#152 Dog Food It’s Saturday night I’m watching the boob tube by myself, again. What’s wrong with me? Twenty seven years old, and I’m still practically a virgin. It’s been so long. Why in the hell can’t I find a woman to spend some time with? Spend time, hell, have sex with. There are women out there looking for a guy just like me. I’m not considered handsome, but I’ve been pumping iron since high school and have a muscular and well toned body. Maybe I’m too picky about which women I’ll date. They have to fit my criteria, not too tall or short. Good looking with a shapely tight figure with the perfect sized breasts. I think that anything more than a mouthful is a waste. She can’t have — Heck; I could go on for hours talking about what I want. The point is, who can I get to keep me company on Saturday nights. At work Joe, my fellow programmer, tells me he met his wife on Craig’s List, but I don’t think I’m that hard up. When I sit in front of my computer, my reptilian brain directs my fingers to type out: craigslist.com. The Craig’s list page comes up and I figure I may as well take a look and see what’s available. I click on “Women seeking men” and have to agree that I’m at least 18 years old and understand the women seeking men page may include adult content. I agree to release craigslist from any liability that may arise from my use of their site and a few other things. Scanning the page I see a place to go to ask questions about safe sex and click on it. Holy shit! The things I see make me wonder what kind of freaks I’ll meet on this site. Looking at the questions really makes me think I should just click my way off the page, but my curiosity wants answers, so I read on. The first discussion I read starts with open sore on anus. I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman who has an open sore because only initials are used to identify the writer. I don’t want to know and don’t give a damn what he/she looks like. Or wait, maybe I do want to know what a person with an ass sore looks like, so if I ever see that person, I can cross the street. I click on the back arrow, but my reptilian brain still has control, my fingers click the Women Seeking Men link. I don’t want to continue this romance charade any longer and wrest control away from the primitive part of my brain. My finger is about to click on the mouse when my eyes lock on the words, “Money and looks are irrelevant to this 23 year old medical doctor from Midland, Texas, now living in Prescott, AZ. What are important to me are a healthy lifestyle and a healthy body. I’ll send a photo to qualified men. To qualify you must send me the results of a recent physical exam.” Wow, a doctor at 23. She must be Doogie Howser’s sister. I can’t blame her for wanting to see a physical exam record after reading about open sores on a butt-hole. I fit the bill for what she’s looking for, but wait a minute. She says beauty. Maybe she’s one of those heavy duty beauties. There’s nothing wrong with big women, but I can’t help myself, I want the woman of my dreams, and I’d rather not have one than compromise. I figure I may as well see what she looks like. Pulling out a copy of the physical I had last month I wonder what she can learn from it. It has my blood pressure, heart rate, blood type. My doctor wrote a notation across the top, No disease, or infections. I’m not giving away any secrets by sending it to her. I get a recent picture of myself, scan it and the report onto my computer and send them off. Not expecting much I wait a few minutes for her picture. When it doesn’t arrive, I shut off my computer and return to the boob tube to watch SNL. The next morning I turn on my computer to check e-mail. There is a message from Debby. I figure it’s probably one of those ads from a dating or porn site. To be sure I click on it. A photo appears. My eyes fill with images of her perfect hooters I dream about. After filling my brain with visions of those rose colored nipples, I raise my eyes and see sparkling blue eyes, blond hair and a figure that looks just perfect. I’m not into porn, but after seeing Debby, I think that if she’s the star, it can’t hurt to watch a little. I read the message under the picture and almost fall out of my chair, “John, your picture shows me that you’re a healthy young man. If the report you sent me about your health is accurate, I think we can get together. Are you willing to confirm its accuracy? If you are, let’s meet for coffee and see what we think of each other.” I type as fast as I can, “This afternoon, at Cuppers, say 1:00,” and click send. Reading her return e-mail, I reply, “See you then.” Only two hours to get ready. Frantically I search for something to wear that may impress her; don’t have anything nice. I never go where I need to dress well. She wants someone healthy, so I choose my best gym outfit to impress her. I can’t believe my good fortune. Not only do I meet a woman the first time on Craigslist, but she seems like the perfect one. I can hardly wait to meet her and arrive at Cuppers at one o’clock. I walk around looking for her. She isn’t there. I know it’s too good to be true, a beautiful woman like her making a date with me. She probably made dates with a hundred guys for fun, or to satisfy some weird whim. I order a latte, sit down and bury my face in a newspaper. “Hello, Hello.” I hear a woman say in a husky voice. I don’t look up. She can’t be speaking to me, until she says, “John don’t you recognize me?” I look up and drop my coffee onto the table. It splashes over my shirt, burns my hand. My chest constricts, and my heart races. Debby is standing right in front of me wearing a maroon halter top with a matching skirt that’s not much bigger than the napkin I have on my lap. Her photo was breathtaking but seeing her in person does things to my body that had never been done before. My legs shake, and I’m extremely nervous as she sits down across from me. I can’t take my eyes off her thighs as she adjusts her short skirt. “John, you’re much better looking in person than in the photo you sent. That’s refreshing. Most guys send me their high school picture from twenty years ago. Some even send someone else’s physical report. You didn’t do that, did you John?” “No, no, I swear, the one I sent is mine,” I said. “I like you John. We can probably spend the night together this coming Saturday if you want. Do you live alone?” “Yes, I do, just a sma. . .” “Good.” She interrupted me. “I just want to be sure that no one disturbs us.” Spend the night! I can hardly believe it. I write my address on a piece of paper and hand it to her. “What time Saturday?” “Hold on John. I told you I had to confirm the accuracy of your lab report. It’s an unusual request I know, but with all the STDs out there I have to be sure you’re not a carrier.” “I understand completely.” God, I’d give her anything she wants. “Then you won’t mind giving me a urine sample and a mouth swab for DNA? Just so I can run it through the lab to be sure. I’m terrified of contracting AIDS or something.” With the world the way it is, I can’t blame her for being cautious. I glance at her smooth white thighs outlined against the maroon lining of her skirt and my eyes follow them as far as they can see. My imagination sees what my eyes can’t. My legs feel as though they may collapse from thoughts of touching what my imagination sees. I can’t refuse her request. She hands me a clear plastic cup with a screw on cap. I go to the men’s room to fill it. When I return she’s ready with a cotton swab. “Stick this in your mouth and rub it against your cheek,” she says. I don’t hesitate for a second, swab my cheek, and hand her the cotton on a stick with samples of me on it. “Okay, you’ve got everything you asked for. Will I see you Saturday?” I ask. “Depends what I see when I run this through the lab, I’ll call you one way or the other.” “Let me give you my number?” “Got it off the medical report you sent.” She leaves. I beat myself up all that day, and the next, telling myself what I should and should not have done. I sit there with my head in my hands. Did I screw up somehow? Will she actually come to my apartment and spend the night with me? The phone rings Saturday afternoon. I hear her husky voice, and sit down, expecting her to tell me she isn’t coming. “Well, John, I’ve got good news. Everything checked out fine.” I know I won’t ever have to worry about catching anything from her. She’ll never contract any STD’s if she examines everyone’s medical records she has sex with like she is mine. Heck, I decide that I won’t even use a rubber. If she gets pregnant, maybe she’ll marry me. “So you’re coming tonight?” I ask. “I’ll be there at eight.” Saturday night comes and Debby rings the bell at 8:03. Incense and candles burn, champagne sits in a bucket of ice beside a bouquet of roses. I wear a brand new outfit I got from J.C. Penney’s on Friday. I dump half a bottle of Fragonard Cologne Grand Luxe all over myself, and smell like mandarin orange, bergamot peel, lemon, and lavender. She’ll find me irresistible. I open the door and she wears a scoop necked giraffe print lycra bra top with matching shorts. When she bends over to pick up her bag, an open circle in the back of her top exposing cream colored skin sets me on fire. She carries a small suitcase. Her night stuff and a change of clothes I figure. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to change after the gym,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. Come on in,” She sits, I pour her a glass of champagne, takes her bag, and when I carry it to the bedroom, I’m surprised at the heft of it. I hurry back to the living room. “Do you want to watch TV?”I ask. What a dufus. A beautiful woman comes to my apartment, and I ask if she wants to watch TV. I should kick myself. “I’d rather drink and talk,” she says. Wow, is she cool, but she’s moving a little too fast for me, drink, talk, and then sex. I swallow my drink. She pours me another. “I want you to know my patients are very, very important to me,” she says. “Your patients?” “Yes, I have patients all over the world who depend on me to supply their needs, and I’m willing to do almost anything to help them. Drink up,” she says. I wonder why she’s telling me this. Then I feel my head begin to spin. I wake up face down on my bed, naked. Did I pass out before sex? I wish I could remember. I try to roll over, but can’t. Then I see the heavy chains around the metal bedpost attached to manacles on my wrists. I try to pull them free, but they’re wrapped in solid stainless steel. I try kicking, but my legs are chained too. “Help,” I yell as loud as I can. “Don’t yell, John, or I’ll be forced to put a gag in your mouth.” Is she one of those kinky women who like to chain up their men during sex? “Did I pass out or something?” “No, I put Roofies in the champagne.” The date rape drug. Men use it on women. I never heard of a woman using it to rape a man. “We can’t have sex with me lying on my stomach. If you’re going to rape me, you’ll have to roll me over.” “Don’t worry, John, I’m not going to rape you.” “I was hoping you would. If you’re not going to, why drug me and chain me up?” “To get you ready.” I turn my head as far as I can and notice she has changed into scrubs. What the f . . . “Get me ready for what?” I turn my head to the other side and that’s when I see what had been in her suitcase besides chains and manacles. Gleaming surgical tools are laid out on the dresser, along with a power saw, screwdrivers, a hammer, and an electric drill. “This is a joke right, you’re not really going to use those tools on me. Are you?” “I wish it was a joke, John, but . . .” there is a knock on the door. “Be right back. Don’t go away.” Somebody came to save me. I hear male voices. I yell “Help” as loud as I can. Debby appears pushing a cart through the door with tubes attached to it, and a half dozen Styrofoam coolers are loaded onto the bottom shelf of the cart. “What the hell is going on?” “This machine will keep your organs oxygenated while I operate. I already told you I’d do almost anything to help my patients, John. Tonight I have to harvest a liver, heart, kidney, pancreas and some odds and ends. Doesn’t it make you feel good to know you’re helping so many people?” “Why, why are you doing this?” I yell. “I’m just doing my job John. Nothing personal.” “Wait, you’re a doctor, you can’t do this. You’ll never get away with it if you do. I heard men’s voices. They know you’re here, and when my body is found, you’ll go to jail.” “The voices you heard were my interns. They flew in from India to help me. They’ve gone down to the truck to bring up some ice, and a body bag. When I’m finished they’ll bring your remains to the factory so there won’t be a body to find after that.” “Factory! What factory?” “Our dog food factory.” I twist and turn with all my might and try to scream before she stuffs my underpants into my mouth. Then she sticks a hypodermic into my butt. “That’ll put you to sleep so you won’t feel a thing,” she says and turns on the electric saw. Things are getting dark, but I feel the blade cut. I scream into my underpants. Just before I black out, I realize she’s serious, and I know I’m—dog food.