Bang-Bang-7

Killer Sex

Have you ever had sex with a killer?

I didn’t say killer sex, but sex with a killer.

It’s the kind of sex that’ll make you barter your soul with a stranger.

You know, hair pulling, dirty talking and slippery grinds that leave you sweaty. 

I’m talking about the kinda sex that makes your throat parched, because of all the deep moans and air-gasping sighs.

I can’t help but to chuckle from your reaction.

That is pretty much the same reaction I had as well when Carletta told me this while she casually sipped from her large bubble tea.

“I was in Prague and I had just killed (some Arabic sounding name), number three in the Western Sect of the (some Middle Eastern Country). 

This rolls off of her tongue as if she was telling me what she bought at the grocery store. 

I can’t show any sign of shock or judgment, because I know that she can, at any moment, walk away and kill this rare opportunity to get firsthand knowledge from perhaps the most prolific government merc of our generation.

Forgive me for the ‘blanks’. I tried my damnedest to remember the names and places she mentioned, but if I can’t spell them, I can’t remember them. Plus, she made it explicitly clear that I could not write, record or repeat what she was telling me.

I-know-I-know, I’m breaking one of the rules. This is different. In time you’ll understand.

Anyway, I admitted that I never had sex with a killer and by her description, nor have I had killer sex either.

As customers enter the coffee shop there on Melrose, I could see her taking mental pictures of each person. Carletta is never not on.

She sucks up one of the bobas through the penny-sized-wide straw, savors the flavor and continues while looking just beyond me. 

A man in a dark suit walks in looking like Secret Service. Carletta stops in mid sentence.      Thoughts flash through my head. They MADE her and there is about to be a gun fight  - silencer style.

The man barks to the waitress, “Staff meeting will start in five, I need you to cover the cafe for just fifteen minutes.”

Instead of wiping down the empty table, the waitress beats the crumbs off with her towel.

Carletta resumes as if her pause button was released.

“I was feeling kinda empty. The fear of not completing missions is a non-issue after I did my hundredth kill. My battle with morality lost to my love for financial ease. My heart no longer races as I pull the trigger. It’s all robotic in the execution, no pun intended.”

And this is how she talks, in this poetic meter. I don’t think she does it to put on airs, but maybe because she sees her life as a story, a prose or a never ending poem. 

“So, I needed something that was gonna fill that emptiness.”

Her eyes track from the door, back to me. I catch myself holding my breath again.

“Are you in love with someone right now?”

I can’t lie to her, but I don’t want to share any of my vulnerabilities. I take a bite of my double chocolate cookie to buy some time.

I watch her, watch me. Her bone structure is delicately chiseled. Not one single blemish on her face. It glows without being shiny. Where is she not perfect?