Chapter Text
I want to look fuckable. It's surprisingly important to me. I want to look fuckable. Not beautiful. Not stunning. Certainly not cute. When a man looks at me, I want them to imagine bending me over the nearest flat surface.
Usually, when preparing for a hookup, I will wear deep, maroon lipstick to match my dark, chestnut hair. You know why lipstick is sexy, don't you? It mimics what happens to your other lips when you're aroused. Blood flows there for sensitivity. The labia swells and becomes deeper in colour.
Ok, so I read that somewhere, but it may or may not be true.
Usually, I have smoky eyes. But none of these ridiculously big false lashes that look like spider legs. There is a fine line between boldly sexual and clown makeup.
Tonight, however, is not usual.
Tonight, I am going natural. The girl next door look. No short skirts, figure-hugging dresses, or plunging necklines.
I am still wearing makeup, but the subtle kind that men don't even realise. You know the guys I'm talking about. The ones who say that they hate girls who wear makeup and prefer a woman without any, of course not realising that the examples they are citing are, in fact, wearing makeup.
Looking plain for a hookup feels like a crime against humanity, but it will be worth it, hopefully.
The plain, innocent, girl next door types are his modus operandi.
The odds are probably small that he would pick me. Not because of the competition, but because the city is on high alert. Women have been told to avoid dating apps if possible, and everyone is taking precautions.
He will probably be going into hiding soon if he hasn't done so already.
There's only so many women you can kill before you get caught.
~~~
The current advice given by the media:
- Always let someone else know where you are going when meeting up with someone from a dating app.
- Always meet in a public place.
- Have a set time to contact a friend or family member to let them know you are safe after an online date.
- Ensure to keep your wits about you and avoid drugs and too much alcohol.
I, Emily Patton, have done none of the above.
Nobody knows where I am.
I am meeting him at his home.
There is already a bottle of wine coursing through my bloodstream.
Even if the Winswood Strangler hasn't picked me tonight, I'll still have fun.
Some women are so picky. There are only a few select men that they would consider giving their body to. It is rare for me not to be attracted to a man. I can find something beautiful in almost every man I come across.
I don't have a type. I love tall men, short men. Hairy men, smooth men. Lean men, chubby men. Bald men and men with a full head of hair. I like smartly dressed men. I like the casual t-shirt and jeans type. Cocky. Shy. Funny. Stoic. I love them in all their forms.
Which flavour of man will I get tonight, I wonder? It's like a lucky dip. You never know what you're going to get.
My date tonight differs from the others. They didn't have a profile picture. Just a picture of their dog. They said they don't like to post their profile pic because they don't want superficial women to choose them based on looks alone.
Sounds like bullshit. Sounds like a trap. Sounds like the Winswood Strangler. Of course he wouldn't want to show his face. But then again, he could have used a fake picture. It would have been less suspicious. Like, seriously, how many women go to meet a man if they don’t know what he looks like?
Luckily, it is not raining when I get off the bus, but it is cold. Condensation drifts from my lips as I breathe, white vapour contrasted by the black night sky. Goosebumps rise on the backs of my arms, the fine hairs standing to attention. I'd have been a lot colder if I wore my normal, skimpy attire.
I recognised his address when he gave it online earlier. Grantham Quay Apartments. It's a fancy new development by the waterfront.
The apartments are gated-off and I have to ring a buzzer just to get into the grounds. Now I am wondering how easy it would be to get away if things go awry.
Apartment 7. I press the button.
“Hello?” I hear a male voice on the intercom.
“Hi, it's Lisa.” What? You didn't think I'd give him my real name, did you?
“Come in.” The buzzer sounds, and the gate opens inward automatically.
My heart beats faster. My skin grows hot. My breathing, erratic. This is what I live for.