You are supposed to love when you do "that."

It's not something you do with everyone and you should feel love for the other person when you do that thing that a man and a woman do. At least that's what Daddy used to say. He also tried to teach me about the four F's.
You know, 'find them, feel them, f___ them, and forget them."

'The way of a man's mind," my father would say and he'd reach over to smack my mother's behind. "Be careful who you trust."

So, here I am, in the darkness of a spring night---walking the city streets. Looking at the "Ladies of the night," I realize that my father was right.

Sometimes, I think about what Daddy tried to teach me, and most of the time--I realize that even though I don’t like it, that’s the way it is. I can almost feel my father’s large hand smacking my rear end. I can almost hear him telling me that if I don’t like that--I will never get anywhere in this man’s world. I tried to fight it for a long, long time and then--I realized how I could use a man’s own use on him!

I’ll start by saying I‘m no girl now; I am a thirty-five year old woman. I am not new at this game-- I have been married two times (okay, three), but I am still looking for that wonderful prince who will sweep me off my feet and make the entire rest of my life wonderful.

Yeah, right.

I guess you could say I am looking for love, in a way, but it's really hard to tell in this monopoly of blinking and flashing light that is the city night. My skirt may be a little short, but it's not that short. That crazy neighbor lady of mine is constantly going on and on about how women invite trouble by wearing short, flimsy dresses or skirts. She says it's a woman's own fault, when she gets beat on or raped.

I don't believe that line of thought at all. I have been on this street, usually on my way to a club, and it is not the skirts or hems men look at. They look at the eyes. The eyes betray the victim.

Have you spent much time reading the newspapers? Have you ever noticed that women of all age groups get raped? So, the short skirts can count for the women in the middle, but what about the rest? Do three-year-olds wear short skirts and look 'Sexy?’ How about 80 year old women? How many 80-year-old women have you seen in a short skirt?

As far as violence goes-most violence happens in the home. I don't know about you but I rarely wear skirts at home.
Last week, I read a story about a woman who was being beaten by her boyfriend (she was naked and tied to his bed) when his ex-wife showed up with their kids! The ex-wife said she tried to get him to stop, but when the ex-wife left the woman was still bound and gagged. When it gets time for the trial (of course, the cops arrested the guy for domestic violence and a long range of other charges once the beaten woman was free and ran to them) he produces this contract signed by the beaten woman that allowed him to beat her! Maybe she signed something, but everyone knows you can't give someone permission to do an act that is against the law! Anyway, this jury found the guy innocent! Can you beat that? They said that the contract had a lot to do with the verdict, but I know what really made the decision simple: her eyes. This woman's eyes told the boyfriend she could be victimized and-when she testified in court- her eyes showed the jury she felt guilty for getting beat.

So, my neighbor lady can keep her short skirt theories to herself. They are not correct. Not by a long shot.
"Hey, babbbbby." Voices from a passing car assault me. "How 'bout a date?"

Yeah, I say to myself, right. I'll just date anyone who yells at me on the street!

"Drop dead, creep." I reply and keep walking.

I'm almost to my destination and it looks like it's going to be a great night tonight! I have on this almost knee-length purple silk outfit. It's a classy piece and fits right in with the crowd at the fancy club I now enter.

The Black Rose Club. The name is even kind of classy.

Passing a walnut bar, shined to a glow, I see that all of the seats at the bar are taken. This is the third time this month that all the seats are occupied and I look around at the dimly lit tables. I'll just have to sit at a table until a stool is vacated. Everyone knows you never meet anyone when you sit at a table!

"One?" the hostess asks.

"Yes." I tell and she motions for me to follow her.

As I sit down, I notice that the light of the candle on my table is flickering.

I glance around at all of these people and sadness suddenly fills me. They all look so happy. I wonder why it is that I can't seem to find this happiness. Feeling it has to be that I have no social connection right now, I have pushed myself to go out to these clubs and meet people. I do not seek marriage; I've had enough of that! I don't even want to live together with someone. I am happy with my current living arrangements. All I want is someone who will love me and accept me as I am.

My time out here (thanks to my last real lover), in the nightclubs, has not been wasted time.

Even though Daddy always said, 'Nice girls don't go to clubs or bars,' this is a great place to find what meets my needs. All except the love part. But don’t think this is from lack of trying. It’s not.There was a group of bikers who used to come in here. Four of them, I think. They called the bike club the 'Boxes' or something like that. There was Boxtop, Boxcar, Boxknife--well, you get the drift.

One night, I was sitting at the bar when Boxknife approached me. He told me he was the 'club' leader and that he had had his 'eye' on me. I knew just what he meant. He was very striking in appearance. Slender, medium height, frame all decked out in those leather pants and jacket, he had a small mustache and I remember his teeth were very white. Up until that night, I had never taken home anyone from a club.

I didn't actually take Boxknife home with me, but he got closer than anyone ever would. What a lover he was! So strong and yet, gentle. I thought I had really found love! We clicked and came together like peanut butter and jelly.
Smooth.

You know how a drink can quench thirst? I felt like our lovemaking had quenched all of my needs. I felt like I needed nothing. Nothing, but him.

Two weeks later, I found out that Boxknife and his boys had this thing: they were all married.
I could have just walked away and left things alone once I found this out, except that I knew Boxknife's wife.
When I say I knew her, I mean I had spent time talking to her. At the women's violence shelter, I had talked to her. You see Boxknife and his boys had this other thing which is thought manly by certain men and against the law by the sane others; they liked to beat up on women.

Why any woman would stay in that situation, most people can not imagine. I probably wouldn't know why either except that I have been there and I have done that. Boxknife's wife had been there and done that, too. She chose to stay with him. If you could ever see her eyes, you would know just what I meant earlier about eyes crying 'victim.' Hers did, when dark circles and bruises didn’t surround them.

Several evenings found me thinking about those creeps beating up on their women. All the while, Boxknife was out chasing other skirts and lying to new girls he met. Little by little, I began to feel that thirst I mentioned before, but this time it was different. This time the thirst was for some kind of justice for wives who are being beaten and girls who were being lied to. I could feel myself going over the deep edge and I knew it would be hard for me to ever know any semblance of normal again.

I had to do something.

Camera cut to: (I just love saying that!) Me all decked out and ready for action. I knew how to get these guys and they didn't scare me. They think they scare lots of people who, in actuality, are unimpressed by them. Daddy used to say bikers were little boys who didn't grow up.

"Hey, baby, ya wanna give it a go? " It was Boxknife grabbing a stool beside me at the bar. I wistfully looked past him, trying to appear uninterested.

"Where are your friends"

"They be coming by later," He told me. "Much later."

I could feel his breath on my cheek. Hot and smelling like motor oil, the stench made me sick. I wondered to myself, did I remember the potato peeler?

My needs were growing.

I wanted to really surprise him!

A real 'bang up' effort, but the more Boxknife talked, the more impatient I grew.
"Yeah, I saw you with one of those suit and ties. You are way too fine for the likes of one of them," Boxknife smiled. The man leaned so close to me that I could smell his perspiration mixing with the leather he wore. "And I'll tell ya this: I can rock you better than any old shirt and tie. Just gimme a chance."

"Okay," I sighed. "You got a place--I got the time."

With a surprised smile, Boxknife grabbed my arm and off we went into the biting darkness.

Following our little rendezvous, it seemed like I slept for weeks! It had actually only been a day or two, that I slept.

Good thing I had sick time at the women’s night hotline where I work.

When the body was found, the press had a field day. It was assumed that a rival bike club had offed him. Gruesome in slaying style, but these clubs-or gangs-can really get gruesome, the body had been drained of all blood. A stake had been used all over it, including the heart area. Of course, I was careful to leave a small stake--reminiscent of a broomstick--in the heart. This was done so he couldn't become a night creature.

Could you imagine a womanizing vampire?

Man! All right! Okay! I will admit it: I took the eyes. Why would he want them, anyway?

For one, he was dead and for two, they screamed victim.

Just like I said before, the eyes always betray the victim.

So, it's not like anyone is hot on my trail or anything. I am free to continue my weekend walks.
That's what I do. I walk and I look for love, or a reasonable facsimile of it. I never find it so I end up settling to feed.

Like I did with Boxknife.

These guys really do need to die, you know. Beating on weaker ones, kicking dogs, being plain old abusive in nature, why should they live? How many of these guys at the packed bar of The Black Rose Club, right now, do you think have wives or girls at home? Here they are, at the club. Cavorting, lying, picking up women who they will use, abuse and beat.

Just like the one who beat me, bit me, and made me what I am today. I guess turnabout is fair play.
Believe it: the night has teeth.

And so do I.
 

Christina Kiplinger-Johns
Copyright 2003 all right belong to author. For permission to re-print contact:
christinajohns@earthlink.net

She writes many stories and articles, often with a horror theme. Her most recent work can be seen in:
In February #2 City Slab(http://www.cityslab.com), check out my revealing interview with popular writer Elizabeth Massie.... See Christina’s review of Massie’s latest book, Shadow Dreams, at Midwest Book Review!!!