A Very Killer Christmas

by Layla Fae

Just look at me, half-heartedly fighting for my life with logical arguments. Go, girl.

“But you could have killed me already. You were going to, weren’t you? Instead, you’re holding me in this really confusing manner. You took my phone. I don’t think you want to hurt me.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

I should be afraid, but what I feel is mostly unhealthy curiosity. I’ve detached from life for so long, I have trouble remembering this is real.

Because come on. A hot killer, in my house, in my bathroom, undressing? How is this not a fantasy?

a naked giant of a man scowling in annoyance as he massages his elbow, his forearms all strong and veiny.

“Why the fuck do you live like this? You’re like a ghoul or one of those blind things that live under rocks.”

I have far more interesting things to ogle. Except, they look nothing like what I’ve seen online. I should have listened when people said porn was far removed from reality. It gave me unrealistic expectations. “Wow, that’s… tiny.” He freezes, the towel obscuring his face. I keep staring. There’s a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel to the miniscule set of genitalia between his legs. They are perky and taut, nothing hanging freely, like I was led to believe. It’s all so… compact.

His ball sack looks small and wrinkled, as if there’s nothing inside. On top of it, his penis is barely bigger than a plum. It’s plum-shaped, too. I thought phallic objects, like sticks and towers, were supposed to resemble the actual penis shape, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. His is rather oval. It’s sort of cute.

“I don’t think dying will be any worse than living,” I confess in a hoarse, scratchy whisper. “It might even be better.”

Things seem to hang lower there, and it’s not as tiny anymore. “You’re doomed anyway. And for your information, I’m a grower.”

I’m a loser, destined to be all alone in the world.

Handsome, muscular men never pay me any attention.

And that’s how I end up inviting a killer to have a glass of eggnog with me on Christmas Eve.

It’s also long enough to wrap around my fist, which wasn’t a factor just ten minutes before, but seems very important to note right now.

I will marry her. But first, I will fuck her.

She doesn’t even look up when I slide one cup over to her, and a sudden terrifying thought hits me. What if she doesn’t want me back?

Did you say you killed seventeen people? How come you haven’t been caught? Because judging by your performance tonight, you’re not very good at this.”

I almost blurt out I love you. Almost. Only because I manage to bite my tongue do those words remain unsaid.

“That’s actually great, because I have a ton of questions to ask you. For example, did you wet your bed when you were young?”

Kiss the killer.

Great. Yes. I have a bona fide serial killer in my bed and can ask him anything, yet all my brain can come up with is, “Can I see you naked again?”