Among other things, I have an addiction to bodies next to mine. Not in a serial killer way, mind you. But in that way that assures you there is another soul out there. One that was, at least last night, willing to join his with mine. Because what is fucking if not an ephemeral merging of two souls?
Lately, however, I’ve been having trouble securing my usual level of satisfaction on this particular front. It’s almost as though I need more than one body to gain the same amount of comfort and emotional awareness that I used to be able to glean from only one man per evening. I guess you could say this is how I began my career as a succubus–a body snatcher of sorts. Before that, I was just a “hyper-sexual” administrative assistant at an insurance company. Boredom breeds debauchery, I suppose, and being that my name is Marion, well, I was destined to do “bad things,” just like Marion Crane in Psycho.
It began, as all ominous things do, in October, around the second week. I had awakened next to a stockbroker–one of the last few conventionally rich ones who wore silk socks and black Calvin Klein briefs. Usually, when I turned over in the morning to seek the crook of a man’s arm that I could briefly slip into, a feeling of giddiness would pervade me. But this particular morning, any sensation of that nature was void. I could no longer find gratification from luring bodies back to my bed. It was then I knew I needed to tweak my method. How though? Finding a man a night in the city was challenging enough–the difficulties in procuring multiple bodies each evening would be tenfold (especially since straight men weren’t adept at sharing one woman, just look at Bridget Jones’ situation).
Thus, I set about plotting a strategy that would work well for both the conquests and me. Of course, I would still put the same equivalent of effort into my aesthetic each night, investing most of my fortune in skin care and fashion to keep them all noticing (I felt a lot like Louise Oriole in David Fincher’s “Bad Girl”). The only difference would be that once I got them interested, I would finagle their address out of them–you’d be surprised at how open to giving up information people are when they’ve got a touch of the drink in them. Then, just when they thought they’d “secured” me for after hours, I would leave, filing the addresses away for later.
Around one a.m. I would set upon them, skulking through their neighborhoods methodically, organizing my strikes by location. And yes, it was simple enough to get past any doorman with the blow of a kiss and the assurance of looking wealthy. With that, I would ascend to the apartment of my desire, unlocking the door with the mere turn of my acrylic nail into the keyhole.
Entering into the darkness, I would hone in on the bedroom, chloroform-soaked rag in hand. My chunky heels made it easy to be stealthy, one doesn’t want to totter around clumsily in stilettos when they’re about to rape someone. Before turning each man over–they’re all side sleepers, which is supposed to infer they’re still trying to get back into the womb (the Oedipus complex has long been my bane)–I would stare lovingly at them. My act wasn’t one of hate, although it might come across that way to some. Rather, it was one of extreme love; for unquenchable desire is nothing if not a form of love, no? You can tell me I’m confusing love with maniacal lust, and I’ll vehemently disagree. No, all intense sexual appetites are grounded in tenderness. I assured this to what the police are now calling my “victims” by whispering into his ear that I loved him before sending him into helpless unconsciousness.
I would do this to about six men a night to fulfill my craving for “wholeness.” I imagine they never suspected anything for sure upon waking up in the morning–it was just that I made the mistake of returning several times to men I particularly enjoyed (good dick is hard to find, if you haven’t already learned). One of the doormen finally started to catch on that something wasn’t quite right, initially assuming I was some sort of high class call girl (God, if only it were that cut and dried). Alas, there is no enjoyment in being a prostitute, as it’s always about what they want. Being a body snatcher, on the other hand, gave me total control.
And so, one night as I was creeping down the fire escape from the third floor of an investment banker’s TriBeCa abode, I found that, at last, the doorman could endure my antics no more, and had called the authorities to apprehend me. I was wearing a pink slip dress and a leopard fur coat, which was ideal for my photograph on the front page of the New York Post with the headline “She Suck-ubus’d The Life Out of Them!,” which I felt was unfairly misleading, since I never killed anyone.
Still, I had a month and a half of unadulterated bliss with these bodies that I could wield for my own distinct pleasure. And I make no apologies for that in spite of where it’s led me. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a call from Warner Bros. and Marvel about adapting my tale into a female comic book superhero story before joining some other prisoners for a game of cards in the recreation room.