment I saw her. It’s not hard to understand why she’s so good at what she unfortunately does. Even me,me,a guy cynical about love and aware of a woman’s soul-sucking machinations, looked at her and instantly fell into lust. It helps that she’s amazing at playing the vixen of your dreams. Within five minutes of meeting me, she had switched from girl-next-door chic to sexy, up-for-anything cool girl. That’s what she sensed I wanted. To be fair, I find it highly amusing.
And damn sexy. Like her.
Cher Lieberman intrigues me unlike any of my other marks. She’s whip-smart and can make up shit on the fly. One minute she’s an innocent waif in need of a savior, and the next? Ready to rip off my dick and dine on my balls for dinner.
Guess which one appeals to me more?
She’s a woman who has never been tamed, not that I believe women can betamed.But let’s assume we’re living in a fantasy world where everyone is a romance trope and sexual desires always occur in a sweet, safe vacuum. Inthatworld, Cher is a rabid, feral she-beast prowling the streets searching for her next victim. She does it to survive, you know. She can’t help it. She’s like a prodding panther who prowls the night. A succubus, if you will. One who, for some unknown reason, has had to earn her living sucking it out of men.
What does that make me in this silly scenario? A beast hunter? A supernatural detective? A dog catcher? (Leave the bitch jokes at home, please.) The pussy police?
Nah. I’m only a guy who happens to cross her path and strikes her fancy.
Yet we know how this ends in a romance novel. I catch her, claim her, and tame her with my ridiculously huge and powerful cock. My dick is the balm that soothes her crazed soul and makes her end her terrible streak of vampiric tendencies. We’ll settle down in a little Portland bungalow. I’ll pump ten babies into her and she’ll water the garden while all ten fat little lumps tug on her skirt and gnaw off their own feet. The dogs will prance in jovial domesticity, and I’ll bestow my growing family with all of my family’s riches.
We’ll have so much sex, of course. Because that’s what you do in a romance novel. IN, OUT. IN, OUT. COCK, PUSSY. COCK-A-DOODLE-MEOW. Bam. Marriage and babies.
What a beautiful life. One that soundsreallystupid.
This isn’t a romance novel. (Don’t tell me otherwise. I have enough strange dreams as it is, and if I smoke the wrong stuff, I’m convinced that This Is A Simulation. Let’s not feed into the reefer-induced-paranoias.) This is life. A really fucked up life of mine, but Cher has a really fucked up life for herself. If you think about it, we’re almost perfect for each other. If I weren’t out to destroy her, and her out to kill my soul, we could have an almost-romance-novel-like relationship.
We would definitely have a lot of sex. Also, if this reallywerea romance novel, it would be the kind where my cock does all the taming and she’s never been more sated with her lot in life.
Think we should hold off on the babies, though. Maybe a dog?
I glance back down at the calendar I’ve abandoned to my thoughts. Unfortunately, I also catch sight of the tent pitching in my pants. Great. Thinking about Cher – and the fact we’ll probably have really hot sex tomorrow, because what I need right now is a mark I want to bang into the horizon – has me hot and bothered. I’ve already taken care of things once today. Oh, oh, guess who I was thinking about in the shower! Guess whose pouty lips, pretty fingernails, and scintillating cleavage was in my mind? My brain is convinced she’s as tight as a vise and loves to throw herself on some dick. She probably growls and power bottoms while she’s at it. Ah, yes, power bottoming. My favorite. And a phrase I’ve learned from Brent and Rick and I’msureI’m using incorrectly by applying it to my heterosexual life.
Geez, it is Wednesday yet?
My phone rings and brings with it a much-needed cold shower. That’s my grandmother’s number flashing on the screen.
“Hey, Gram,” I greet. “How’s the chickens?”
I saunter to my fridge to get some ice water. My grandmother, Irene Benton, immediately jumps into conversation. “Don’t get me started on the chickens. Dolly has been on my shit list ever since she broke into the house and made a mess of my fine linoleum.”
When I say I get a cold shower, I mean I get a frigid blast of icy proportions. In the best way. Because my grandma Irene is the only person in my whole family I like. She’s not my blood grandmother, though she raised me like I was. My grandfather went through three or four wives before dying a bachelor. Irene was his wife when I was a little kid, and instead of hiring on nannies to raise me like my sister had been, my parents agreed to let my step-grandmother do most of the rearing. Her divorcing my grandfather when I was a teenager did nothing to stop me from following her to Eastern Washington, where she bought a farmstead and set out to accomplish her dream of being a self-sufficient woman. Not a bad way to use her alimony, if you ask me.
Nobody else in my family acknowledges her anymore, but I consider her to be the coolest person I know. I still spend half my down time at her house. I help with the maintenance, such as building the chicken coop that’ssupposedto keep dolts like Dolly inside where it’s safe. There are coyotes and mountain lions all over the Pacific Northwest, and they love snacking on chicken as much as the next meat eater.
“When are you getting your ass back up here?” My grandmother’s no-nonsense personality is one of my favorite things. I wish more people were like her in my family. “I need help with the fence again. Damn deer keep knocking it over trying to get to my vegetable garden. Do you think you could help me reinforce it?”
“Absolutely, Gram. With any luck, I’ll be able to spare a day or two in the coming week. If you pay me in pot roast.”
“I’ll pay you in cherry pie, too, if that’s what you really want.”
“Hell, yes.”
“Don’t go knocking on Hell’s door if you have any plans to get to Heaven.”
“Depends who’s there, Gram.” We’ve had this conversation a few times before, and it always plays the same way. “If you end up in Hell, let me know so I can meet you there.”
Some boys’ grandmothers would scold them to the mountains and back for saying something like that. Mine hollers like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Let’s say my grandma isn’t a real church-going type. She wouldn’t marry my grandfather in the family church. My dad would later say that the first sign the marriage was doomed was when my grandmother said,“If I step into that church wearing white, I’ll combust into unholy ash.”
