She kills for thrills

The Letter S

It took me silently along the river to Shoreditch and the sort of bars where the hardcore city boys hang out. The types who wear their egos like a Hugo Boss shirt – loud, proud and obnoxious. Bolly swigging, learing, groping fools. The sort who’re limited by their Home Counties accent and their boarding school upbringing, all back-slapping old boys’ club guffaws. The sort who dated and married nice Emilies and Charlottes and Samanthas but secretly bedded women for sport and wore their misogyny like a badge of honour.

They were left brain. I was right.

They measured out their lives in stocks in shares.
They dad danced to a different tune.
Their were blacks and navys and greys.
They hung out in packs.

I hunted alone.

Dressed to kill in a long strawberry wig and tight red, curve skimming forties-style dress and black satin raincoat, I looked the part. Ce soir, I was that Kim Basinger femme fatale, Lynn Bracken in LA Confidential – all swishy, long curled hair, red luscious pouty lips and stocking tops in a mischievous mood to murder.

A flick of the hair, lip of the lips, discrete glimpse of bestockinged thigh and resistance would be futile. Cameleons, comedians, corinthians and caricatures, they thought they were oh so clever, oh so worldly wise...these suited and booted arrogant boy-men, but that was before they met me. One of them would not be returning to the comfort of friends tomorrow. He would be my crimson quarry!

"Tainted love, tainted love, touch me baby tainted love..."

...it rang in my head as I staked out the bar plying the barman with small talk as he mixed me a mean martini and did a great line in bottle spinning. A big heavy fly buzzed circuits lazily around the spinning ceiling fan overhead. I watched its mesmeric dance of death as it droned round and round just skimming the blades. Slowly and deliberately, I swirled the olive with my tongue, taking it in my mouth and biting into its silky smooth oily skin, whilst savoring the feel of the steely silver warmed by my thigh and secreted in my filigree killer stocking top. And I felt a piercing, plunging, pronging, pricking, shanking, sticking shiver of excitement.

Because S was for stabbing!