I spot you across the art gallery on opening night, your sequined dress hugging every curve of your body. You look so beautiful, so intelligent, funny, charismatic. I bet you're your own person. And I respect that about you. But I can't wait to put my dick in that sweet, sweet ass of yours, whether you like it or not.
I approach slowly two glasses of champagne in my hands. Careful not to get any on my tuxedo, I dodge between the crowd and sidle up to you. You're looking at an Andy Warhol, but I can't wait to go to war on your hole.
You spot me as I join you in admiring the piece. "Is one of those for me?" you ask, indicating the champagne flute and batting your eyes.
"What? No." I say draining both of them.
"Oh... ok..." You say taken aback. For some reason. You turn back toward the Warhol. "Marvelous isn't it?" you ask.
I shrug. "It's just soup cans. I don't see what the big deal is." I reply. "I could have done that."
"But you didn't, sometimes it's about being willing to see what's already there." You say. Ugh. You're one of these insufferable art critic types. You'll pay for that later. With your ass.
"He painted something someone else came up with. He's no different than a caricature artist in central park. Or a photographer." I say.
"Photography is one of the highest forms of art!" you say in disbelief. "It captures the world as it undeniably is. It is truth in a web of lies!"
"How can you think photography is an art? All you're doing is taking a picture of something that's already there and showing it to other people."
"How is that any different than a still life or portrait done in oils?"
"Because those are hard! They take skill! You don't just press a button!"
"My boyfriend is a photographer and I've heard just about enough of this nonsense!" You say in a huff. It appears I've offended you. Also you have a boyfriend. That's too bad. You turn and walk away, your heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. That beautiful ass swaying in that gorgeous dress before me. I wait a few seconds, then start to follow you toward the coat check.
I do my best to avoid attracting your attention. I don't do a very good job. I'm a big guy, about 6'5 and 220 pounds. I look like a gorilla among all these skinny art nerds. You must notice me following you.
You get to the coat check, and realize, no one is there. You look left and right as I duck behind a bust. Then you push open the door to the coat check. I check to make sure no one is looking and follow you inside.
You're shifting through coats looking for yours when my big hand comes out of nowhere and covers your mouth. "Don't scream." I say "or this will be a lot worse than it has to be."
"What do you want?" you ask. "Money?"