Thursday, September 26, 2013



Sherrie Weston scrambled onto the big brass bed and rolled over onto her back. Naked, but for a red satin garter belt trimmed with lace and equally red mesh stockings, she struck a lewd pose for the fat, sweaty trick ogling her from the foot of the bed.
    This guy loves garter belts, thought Sherrie.
    A sudden sweep of euphoria mellowed her out from the top of her platinum head to the tips of her painted toenails, and she thanked the universe she’d snorted multiple lines of coke before George Fisher arrived, or she’d never be able to carry out her plan. On top of the other drugs in her system, it was enough to fly her to the fucking moon.
    She set down the ground rules. “No games today, George, I had a rough night.” And tonight is going to be worse. Sherrie tried not to think about the session she had planned for later that evening. To distract herself, she fixed George his favorite scotch-no-ice from the bottle on her dresser.
    George took the proffered glass and smiled around the cigarette pinched between his small, nicotine-stained teeth. He moved into the narrow space beside her bed, tugging at his tie. His piggy face oozed perspiration; his eyes glittered, and his fingers, thick as sausages, plucked the cigarette from his pale, wet lips. “That’s okay, babe, I just got time for a quickie.”
    Trying to conceal her disgust, she watched him lean toward the nightstand and stub out the butt in a green ashtray next to a porcelain-framed photograph. Slowly, George lifted the scotch to his lips and studied the picture of Sherrie and her best friend, Allison Graham. Sherrie closed her eyes; dear, sweet Allison had been brutally murdered less than six months ago, her naked body tossed on the beach, like so much garbage. It hurt to think about it. Suddenly, as if he found the image of the two friends offensive, George reached forward and knocked the picture to the floor. Glass and porcelain shattered in a thousand pieces.
    Even through the haze of drugs, Sherrie hated him. Hated him more than anyone she’d ever known, except for—she stopped herself. Tonight would come soon enough. As for George Fisher, she’d always known he was a freak. It just made it so much easier to stick it to him for a change. “Come to bed, babe!” she cooed.
    In a flash, George was out of his shirt and pants and was peeling down his extra-large boxers. The bed dropped six inches when he belly flopped aboard, and with not even a “brace yourself, momma,” he was on top of her, pumping away.
    Pressed deep into the mattress, Sherrie thought about her dead friend, Allison, and remembered her words: “Always lay it on them first, before they get off.” So she gave him a couple of “do it to me, baby’s,” and hit him with the big one. “Georgie?”
    “Yeah, baby,” he growled. “Do it to me.”
    “Georgie-e-e, I want twenty-five thousand dollars.”
    “Give it to me, baby.” His body slammed into her.
    “No, baby, you give it to me—twenty-five grand. Bring it the next time you come.” She smiled at her own pun.
     "I’m cu—”
     “Remember the pink garter belt, George?” She smiled at the picture of him that came to mind.         
    “And the lacy pink bra?” She knew he knew what she meant.
    “Ugh. Oh, God. Aghhhh.” His skin turned the color of beets. Sweat dripped from his face onto her breast. His mouth contorted, sucking air.
    “Do it, Georgie. Oooh, Georgie-e-e.” Sherrie bucked her hips up and down, faster, faster, trying to get it over with. But he wouldn’t or couldn’t climax. He raised himself up and continued to grunt—awful piglike grunts, like he was in pain. Not the usual guttural moans. All of a sudden his body stiffened and went into spasm. One final groan, one heaving shudder, and he collapsed on top of her.That’s more like it. “Okay, George, get off.”
    He was heavy. Sherrie pushed. He wouldn’t budge. She pushed again. Nothing moved. She was pinned down. Deadweight. It was hard to breathe. “Dammit, George, move.”
    That’s when she knew.
   And that’s when she screamed, and screamed, and screamed.