Sex and Murder Magazine

By AJ Brown

She wanted me to fuck her, but I couldn’t get it up. I shrugged, put my pants on and slid out of the hotel room, leaving a hundred bucks on the nightstand beside the bed. My hands sunk into my pockets and cool air wrapped around my bare chest, chilling the sweat that beaded along my body.

I can’t say I wasn’t embarrassed at not being able to get an erection. Though I haven’t been with a woman in years, I thought my parts would still work.

The cold ring in my left pocket kept my fingers company. Pulling it out, I looked at the gold band with my initials engraved into it. I've wanted to get rid of it since Megan's death, but haven't been able to bring myself to do so. I slid it on my left ring finger. It still fit, though a little more snug than I recalled.

Megan's face, as clear as a photograph, appeared in my thoughts. A chill ran across my skin and my heart sped up. My hands grew wet with sweat and I wiped them on my pants. Something stirred below my belt. I laughed, picturing her smile, her walk, the way she would tease me before going down and taking me in.

The bulge strained against my jeans. I pivoted, hurried back along the boardwalk to the hotel. I hoped she was still there, though my better judgment told me she would be long gone. Knocking on the door, I waited. She opened it, frowned.

Unlike when I had left, the room's light now threw a splash of yellow on the walls. The illusion of her youth had vanished. Her face held life’s little lines on it; her hair hung down along freckled shoulders, streaks of gray lacing in with the dark brown. Her dull green eyes were moist from crying and mascara had run down her face. Her lipstick had come off, a slight smear to one side of her mouth.

“Back already? Can you get it up this time?”

“I’m sorry about before,” I whispered, unable to force my voice to its normal tone. “It’s just . . . I was married once and I felt like I was doing something wrong.”

“What changed your mind?”

I thought for a second. “I thought of Megan and, well—” I pointed at my crotch.

A smile creased the prostitute’s face. “Your wife’s name was Megan?”

I nodded.

“Then, call me Megan.”

The bulge grew painful as she rubbed the front of my jeans. She unzipped my pants, dropped to her knees and began to tease me . . . just like Megan used to.

My head spun. I had to control my breathing or I would pass out. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it sucked passing out in the middle of a blowjob. I grabbed her head and pulled her mouth from me.

It only took me a few seconds to peel away her meager clothing. Her figure matched her face—probably attractive at one time, but life and the streets and many dicks had worn her down.

“Fuck me,” she said, her voice gruff and full of lust. She played the part perfectly.

I slid in, this time having no problems with flaccidity. She groaned. I grunted as I drove in and out of her.

My wife’s face appeared in my vision, her light brown hair lying on the floor behind her, head tossed back, mouth open, neck exposed to every nibble and kiss I could put on it. I leaned forward, putting my weight on her, my face inches from hers. I panted. “You like that?”

“Yes,” she screamed.

“It’s better than your fucking boyfriend’s isn’t it?”

Her eyes snapped open, wide green orbs staring at me in shock.

“That’s right, bitch. I know about it.”

I wrapped my hands around her throat. I pulled out of her and set my full weight on her stomach, driving out what little air she had in her lungs. My grip tightened and her face turned pink, red, and then purple. Snot spilled from both nostrils as I squeezed tighter. Her hands struck at my body, scratched at my arms.

Finally, the light dimmed in her eyes and her body went as limp as my erection. I released her and stared at the dead prostitute. She looked just like my Megan had after I strangled her—lifeless and rubbery, like an anatomically correct blow up doll, good for only one thing.

My hands shook and my body coursed with anger-driven adrenaline. Panting, I scooted away, bumped into the wall. I stroked myself a few times, unable to get it back up. I couldn’t even jerk off. But that was okay.

I slid my pants back on, found the shoes and shirt I had left there earlier and finished getting dressed. I took back my hundred dollars and stepped over the prostitute’s body. Locking the door behind me, I slipped off into the darkness, my wedding band snug on my finger.

At the Harvard Bridge, I looked over the railing to the rushing waters below. Megan was down there somewhere among the fish and rocks and mud. Or maybe she's a few miles down stream. Slipping the ring from my finger, I rolled it on my palm. I cocked my arm back, wanting to throw the band as far as I could. Instead, I dropped it into my pocket. I guess it's true what they say: some things are easier to let go of than others. I strolled across the bridge, whistling as I went, thoughts of Megan fading from my mind…























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