One Last Hunt

Him

The red vortex swirls down the drain, washing away the last remnants of my crime. I wipe my hands clean and thank the ranger for his hospitality.

"You sure made a mess," the ranger says.

"An unfortunate side effect of an otherwise perfect job," I say with a grin. "All that digging in the Sedona soil, things were bound to get a little dirty."

The ranger chortles. "You ain't kidding. Lots of red earth. Say, you find anything good?"

Oh, did I ever.

I present my fistful of riches: a diamond ring, a gold bracelet, a jewel-encrusted brooch. The ranger's disappointment is palpable. "I know that look. Sorry to report we're not uncovering the Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine or Billy the Kid's hidden stash. Most treasures I find are of the recently lost variety." Like that old woman. She's now recently lost, buried beneath the yucca and prickly pear, her only grave marker a smattering of blood-red rock formations. My buried treasure, not to be found until I'm long gone.

"Just a bunch of tall tales," the ranger says. "I guess I'd better get back to work."

"Me too," I agree. "Thanks again for letting me use the bathroom. I would have killed for a sink." I collect my metal detector, Sofia, and escort her out the door.

Inside my car, I deposit the dearly departed's jewelry into the glove compartment. It will fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop, but it's far from today's biggest acquisition. That would be a thin rectangle of perforated paper in the passenger's seat. It's a blank check written out to "Cash" and signed by Barbara Simmons. My lips curl into a smirk as I recall all those digits printed on her bank receipt.

Eyes shift from the drop of blood in the backseat to the ranger station. He's watching me through the window. I depart with a timid wave, and soon my pavement-devouring Jeep has transformed the red mountains into nothing more than a memory.

Her

I'm in a humid room with 11 men, a severed deer's head, and a colony of beetles. It's not nearly as kinky as it sounds. Actually, it's not kinky at all; I'm attending my first event with the Amateur Taxidermists of Phoenix. Despite his rugged exterior, the host greets the warm room with a warm welcome:

"Hello, friends. I don't want you to lose your heads, but it's European mount month." He waits for a laugh that never comes. "Anyway, I see we have a new member tonight. Mind sharing your name and a little about yourself, miss?"

Seeing as how I'm the only miss, I take the hint and pair a fake name with my real profession: "I'm Alice, and I'm a librarian." The crowd doesn't exactly strike me as the bibliophile type, so I don't foresee any awkward run-ins anytime soon.

One man in a Busch Light t-shirt scoffs and says, "Don't think your book covers this unit." He gets a few laughs before the host continues:

"The Euro mount is a timeless and cost-effective alternative to the traditional mount. Here, we have 2,000 dermestid beetles, which can consume all your trophy's flesh in a couple days. This technique is preferred by many because it preserves the details of the fragile bones in the nose and around the eyes. However, those who want to get the most bang for their buck can take matters into their own hands." He presents a thin deboning knife. "Anyone care to take a crack?"

The burly men are suddenly shy. Though I'm not one for the spotlight, this is an opportunity I can't pass up. When I step forward, the men's eyebrows raise to their hairlines; these are the type of guys who believe a woman shouldn't be handling a knife unless she's spreading Miracle Whip. The host hands me a pair of rubber gloves and the blade, and I get to skinning. Initially, he tries to guide me through it with such pointers as "Start at the base of the skull" and "Be gentle around the nose and teeth", but he soon realizes that I'm a flesh-carving machine and is reduced to nothing more than a spectator.

Stunned at the neatly picked skull, the host babbles something about boiling the skull for four hours. Then he turns to me and asks, "Where did you learn to do that?"

I snap off the blood-tinged gloves and stare straight into the face of the Busch Light bro. "From a book," I say.

Him

It's feeding time at the Great Sonoran Reptile Park. I've always welcomed the sight of a predator consuming its prey. When watching nature documentaries, I cheer for the lions, crocodiles, and snakes. Ah, the satisfaction of it all. Witnessing the juicy rewards of a flawlessly executed hunt. But this is different. Where's the challenge? These cold-blooded tacticians have been reduced to domesticated prisoners awaiting spoonfed handouts of pathetic, pre-slaughtered prey. Sprinkle a dash of crickets into a Gila monster's jaws, toss a limp rodent into the cage of a sidewinder. It all seems too easy.

Speaking of easy prey, I spot a silver-haired woman drenched in perfume that reeks of money and sadness. A recent widow, no doubt. Her modest cleavage hints at the ghost of sexuality, a ghost I hope to resurrect. I move in. The sun hits her just right, illuminating a diamond ring valued at half the GDP of Iceland. Beside it, on her middle finger, is a vaguely familiar and largely uninspiring ring. It's severed from my memory almost instantly. I give her a quick once-over, but I don't say a word. I let my body speak, a well-crafted lie of muscle mass sculpted meticulously at the gym for the sole purpose of attracting lonely women. I wear shirts a size too small to accentuate my torso. She side-eyes the shit out of me, no doubt fantasizing about yours truly as her shirtless cabana boy. Little does she know I'll be taking much more than her tips.

"Repulsive creatures," the woman says, breaking the silence.

"That they are," I lie. "I can't imagine who would invest in such a grotesque endeavor."

"Me," the woman says. She offers a firm handshake. "Mary Wolff, owner of Great Sonoran Reptile Park."

I laugh, feigning embarrassment. "Sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"--Quite all right. 'Grotesque' is an apt descriptor in this case. I never cared for the beasts. No, this little spectacle belonged to my late husband Gene. It's all I have left of him, the dear man."

That and a multimillion-dollar inheritance.

My hand moves imperceptibly closer. "When did he pass?"

"Last June," Mary says with the genesis of a tear in her eye.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Fingertips gently caress her shoulder. She places her hand on mine. It's the one with the diamond.

"Fuck it," Mary says coldly. She catches my raised brow and grins deviously. "Nothing I can do now but move on." Her papier-mâché fingers stroke mine.

I return the favor. "That's very brave of you."

"Brave's got nothing to do with it. This was Gene's adventure; I'm still searching for mine. But that's enough about me. What do you do?"

"Well..." I begin.

This is almost too easy.

Her

This is almost too easy. Friday night at a Scottsdale bar, my tits spilling from a low-cut top, I'm bound to get laid. Since my needs aren't being met by the parade of fuckboys on Tinder and Bumble, I decide to try somewhere with a bit more class, an establishment arrogant enough to refer to itself as a "lounge" merely to charge $25 a cocktail. I cozy up at the bar and cheat toward the audience, showing off my assets to the crowd of thirsty men. This won't take long.

Within five minutes, the bartender sets an orange-red, ice-cubed abomination in front of me. "From the gentleman over there," he says while I regard the orange slice and cherry garnishes with disgust. The gentleman over there is a 60ish douche swimming in Tommy Bahama, looking just as tan and boring as every Scottsdale retiree. He gives me a wave and taps his drink, a Sex on the Beach. That's one thing he sure as hell won't be getting. I return a little salute and spit in my drink. He gets the hint, shriveling up like his little dick did years ago. While the elderly perverts do love me, I'm not looking to wake up beside a wrinkly wave of liver spots, a jar of Metamucil powder on the nightstand.

No, I'm looking for a more virile partner tonight. Preferably someone with regular bowel movements. I spot the stud just three spots over; his chiseled features are tucked under a worn cowboy hat and his ropy country muscles bulge through tight layers of denim. He's sucking whiskey from a lowball when I meet his dusty green eyes. I waste no time moseying over to him and declaring, "Haven't seen you around."

With a square-jaw grin, he answers in pure Southern sex appeal: "You surely haven't. This is my first time."

"Ooh, a virgin. What brings you here tonight?"

"Drownin' my sorrows after a rough one." He alludes to the scrapes on his otherwise perfect face. I notice his clothes are caked in dirt.

It suddenly comes to me: "You're in town for the rodeo."

"Yes, ma'am."

I'm offended. "'Ma'am'? Do I really look that old?" I lean in so our knees are touching.

His face flushes with red. "I didn't mean it like that." He searches for the right words at the bottom of his glass. They're not down there.

I change the subject: "So, you're in the rodeo. What's your specialty?"

"Ropin' and bull ridin'."

"Are bulls the only thing you ride?" I'm practically inside his Wranglers.

"Ma'am?"

"Didn't I tell you not to call me 'ma'am'?"

"I'm sorry, m--iss. You're very beautiful, and I'd love to buy you a drink, but I seen what you did with that first one."

I graze his ear with my lips, whisper, "Lucky for you, that's the only time I spit."

The lump swells in his pants. "You want to get out of here?"

"You read my mind."

His cheap motel room brings back both good and bad memories, nights of sweaty rapture and of unspeakable pain. But I'm here to dwell on his dick, not the past. I waste no time with the sentimentality of kissing, opting to unzip his pants immediately. Somewhere around 10 inches spills from his jeans; it would make sense a cowboy is hung like a horse. When he tries to wrestle out of his jean jacket, I tell him to keep it on, grabbing his giant muscle and deepthroating as much as I can handle. There's still plenty of meat for me to stroke while sucking his throbbing mushroom, since I can only consume a little over half of him. I lick from head to balls, following the blue-veined road with my tongue. Then I choke on it some more, my saliva coating his cock in natural lubricant, which I use to stroke his thick base as I inhale gleefully.

When I need a break to breathe, I expand my strokes from base to head, making sure he's fully taken care of at all times. I cup his balls with one hand and beat him off enthusiastically in a wet fapping frenzy. A primal grunt originates in his throat. "Yes," he whispers. I continue the assault, jerking and sucking him as fast as I can. His cock grows in my throat and his breathing intensifies. He's close. Though I would love for him to bust a fat load on my face, I don't want it to end yet. I stop just before he spews to provide some recovery time while I dig through my purse.

"I got a condom," he says, out of breath.

I despise condoms. It's like being fucked by a plastic bag. "That's not what I'm looking for," I say as my fingers brush the stiff nylon. Out comes what I was looking for, a two-foot-long strand of braided, half-inch rope.

"What's that for?" he asks with genuine confusion.

"I want you to choke me," I smile.

He doesn't. "I can't."

"Why not? You do it with cattle."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Those are animals."

"We're all animals," I say, getting down on all fours. There aren't many men who are prone to arguing when there's a wet beaver in their face, and farm boy is no exception. Few earthly sensations compare to the moment a stiff cock first slides in. It's like you're full without ever realizing you'd been empty. You're complete, and you feel remarkably close to the person who completed you, even if they're a total stranger. It's for this reason I can't help but moan when farm boy fills me up. However, after the initial pleasure of penetration wears off, I notice he's being excruciatingly gentle. This will not do. "Harder," I demand.

His strokes accelerate, but he's still not applying any force to the rope. "Choke me," I growl. He tugs the rope meekly. "Harder!" The rope pulls tighter. My breathing is restricted as he gives me all 10 inches. But it's not enough. "Harder, you pussy!" I shriek.

I can tell I bruised his ego (men do not like to be called pussies), because farm boy loses all semblance of gentlemanly charm, yanking the reins like I'm an unruly horse. It's about damn time. Gasping for air, I beg him to go deeper. His granite abs slap repeatedly, almost mechanically, against my cheeks as he goes balls deep with powerful thrusts. "Yes!" I choke with the little voice I have, through watering eyes and blurred vision. I'm seeing dots now. Is it from the carnal pleasure or the lack of oxygen? Who cares? It's sublime.

I feel it building up in me, feel the escalating ecstasy that will soon crescendo in a beautiful thing called the female orgasm. I bite a pillow and squeal that I'm going to come. It hits me all at once, a joy explosion that forces every muscle into spasm and overwhelms my head with helium lightheadedness. My body can handle it no more, and I black out mid-climax.

He's pulling up his pants when I awake. "That was fun," he says, looking me up and down with a warm smile. "Maybe I could get your number, and we have ourselves another rodeo."

I smile back. "I never want to see you again."

Him

After a morning with my reptilian friends, I rejoin the ranks of the warm blooded. The trendy little gym is packed, and I'm putting on a show for the patrons, pumping black and blue resistance bands in a perspiratory blur. This is necessary training; I meet a lot of resistance in my profession. During my cooldown, I can feel the heat of so many lustful eyes. While I'm flattered, the ladies who frequent this gym aren't my type. Both their ages and their bank accounts are far too low.

Speaking of low, my neighbor Marty, fresh off a couple uninspired reps on the bench press, waddles over and slaps me on the back. "You're killing it, buddy!" he announces, making sure every single woman within a quarter mile can hear. While he appears harmless, I recently learned that Marty is a private investigator. And though we do live in the same neighborhood, I can't shake the feeling that I'm seeing entirely too much of him lately. Almost as if he's following me. Maybe I'm just paranoid.

"Um, thanks," I say, very much aware Marty is plotting to make me his unwilling wingman.

Marty scopes out the babes, who are not returning the scope, and wipes the flop sweat from his brow. "Can't leave your loyal fans waiting. What do you say we do a little meet and greet?"

"Sorry, I'm not one for the limelight. You go ahead." I depart for the locker room as Marty unleashes a barrage of cringe-worthy pickup lines. Maybe I overestimated him. Maybe he is nothing more than the horny dweeb I'd pegged him for. Either that or he's one damn fine actor.

In the shower, I twist the handle to maximum heat and disappear in the rising steam. Though the temperatures would be scalding to most people, I don't feel a thing. Just like I didn't feel a thing when those women pierced me with the longing in their eyes. I believe in something like love, even if someone like me can never experience it. This makes my life easier.

I share a few impersonal goodbyes with the gym staff and duck out the door. Thus concludes my social plans for the day. The remainder of the evening will be spent researching the valuables I picked from my latest victim's corpse. Even with minimal coaxing, the old girl showed up in enough jewelry to make Mr. T blush. If she was looking to impress me, she succeeded. I just hope the pawn shops are as impressed.

Pulling into the driveway of my modest Phoenix home, a now-familiar sight catches my eye. The dingy brick-and-mortar building called "Mesquite Public Library" has always sat across the street. However, it generally hasn't housed many high-end automobiles. And yet amongst the sea of jalopies and standard-feature vehicles there is a luxury sedan that calls the public parking lot home five days a week. I'm no gear head, but I know an expensive car when I see one. Perhaps an investigation is in order. For now, though, let me count the fruits of a successful hunt.

Her

Leave it to the library to make a 46-year-old feel young. The employee dress code appears to be a remnant of the Victorian age. My coworkers model various combinations of patternless maxi dresses, baggy slacks, cardigans, chunky blouses, and orthopedic shoes. Though their ages range from 25-70, they all look identical, just different generations of the same woman. All the type to knit, go to the opera, can their own vegetables, and watch the BBC. Of all the authors in the world, they choose to reread Jane Austen and, God save us, the Brontë sisters.

One time, another librarian named Bonnie inquired about my literary crush. She'd swooned over the Mr. Darcys and Heathcliffs; you know, those aloof love interests from every 19th century romance, hatched from the wet dreams of lonely English broads. When I told Bonnie whom I preferred to these milquetoast mannequins, she nearly pissed herself.

"Hannibal Lecter!" Bonnie exclaimed. "Surely, you jest."

"You're looking at this the wrong way. He's brilliant, witty, cultured, and not afraid to get his hands dirty. What more could you ask for?"

We certainly don't get men like that in the library. No, we mostly get the ascot and beret-wearing types, flamboyantly bouncing in. The hetero Truman Capotes, I call them. One such specimen is approaching my counter at this very moment.

"Excuse me," he says, "I placed a hold on

Ethan Frome

. Where can I pick it up?"

I make minimal eye contact. "I'd suggest the 'Holds' aisle."

He laughs. Or whimpers. I don't know. "Have you read the novel?"

"In seventh grade."

"I would strongly encourage a revisit. It's a work that offers a fresh experience as we advance in age. Not that you've advanced all that much since seventh grade."

There's no chance in hell I'm wasting my eyes on that whiny love triangle. "I'll put it on my list."

Finally, the pretentious wimp retreats to search for Edith Wharton's paper abortion. Bonnie jabs me in the ribs. "He was hitting on you!"

"So?"

"So? Do you know who he is?"

"Remove me from my ignorance."

"Ashton Maloney. He's the curator at the Heard Museum."

I start a lie but can't finish it: "That's...the most boring fucking thing I've ever heard in my life."

"Oh, please! He's a cutie pie."

"I prefer cake."

Bonnie giggles and buries her nose in

Mansfield Park

. "You're too much."

Ashton Maloney gives me a wink as he minces out the door with his little book, and I think that maybe I'll stay single for the remainder of eternity.

Him

The valuables suffer a fate almost as tragic as their owners. Immaculately cut gems, solid gold, and flawless pearls are imprisoned behind fingerprint-smudged glass cases in rundown towns with names like Buckeye, Casa Grande, and Wickenburg. I only sell one item per pawn shop and never near my home. When the ragtag employees need their suspicions quelled, I make up a story about an aunt's inheritance or an estate sale, just so long as the acquisition is legal. As if they'd care.

The owners are all wolves, their only aim to fleece the customer. Unfortunately for them, I am no lamb. Every item I lay before them is thoroughly researched, the price etched in my mind. A full return is not realistic in these sordid little shops, but I gladly accept 75% of the value and total anonymity. When the time comes to write up a ticket, I have an endless list of aliases at my disposal. Beautiful, untraceable cash, one day I must write an ode to you. The unnamed poet, no longer unpaid.