First degree crime

A gore movie was what brought our atoms together. No collision had ever given off as much energy as that big bang that gave birth to this uncertainty called life.
Rob Zombie was the director of choice, it was our first date, the bottom of our glasses looked like cheesecloth because the beer had already dried on them. The smell of tobacco permeated every space in my room. Your red cheeks told me that the barley and hops were already taking effect. I kept my sanity, but my longing to touch your lips increased like the temperature in my body.

Your carmine nails began to touch my neck, it seemed that you would take the initiative in this erotic game that we both wanted to play. However, I didn't want to make any of the moves of a Don Juan, it was not my total pleasure to put in your neurons the perception that in my life you were just another adventure. My intentions were pure, I wanted to disembowel your soul like the murderer to his victim in this movie that we watched without observing. I could feel your breath in my ear. I could sense your hunger for blood and you could smell my fear, my fear of ruining this bloody evening. I was a martyr in the clutches of a love mogul. You cornered me in my own bed. I felt that behind my mirror Zombie, Von Trier or Gaspar Noé were filming a lioness trying to devour a lamb sadistically, crudely and violently.

Time stood still when you drank the blood from my lips in that first kiss, the murderess had stabbed the first stab and you knew that after that stab your thirst for hemoglobin would grow more. I fearfully waited for the director of our tape to yell “cut” at our crime scene. You ripped my shirt, that was the second stab (you had cut through my intestines). In your gaze I could see that you were not finished with me yet, you wanted to continue pleasuring yourself with your victim. When you had me naked, I was already in agony, my attempts to survive this night had been in vain. I was inert in my own bed, bleeding to death with eroticism, love and pleasure. And you embraced me, as if I were the trophy of your crime committed.

Dawn came, the scene was over, the crime scene had only the smell of tobacco and alcohol. When I opened my eyes you were getting dressed, putting away all that pale weaponry that one night before had finished me off. With a smile on your merciless mouth you managed to tell me in your synthesized voice, “at 8:30 I'll see you at my house”. Between my subnormal thoughts and in automatic mode I answer you with a lot of confidence “I'll see you there, tonight the beers are on me”. You close the door and leave leaving the crime committed in the past. I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror and between my thoughts I think, “tonight the murder is on me”.

Photographers: subway rat