DURING HIGH SCHOOL, I don’t have many dates. That doesn’t bother me much, except that my parents are always wondering aloud why their precious baby isn’t popular anymore. In seventh and eighth grade, I was the one setting the pace, getting asked out every Friday and Saturday night, having any boy I wanted, breaking hearts right and left.
Did I have to put out? Not seriously. The junior cocks never emerged from behind the prison of their zippers, although they certainly flung themselves against the bars. All the boys knew they weren’t going to get past tit fondling with me. I did teach more than my share of boys how to unfasten a bra. Enjoy what you get, boys, then go home and jack off. It should have gotten me labeled a cock tease, but my womanly tits were such hot property that no boy wanted to ruin his chances for a quick squeeze and suck by saying bad things about me.
Girls that age today do oral sex on command, like trained dogs. Trained bitches. They’re afraid if they don’t, their guys will go find a better-trained bitch, and they’ll be sitting home alone on the weekends, a fate worse than zits.
In my first couple of years of high school, I start to lose interest in all that groping. It’s too much trouble to put on girl-clothes and shave my underarms and legs when sloppy T-shirts and jeans are so much easier and cover stubble. I have to wash my hair, too, and I put that off for days, until I have grungy hair. A boy kisses me and complains that I have bad breath. I guess I have grungy breath, too, because I haven’t brushed my teeth for a week. Or is it two? My mother starts to notice that my shampoo and toothpaste aren’t going away fast enough. I solve that by dumping a capful down the sink and squeezing the toothpaste tube down the sink, too.
So what happened to Miss Popularity? She faded away, a puddle drying up in the sun. A puddle with greasy hair.
Trying to prove to my parents that I can get a date for the senior prom, I take the initiative and ask Gregory Royalview, a boy who doesn’t seem to have any other prospects. Then I join the other girls, talking about gowns, hairdos, and of course, shoes dyed to match, with clip-on bows.
On the night of the dance, Greg calls me and says he is going with someone else. I hadn’t realized that it was me who was the last resort. I thought that honor was his. I keep up pretenses in front of my parents. I secretly call a cab, give a vague excuse why my date isn’t picking me up, and spend the night watching movies, excuse me, films, at a late-night artsy-fartsy theater across town. When I get home, my parents are asleep, and as far as they know, I’ve been to the prom. I hang up my gown in a plastic storage bag, but I never forget dear old Greg.
No doubt about it, it’s time to make Greg pay. I can’t believe I’ve waited so long. It all seems so easy, and it feels good to let the inhibitions slip away and do whatever I want. This has nothing to do with becoming a Rich Bitch. It’s just scratching an itch.
Greg and Cheryl Royalview are having lunch when I ring the doorbell. This is my riskiest effort yet. I can’t stand on the porch in daylight too long, and I can’t wear the black Lycra and keep my face covered. I’m potentially the object of any nosy neighbor’s furtive glances, and I’ve already had to deal with The Busybody. It’s such a thrill, doing this. I put my eye up to the peephole and have a sudden vision of my left eye transfixed by a long knife pushed in from the other side. In my vision, Greg says, “I told you I was going to the prom with somebody else! If you can’t get that fact into your head, I’ll just have to put a knife into it instead.”
Instead of a knife, Greg’s pale blue eye appears in the peephole. We look at each other, me looking for a gleam of recognition and him trying to figure out if I’m the type to do a home invasion.
Fortunately he is a poor judge of character based upon pupil and iris. The door opens and Greg, the little shit, doesn’t invite me in. Didn’t he recognize my eyeball? Was the whole thing so trivial to him that he can’t even remember my name?
No matter, I force my way inside at gunpoint. Cheryl is the first to go, dispatched with a quick shot to the head. The red circle in her forehead is an imitation of the “O” her red lips form right before I pull the trigger. As a killing method goes, it’s pretty basic, but my motto is if it works, do it again and again.
Greg, seeing his wife blown away in front of him, is understandably belligerent, but I’m prepared for that. I use a taser gun on him. His legs go out from beneath him, and while he’s on the floor I quickly get rope around his wrists and ankles. It doesn’t take long before the taser shock wears off, but by then he’s spread-eagled on the floor, arms and legs tied to immovable objects. I straddle him and let my imagination take over. It occurs to some portion of my mind that I’m no longer hurting people only when they’re sedated and can’t experience it. Looking back on it, that seems too considerate. Besides, I’ve taken a liking to the process.
And in the new order of things, what I want, I get.