May and the True Crime Novelist

My name is May. I'm thirty-nine years old. And I have always been utterly alone.

I shouldn't say that. I really shouldn't say that. I'm not an orphan. I have parents and a couple of brothers whom I get along with well. I also have friends. But even in my family I've never, ever fit in. They're all extroverts. They're nature people. They don't mind hikes in the woods. They don't mind sweat or dirt or insects. They love to talk. Sometimes I think they can't actually stop talking; I think sometimes they're under some sort of spell that just makes words fall out of their mouths the way horror movie victims bleed out. -Only there's never an end to the talking. My friends tend to be similar, maybe because I am an introvert and I never go out of my way to make friends. I guess the only friends I have are the people who are outgoing enough to make friends with me. I'm not good at being a friend, so I don't manage to keep friends well, but a few understand. A few let me have space and still think of me as a friend.

I live by myself now. I have a tiny cocoon of an apartment where I work from home as a creative writing teacher. I'd hardly be able to pay rent doing this, so I also drive ride-share and things like that. I pick up odd jobs where I can. I like the quiet of my apartment. I like lying in bed, reading and drinking coffee. I like writing. I like dreaming of other worlds and places and adventure. -Though clearly I'm not the kind of person who would do well in an adventure. I'm almost forty and I've done nothing with my life.

Hell. I'm not even a very good writer.

So I had mixed feelings about my friend Elaine setting me up for a coffee (I don't even know what a coffee means anymore. Is it a date? Is it a business thing?) with some true-crime novelist she met at some sort of business event she went to. According to her, not only did she think he and I needed to meet because we're both writers (though I think it's pretty clear that I'm not really the nonfiction type), but because she saw him and as she put it, "I immediately thought of you, May. I was like, May. May has to meet this guy. They're both writers. They're both, like -- you know,"

"Shy?" I prompted.

"Shut-ins!" she said. "He lives in the area. Well, not more than a couple hours north of here. I think he's rich, May. And he's your type. And even if he's not your type, it's networking. He could really help you with your career."

Considering my biggest accomplishment as a writer was my completed but unpublished novella about a cursed dragon who fell in love with a fairy prince, I was unclear on how meeting a true-crime novelist would help me. Still, I said to Elaine, "OK."

She told me she would write an introductory email. I shrugged. Why not, after all? What's the worst that could happen?

His email was short. He offered to give my work a read sometime. Based on the flow of his words on the page, I surmised that he was -- as Elaine had said -- likely as introverted as I was. But he was professional, appreciative of the written word, not quite nerdy enough to write fantasy novels but certainly nerdy enough to read them without too much irony. Thus a short correspondence began. A friendship of sorts, though... not quite that. I think perhaps we were both lonely people with simple lives and this was something that filled part of them.

I did try to find him on social media. Elaine had called him "good looking" but she had said it in a tone meaning "good looking enough for someone like May." Perhaps I should point out that solitude and occasional bouts of personally-managed depression didn't make me into a beauty queen. I'll admit, I have a pretty face. My eyes and lips are notably attractive, and I have long curly hair that men rarely know how to touch correctly. But I'm fat. Always have been, and as I discovered after a summer of anorexia did the exact opposite of what it usually advertises -- I always will be. I have a decent figure for all that. But still, I'm round and extra all over. My breasts recently qualifying to upgrade to 40g bras after a particularly long battle with bronchitis kept me home from the gym for four months.

I know there's something hypocritical about wanting to be with someone attractive when I'm not all that attractive myself. But, I feel like there's nothing really hypocritical about being a little upset when your friends establish your standards as being far below their own. At this point it didn't matter what he looked like, really. But I wanted to confirm. If I'm the dog taking Elaine's inedible table scraps, in this case - any man she encountered not pretty enough for her, I wanted to know. I just wanted to know that about our friendship.

But I couldn't find him anywhere on social media.

Well, I shouldn't say that.

He was all over social media in some ways. Turns out the guy was kind of a big deal. He had written nearly 50 true crime novels about major, headline-grabbing criminals. Some of his books had even affected other cases. In some places, he would be considered a household name. He was basically a hard-hitting journalist with amazing attention to detail. He could paint a picture with words. He would have done well in my classes.

But I couldn't find a picture of him anywhere. There were plenty of pictures of the criminals he wrote about, whose pictures I scanned with disinterest. But as for the man himself -- he might as well have been invisible. Maybe that was to make it easier to get information. I landed on the idea that it must be hard to do that kind of work with a famous face. So he kept his out of the spotlight. As time went on, I got more and more curious. But I felt weird asking him.

After all, if I wanted to see what he looked like, I think the natural thing for him to do would be to respond in kind -- and I wasn't sure I wanted him to send him a picture.

But that became a non-issue soon enough.

"When should we meet for that coffee?" he asked one day. I didn't realize that Elaine's initial suggestion of meeting for a coffee would still be on the table. We had exchanged 12 emails. He had given me kind, yet constructive feedback on a short story I was working on. I had quizzed him on which book of his was the most enjoyable to write. We had talked about writing and people and the weather. I guess I had assumed this would eventually fizzle away into a forgotten acquaintance.

Um, well... "Anytime!" I wrote, agonizing over the exclamation point. It seemed so enthusiastic and I did not want to be. I wanted to stay firmly within the reasonable expectation that Elaine was wrong that this would turn out to be something of note. Reasonable expectations led to few disappointments. He told me that he'd like to meet me the following weekend, for coffee at a Starbucks halfway between us.

...

...

Strangely enough, after accepting his invitation, I didn't hear from him for a while. -Until just a couple days before we were supposed to meet. He texted me to change the time and location of our "date" as he called it. There was a swanky restaurant nearer to my apartment where he wanted to meet. Said he could pick me up if I wanted. As the restaurant was nearby and I thought I might need a drink, I informed him that it was OK, that I'd take a Lyft there. He said to bring a copy of his latest book with me so he'd know it was me. Though a romantic gesture, I was a little annoyed by the idea that he expected me to buy his book. But luckily I found a copy at the library that day, and prepared for the date as I prepared for any date.

-Like it was the only opportunity to ever feel pretty.

The truth is that I hadn't really done much dating in my life. In my younger days, it was awkward to go out with men I wasn't wholly attracted to given that I couldn't attract the men I wanted with the few charms I had, only to discover these lesser men wanted sex immediately or else there wasn't going to be any sort of relationship. After entering my thirties and thinking there was something, well, odd about never having had an adult relationship -- I went about the task of having sex whenever my date suggested it, in the hopes that this would somehow be the bridge into long-term adult relationships.

It was not.

But I did occasionally go on dates and the romantic part of me, the stupid, fantasy romance part of me that lived in most of my brain, always hoped that this time -- this would be the one.

So I shaved my legs nearly four times. I used the expensive shampoo and conditioner. I put anti-aging, sparkly lotion on every inch of my skin. I pulled on belly-slimming, thigh-thinning shorts, and a sexy though torturous bra that pushed my boobs up so high they could almost, though not quite, be confused for a double-chin. I then put on a flirty, off-the shoulder dress. Fishnet stockings. Boots. My hair, somehow, by not making any sudden movements for hours, was gorgeous. I added makeup that made my face about five years younger. I plucked hairs out of my eyebrows, chin, and upper lip. I spritzed a combo of cheap peach perfume and Estee Lauder into the bathroom air before twirling around in it.

Something about the ritual made me feel clean, young, and playful.

I dreaded the moment I would inevitably see disappointment in his eyes.

But I went to the restaurant and I sat with his book, and awkwardly hoped that if it wasn't really a date, that if he said "date" but meant "business meeting," that he wouldn't be put off by my cleavage.

As twenty minutes of waiting came and went, I could tell the teenage waiter who kept getting me water felt bad for me. I finally told him I'd have a merlot, and he happily obliged. I figured there was nothing wrong with having a glass of wine alone. Maybe reading a book. And then heading home. I wasn't a girl who cried or got angry over little things like an evening alone. So I wouldn't.

I was half-way through my glass though, when a hand landed on my bare shoulder.

"May?"

I turned in surprise, only to get the real surprise of my life.

He was gorgeous. Short, dark-haired, with a face that could drop a girl's panties while his voice -- geez, he had only said my name, but his voice could pick those same dropped panties up and stuff them in a girl's mouth and boy she would let him. He was dressed well, filled out the lines of his dress shirt with what was clearly an athlete's body, though -- was that a tattoo at the edge of his collar? Just enough facial hair to imagine it dragging across your skin. His eyes were hard but his smile -- holy fucking shit. That smile.

I blinked.

He grinned. I realized with a start that he was looking at my cleavage. Openly. "Your friend didn't say how beautiful you are, May." He tapped the book on the table. "I'm assuming you're May. It'll be awkward if you aren't. And deeply disappointing."

Something in my brain misfired. I thought it was him, that it had to be him. After all, who else would approach me? Why would some random, handsome man come up to me and know my name, if it wasn't the man I had planned to meet?

But, his voice - his deep sexy voice - didn't quite match what I had imagined while I had been reading through his emails. I mean, I knew that was crazy -- you can't tell how deep a man's voice is going to be from his emails. But he didn't sound like himself. And so for a second I wasn't sure it was him.

"You're Barney?" I pointed to the book jacket where his name was printed out in giant letters. BARNEY BECK.

He smiled. "That's my book," he replied. Then he sat down, pulling his chair close to me. Our thighs were touching. I mean, part of that is just because my thighs are massive, but still. He slung an arm around the back of my chair and took my glass. "You started without me. Bad girl."

It suddenly occurred to me that I could never leave that chair. -Because in a minute I would be sitting in my own juices and surely everyone would be able to tell.

The waiter came and took Barney's order. He ordered more wine for the both of us, as well as a cheese and meat board to share. He never took his arm away, but launched into a casual discussion of what it was like to live in the area, what my job was like, whether the people around here were nice. He also had a lot to say about being a writer, particularly of nonfiction, and of what he owed to the subjects of his work. "They are the ones that made me rich, after all. The least I can do is respect them. The least I can do is tell the whole story. The truest story."

I nodded a lot. As the conversation went on, I found myself more relaxed -- even to the point that I wasn't trying to prove that I could contribute to a conversation the way I forced myself to on other dates. I let him talk to me. I let his hand wander up and down my arm while he coaxed me into drinking another glass of wine. He was funny. He made me laugh and I rested my head on his shoulder as I shook with another round of laughter. He was really smart. Very well-read. He could have probably taught my classes. And others. I was almost confused that he was spending time with me. Why had Elaine shoved him off on me? Wouldn't she have kept this one for herself? She was a better friend than I realized.

"Who?" he asked.

"Elaine," I said, realizing I had said the last part out loud. "You know, my friend who introduced us. I didn't know she was such a good friend. She. I would have thought that if she met a man. If she saw a man like you, she'd be the one sitting here having dinner. Not me. Why did she introduce us?" I poked him in the chest. "What's wrong with you?" I giggled.

He had sort of a wry smile as he stared back at me. Then he leaned over and kissed me.

It was everything I had been waiting for in a kiss.

To think, it only took 39 years on earth, but I'd finally had the most amazing, earth-shattering kiss of my life.

And then I felt his hand creep up my thigh. His fingers seeming unperturbed by the fishnet or the thigh-slimming shorts. It was like he knew instinctively there would be a little slit in the shorts so that I wouldn't have to take everything off just to pee. So that I wouldn't have to take everything off just to have him find out exactly how wet I was. I gasped in his mouth and pushed his arm away. We were in a restaurant for gosh sakes. He leaned his forehead against my temple.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's been a long time since I've had access to a woman, and you're so beautiful." I only snagged on the beautiful part. If it wasn't for that though, I might have wondered at the rest.

"Should I take you home?" he asked.

"I can get a Lyft," I assured him, warm, drowsy and unsure -- unsure of anything.

"No, you aren't far. I can't let you do that. I have my car. And I promise," he said, "I'm completely sober."

We got in the car. He immediately grabbed my breast and kissed me hard. Then he reached over and clicked my seatbelt into place. I wondered if I should invite him into my apartment once we got there.

And then, I guess I fell asleep.

When I woke up, we had pulled into the driveway of a large cookie-cutter house with a well-manicured lawn. He was coaxing me out of the car, which was strange because my apartment complex did not have driveways or well-manicured lawns. "I didn't know your address," he said, "So I thought I'd better get some coffee in you first."

I got out of the car and wobbled up to the front door with him. I was alarmed to be in a strange place, but his smile was addictive and as I mentioned before -- I'm not exactly morally opposed to sex on the first date. I felt a little strange; I knew that there were things going on here that I should have been opposed to -- but he was sexy and I was drunk and I had never in my life been kissed the way that he kissed me.

I was also old and getting older. I didn't have the time left to be scrupulous. I needed to find life where I could. The nervous part of my brain was calmed by the fact that I was sure I was about to make a memory that would keep me warm and contented when I was an old woman. I didn't want to be alone anymore. Not when he was here and willing to bed me.

So we went inside the house. It was pitch black inside, not a light to be seen. I instinctively reached for a light switch, but even finding one under my hand didn't turn on any lights.

"Sorry," he said, "My place is a mess, and I'm afraid the lamps aren't plugged in." He clasped my searching hand with his own and pushed me against the closed front door. He kissed me again, and I melted again. He squeezed my breast hard, pulling the dress down, popping it out of my bra. He bent his head toward it and closed his mouth around it, looking for my nipple with his tongue. It immediately pebbled under his touch and began to ache with the need for attention. I moaned.

"You're so soft," he groaned. "So fucking soft. You smell like peaches. I want to eat you. It's been so long. So fucking long." He licked up my neck and breathed in my ear as he pulled my skirt up. His fingers slid inside me easily. "So wet and hot. Soft and tight."

I put my hand on his crotch finding his length. He was hard. His hand went to his belt, and he started to unbuckle it. -But then he paused.

"What?" I asked.

"I need to get you upstairs," he replied, frustrated.

I giggled. "OK. Though, I'm fine with a couch if you have one."

He lightly nipped my ear and laughed, "You're a bad girl, alright. He's really missing out."

"Who?" I asked.

"Everyone who didn't snap you up before now, bad girl."

He took my hand and led me into the darkness.

We navigated the stairs, though -- strangely, as my eyes began to adjust, I started to realize the house was in disarray. Papers on the floor. Chairs on their sides. A plant overturned. I thought about saying something, then wondered if this was why he hadn't turned on the lights. He was embarrassed of his home being a mess. But that was quite a mess. I wondered how it got that way. He was clearly very charismatic. Maybe he had crazy house parties.

We found a large bedroom. A king size bed lit by the moonlight coming in from a balcony. It was a plain bedroom with a grey color scheme and two light colored nightstands. Each with a lamp. He led me to the bed and undressed me slowly, feathering light kisses on my skin as he pulled off the dress, released me from my bra, rolled down the shorts and pushed me onto the bed before pulling the shorts and the stockings down to my boots -- all of which he only took a moment to remove and throw to a corner.

I was naked in the moonlight, and embarrassed of my belly. He stood there staring a moment. I sat up to try and start on his clothes, but he pushed me back. Then he pointed at the bed. "Lie in the middle. Reach your arms up toward the headboard. Splay your legs."

"Huh?"

"Just do it." There was a roughness to his voice I hadn't heard before. But I quietly moved to the center of the bed and splayed my limbs as he had directed. He moved to the headboard.

I heard a thump from somewhere in the room.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What?" he asked, pulling out a padded handcuff from where it was attached to the headboard. He locked my right hand in it before moving to my right foot. He did the same to my ankle.

"I thought I heard something. And uh, should we decide on some safe words?"

He locked in my left ankle, and moved to my remaining arm. I had pulled my left arm in toward my body and looked at him in confusion. He looked down at me, and took my hand, biting his lip with a barely concealed eagerness as he also locked the cuff around that wrist.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a ball gag.

"What would you like your safe word to be, bad girl?"

Before I could answer, he pressed the ball gag into my mouth and when I tried to yank my head away, he forced my head still to buckle it. He smiled. "That's what I thought," he said. "Nice fat fuck dolls don't need safe words."