Justine

Justine

By

Matt McGuire

A

Request

I'm 19 years old. I'm what some people would call a slut, or a trollop, or a whore. Well, only the ignorant ones. Because I never get paid.

I'm undressing in front of a man twice my age and he's sitting there, muscular, statuesque and silent like some visage of the god Apollo. The only light in the room comes from my night light that I use to keep the shadows from circling too tightly against my body. I'm fit, but not your average model type. I'm not too tall, or too short. I'm what most people would think of as adequate, but not overly pretty. My hair is long and tied in a bun at the base of my neck. My skin is light cream colored like fresh milk from a dairy tucked away in the hills, and the white tips of my French manicured nails accent the pale glow of my ever more revealed body quite nicely. I'm wearing, well, I was wearing a black, silk nightie from the Frederick's catalog on my well worn coffee table. The coffee table where the man sitting in the corner (who is progressively breathing harder and with irregularity) placed his golden wedding ring. I wonder if he even remembers those vows now that I'm naked and the Prince album on the changer is starting to get steamy. I wonder if he even remembers his wife at all.

My form is silhouetted against the night light and I tell him to come. Not come, properly, but to come hither. I laugh a little to myself as he jumps to his feet and crosses the five feet separating us in an instant. Five feet of separation between imagined adultery and the promised land.

He kisses me, deeply and with a sort of aggravation that is common to his type. He's trying to play the Romeo that he sees on television. Haha. I'll bet he fantasizes about leaving that wife and kids and that 30 year mortgage and going off to L.A. to become a porn star. He certainly has the body for it. We'll see very shortly if he has the other goods that can make or break a man's self confidence. Uh, no. He has the type of equipment that would make the black guys in the gym locker laugh for hours. They'd still be laughing about it on the bus ride home. And the next day. Oh well, maybe he can satisfy me in other ways. You think I'm actually here to pleasure him?

We're on the bed now and he's moving much too fast for my tastes. He certainly doesn't know how to perform with that thing he calls a tongue. He's licking much too sporadically and in all the wrong places. I laugh to myself again. His wife must be a saint to put up with such a sexual moron. I take the horse (haha) by the reigns and flip him over on his back. Now he's going to see why the Mexican boys on the corner bow in respect when I pass. Now he's going to see why I won the award that the other girls in high school were really envious of. You know, the one that they didn't put in their gilt and glittering annual right after the picture of the football team that gave me that award four years ago. The one that made the boys whisper in hushed tones when I would pass in my knee high plaid skirt and white hose. The one that made the other girls call me those names at their little pajama parties (that I wasn't invited to) while sipping their Daddy's liquor and looking at Vogue magazines, plotting their pathetic lives with the pages of teen romance novels and giggling like the little teases that they were.

His manhood tastes like talcum powder and I'm working it slowly, up and down, taking my time and making him pay for his petty porn star fantasies. I'm working it like the pros do. But with just a hint of uncertainty that belies my vast experience with the matter. He's grabbing my hair and forcing me down, all four inches, to the base and I bite him, gently at first, and then gradually harder until he lets go of my hair. He needs to learn some respect. That just happens to be my forte.

He's moaning like a whore and I'm making him suffer. Every time he starts to explode, I bite him, hard and hellish and he whimpers like a puppy. I'm sucking all the adulterous thoughts and the lies and the lasciviousness right out of him. When I'm finished, he won't want to cheat on his wife, or raise his hand in anger to his two daughters, or buy that red Porsche that I'm sure he's secretly saving for. I'll make him want to beg God for forgiveness and put his whole paycheck in the offering plate. I'll make him want to vote Democrat.

I'm beginning to tire of this game, and he's beginning to grow quiet again between my biting and the last track of the Prince album winding down in the background. Now for the finish. I drop the guise of girlish innocence and I begin the final stretch. I'm akin to a million dollar race horse, with a sort of graceful violence that only the aficionados can recognize. You know, I really should be paid for this. I'd make a hell of a thousand dollar date. But I don't require cash. I require blood.

Just as he's beginning to come, I draw the silver and black bladed butcher's knife from the sheath attached to the side of my bed. I've become quite adept at this finishing move, and the fact that he's switched on the bedside lamp to watch himself perform makes it even sweeter. I drive the knife up to the hilt in his hairy chest and then I watch him squirm. My favorite subject in high school was anatomy, for more than one reason. I know exactly where the heart is located, and the knife penetrates his aorta like a fullback gaining five yards and then coming to a beautiful crash amidst the writhing bodies of teenage masculinity personified and glistening with the sweet, red sweat of adolescence. I watch the look on his face turn from one of surprise to abhorrent fear to final release. The Mexican boys down the block will take care of the body. I'll give them a quickie in the alley with some real flair and they'll consider themselves lucky. They know how to respect a woman. And respect is the name of the game that I play.