In the following excerpt from Andy Nowicki's new novel Heart Killer, the protagonist-- a pathetic geek turned avenging Don Juan-- reveals his unorthodox methods of seduction, as well as his disturbing flair for exacting carnal vengeance. Heart Killer is now available as an e-book from Amazon (www.amazon.com/Heart-Killer-ebook/dp/B00ABO49P2) and can also be purchased directly from ER Books (www.erbooks.com), England's legendary publisher of elegant erotica.
Seduction isn't really difficult at all, once you've carefully excised all sense of shame, and indeed, all sense of self.
The fear of rejection is what prevents the typcial single man from straining too far beyond his zone of comfort. Even the man most desperate for female company often finds the burden of psychological exposure too much to bear; he makes a few, feeble tentative stabs at connecting with a desirable-looking girl, dashes out a "pick-up line" or two, trying all the while to disguise the artificiality of his manner behind a facade of casual apathy, the better to protect his ego.
Practiced faux-apathy is one thing, but actually not giving a good goddamn is something quite different. When I entered the bar that fateful night, I found myself utterly drained of all vestiges of my former self. I'd become a reptilian killing machine. I wasn't the least afraid of being turned down; in fact, I haughtily courted rejection. It wasn't that I felt like the smoothest, handsomest guy in the room; there could be no doubt that I didn't compare, looks-wise, to the soccer jocks of the world, for whom "poontang" came easily, and came in every sense of the word... Still, I had an advantage, in that, unlike them, I really didn't care one speck if anyone found me cute, charming, dreamy, or sexy.
It happened, somehow. Either due to my intense self-taught training exercises, or through a weird and perverse imposition of grace, which can after all take many forms, not all of them comely or pure. Regardless, it happened, like black magic. I was a changed man; I lived like one already dead. I strode right into the place, ordered a drink (being a non-alcohol consumer, I picked at random from the options), nursed the poison I'd selected, and surveyed the room with cold, reptilian eyes.
My potential prey needed to fulfill three requirements: she needed to be 1) beautiful, 2) stuck-up and full of herself, and 3) in a relationship.
Such a combination wasn't in the least hard to find; indeed, these three attributes usually go hand-in-hand among women. Beauty could easily be apprehended; haughtiness also announced itself without much of a struggle-- all I had to do was lock eyes with the lovely lady in question to discover how skin-deep hear beauty truly was; how mean, ugly, and cruelly rejecting was the soul beneath the painted, pressed, coiffed, and manicured exterior. Her initial response to me said it all: she was unimpressed, annoyed, even offended, by the attention of my unabashed stare. The first thought she telegraphed to me was, "Ew, what a creepy loser!" She betrayed this sentiment either by ignoring the lancing beam of my eyes, or by glaring back, or otherwise acting irritated. Thus, I was able to check off both of the first two boxes in my list of criteria: I knew she had looks and a bitchy attitude. Now I just had to discover if she was "taken" before I moved in for the kill.
Some women, of course, had "the ring," and with this rich-bitch type, it was almost always a gaudy diamond-studded affair, never a plain gold band. Other women hadn't yet taken the plunge into the whoredom of matrimony, but were nonetheless "taken," having snared a "serious" boyfriend who just hadn't yet "popped the question." This could easily be assessed in the opening stage of conversation, when I fearlessly, cold-bloodedly engaged her with an opening line.
"Pardon me, Miss, do you have a boyfriend?" I would straightforwardly ask. This would usually prompt my prospective lady in question to roll her eyes and answer in the affirmative, hoping I'd be deterred and slink away like a sick, mangy puppy. But it wouldn't deter me at all. I'd stay where I was, buy her a drink, and proceed to regale her with contempt. I'd point out her (real or invented) physical flaws, I'd inform her that her husband or boyfriend would no doubt eventually leave her behind for a younger model and she'd wind up dying alone... I'd explain to her that it was no use getting offended-- I only spoke the truth, the brutal, God's honest truth-- and that she ought not get angry with the impertinence of the messenger, but like Cleopatra after Anthony left her for Octavia, learn to reconcile herself with the factuality of the message. Then, I'd buy her another drink.
Oh, I got cursed out more than a few times; I got slapped, even punched, and yes, of course I got kicked in the groin on occasion, as one might expect; these women, after all, deplored my cruel honesty; moreover, it deeply disturbed them, because they couldn't abide the turning of the tables that it represented. They, being beautiful, were the ones who felt themselves entitled to be cruel. I, on the other hand, being un-beautiful, was supposed to be the one on the receiving end of such attacks; that one like me should become the attacker they could absolutely not abide; it reprensented a kind of existential turnabout that struck them as ghastly in its implications.
Many a time the lady in question flung her drink in my face, prompting me to dryly mutter, "How cliched..." And of course, many a possible prey stormed out after having pelted me with alcohol or bruised my cheek or injured my scrotum with a shapely knee. ("You like it rough? You'll still die alone, you stupid cunt," I'd fling back, undaunted, even while doubled over in pain.) I didn't care about the rejections; I never took it personally, never felt any shame; I persisted defiantly on my course; I moved to a different bar, found another beautiful, haughty, and "taken" girl to insult and abuse.
And at the end of the night, I never went to my motel room alone!
Always, always, always, it happened, though some nights it took several tries and the absorption of numerous blows to my person, and sometimes the taste of blood in my mouth. One night, I barely escaped a concussion when one screaming Mimi drunkenly swung a bottle at my head and narrowly missed. I was also, naturally enough, called every nasty name in the book that honest men have ever been called.
Yet... it "worked." I invariably "scored," as the Lotharios of the world would say. I "got some." I "tapped that."
Why did it work? Well of course it happened partly through my own stubborn doggedness; I never gave up, having been possessed by the demonic grace that permitted me to hurl abuse at beauty without shame-- that is to say, to speak truth to power.
But my success is also attributable to the challenge I represented to these women, at whom I took remorseless aim with my savagely unhinged tongue. They felt a need to restore the equilibrium of the universe as they knew it, and since I was the disturber of their universe, they could only effect this change by submitting to my imperious assault. Since I represented everything that they feared and loathed in the world, they found it necessary to forfeit their pride and allow me-- the very one who'd temporarily burst the dam protecting them from their subconscious anxieties of mortality and loss of power and control-- access to the most intimate recesses of their bodies and souls.
Another way to come to terms with this phenomenon is to acknowledge that within every woman-- even, and perhaps even especially, within every beautiful woman-- there exists a desire to be treated brutally; that all women, maybe even particularly the lovely ones, secretly despise flattery and hunger to be put in their place. Maybe the crueler-hearted the woman (and cruelty accompanies beauty as a stench follows death), the greater the corresponding desire to be one-upped.
Whatever the case may be, I never found any lack of drive, any dearth of passion, among these haughty "taken" beauties, once I brought them back to my motel room and intensified my attack from the verbal to the physical level. I don't claim to be any sort of master of technique; indeed, the first couple of times, I scarcely knew what I was doing. Still, there was no absence of screaming, moaning, and gasping on their part. The release they found, in fact, always seemed to border on positive hysterics. They truly lost control, truly plunged into ecstasy, truly exploded all over; it was a sight to behold. I myself, however, never climaxed in their presence. For this reason, they couldn't help but feel one-upped afterwards. They had bared themselves in every way, yet had failed to get to my core. I tipped them over the edge into oblivion, into the frightening depths of pleasure... and once our ferocious coupling was finished, I dismissed them with barely another word. Yet they never protested my perfunctory brusqueness; instead, they slunk out like guilty children nursing a secret.
Yet even then, my brutality had not reached its limit. My master stroke hadn't yet been enacted...
Before the lady of the evening had left my presence, I would take advantage of an opportune time to steal a glance into her purse or pocketbook, wherein I would find her driver's license, which of course would contain her name and home address. A short time later, from a remote location, I would call the phone number that accompanied the name and address listing in the White Pages. If a woman's voice answered, I would hang up, then call back a short time later. When I first got a man's voice, I would ask, "Is ___ your wife/girlfriend?"
After a tense pause, the man would answer, "Yes, she is... who the fuck is this?" or something similar. (A man always cusses to compensate when his gut tells him he's about to suffer a sucker punch to the ego.) I'd always wince at this, feeling sorry for the poor guy, before going forward. I would say, "Ask your wife/girlfriend what happened in Room ___ of the ___ Motel last Friday night."
"What?" he would then all but yell. "Who the fuck is this? Just what are you implying, pal? I oughta--"
"Just ask her, sir," I would break in, politely but firmly. "Ask her to tell you the truth. No lies, no games. You have been cuckolded, sir. Your woman is a whore."
Then I'd hang up, chuckling dryly. Mission accomplished.