Just Kidding Around

The well-drained bottle stood on the night table, beside it their two drained glasses from last night. He lay on the bed, naked, splendidly masculine. The early morning light escaping tentatively through the folds of the sheer window draperies illuminated his taut, muscular form. How she’d wanted him. With, it seemed to her, an urgency never before experienced. Something special about this guy and she had been so certain of his response.

She raised herself, resting on an elbow. Watched his slow regular breathing, chest rising in regular motions emphasizing that depression between stomach and chest. She reached over, stroked his groin area. No response. She leaned over him, kissed his forehead. Then slipped her face down over his, leaving kisses along the way. He groaned slightly, turned on his side and she sat up.

She padded over to the bathroom, and back. Insinuated herself beside him, spooned her form into his and gyrated. He mumbled something about feeling hellish. Screw that, she told herself. She turned back to face him, nuzzled his chin. No response. A little playful game might help, she told herself. She slid off the bed and passed into her kitchen. A little jab, she said to herself, selecting one of the knives in the drawer. That would make him sit up. They’d laugh, a joke. He would find it amusing, he would tease her for the level of her determination.

She’d loved it when a former lover had whispered to her how mad he was for her ‘raven’ hair. Now that was odd, made him kind of stand out since most of the men she’d been with hadn’t hesitated to rave about her breasts, her long, curved legs, her satiny-smooth skin. There was even once, briefly, a foot fetishist. She adored having a lover cup her breasts, her buttocks, get really hot beyond self-control. She liked the variety every bit as much as men did, and why shouldn’t she?

She’d known women that even she had admired. And those women were so uncertain of themselves, so enfeebled by the thought that no one would love them for anything but their physical perfection. They wanted to be appreciated for other things. They envisaged themselves being abandoned once youth had lapsed. She’d known others who hadn’t cared, just concerned with making the most of what they had while they had it.

She was in neither camp. She had abundant self-confidence. She was more than prepared to live life her way. Didn’t look forward to anyone telling her how that way should be. It didn’t bother her one iota that there were no marriage prospects, since she wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship. She’d had lovers who were, and who were clearly disappointed to discover their aspirations weren’t met by hers. What did bother her was that, now in her mid-30s, she had to face the fact that there would be fewer modelling assignments coming her way.

Not that she looked her age; anything but. She was graceful, slim, her skin endowed still with that dewy freshness that exemplified youth. The hair, her gleaming black hair, it was the only traitor. When she brushed it back off her forehead, off the sides of her head, she noted emerging grey. She’d hardly visualized having to colour her hair so soon, and she resented that.

He was obviously younger than her. After he’d revealed his age - a casual revelation relating to his recent MBA graduation, she just let him go on thinking her age matched his. She’d never before met a man with thick, curling eyelashes, wavy dark hair against a dark, smooth complexion and perfectly symmetrical facial features. He seemed as casually unaware of the effect his appearance had on others as she tried so hard to project, herself.

First time she’d seen him there, and she’d been there often enough. Often enough that she felt comfortable, relaxed about approaching him. Gratified to see the usual response lighting his eyes. They talked, shared a few more drinks, and she invited him to her apartment. They walked, it wasn’t all that far, and it was a pleasant, early fall evening. There was a cooling breeze, they kicked dried leaves off the path as they entered the park close to her apartment. She remembered talking about her regret at leaving university, even though at the time she felt it was the right thing to do for herself.

He was easy to talk to, didn’t seem to feel at all awkward, as so many guys did, being with someone like her. They always, at first, treated her like a porcelain doll. As though they couldn’t believe their luck, picking up this dish. Gloating at envious glances. Other guys watching them as they left. Where to? Well, mostly back to her apartment.

It was a nice apartment, in a good part of town. But then money was no object. Apart from what she earned there was always her family; father to be precise. Her mother constantly worried about her daughter’s finances, knowing nothing of her former husband's generosity. She always told her mother that her finances were her own business and she divulged nothing about her savings, let alone what her social life was like.

Her mother hadn’t exactly been the very best mentor. At least that’s what her father had always hurled at her mother. As though she’d have been different if her exposure to her parents’ lives had been different. Fact was, they knew absolutely nothing about her, and she preferred it that way.

All those years, oblivious to her needs as a kid, now they’re suddenly there when they’re no longer needed. Her father sending those regular guilt-assuaging cheques. Her mother’s irritating calls to tell her how lonely she was. Guess the young studs weren’t quite as available. Move in with her? Not likely, not bloody likely.

“But dear, you don’t have to work!” her mother complained. "You don't have to live there."

“But Mother, I love my work. Why would I give it up?”

“Virginia, you love being noticed, you love flaunting yourself. Modelling isn’t the only way you can achieve that satisfaction”.

Now that infuriated her, that her mother would make the assumption that what motivated her also did her daughter. There was more to her than that. She had a brain, she could think for herself, make responsible decisions. Unlike her mother whom her father always upbraided for being a brainless twit.

Besides which, she’d had a tutor in personal relationships, one who took an interest in her. Who’d given her that encouraging start in making choices. She was thirteen when her father raged and threatened her mother over her truly stupid indiscretions. He’d never bothered when she slept around with men he didn’t know. It seemed to bother him when she had had a month-long fling with the son of one of his business partners.

Uncle Geoff made her feel a whole lot better. About herself. About everything, all the shit that went down in her life. He was really good about it. She was the one in control, not him. If she said stop, or not now, he'd never press her.

It was only natural he’d be the one she would call.

“Geoff, it’s something awful, horrible, I don’t even know how to tell you”, she babbled, words running together.

“Gilly” he said, in that cool detached way he had, “pull yourself together. I can hear you’re in trouble, but I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happened. Try again. Talk slowly, take a big breath, and get everything together”, he ordered in his sane way. The kind of controlled saneness that got him where he sat today, a government bigwig.

She shuddered, forced back her panic, breathed heavily, and sighed relief. “Right”, she said. “I’ll give it a go”. And she explained in rushed sentences, with pauses between each, to give her time to put her thoughts together, trying to inform him in such a manner that he might not outright condemn her for stupidity.

“Geoff, I’ve got this guy in my bed. I invited him. I really liked him. I was preparing for a good time. We were going to have really great sex. And we did, we had a great time… You know… ” Her long pause brought an encouraging response.

“All right, Gilly, so what’s wrong? What happened? He’s still there?”

“Yes. Yes, he is. He’s still here. He … he’s dead, Geoff”.

“Dead? What do you mean? Some young guy, and he’s dead? What happened?”

“I … I … I don’t know how to say this, Geoff. It was an accident, I can’t remember how it happened. I had this knife, see, and I thought I would just fool around, prod him with it. He was lying in my bed, doing nothing. I couldn’t get him aroused. I was confused, Geoff.”

“Confused?” Ginny, you were pissed off? Were you drinking?”

“Yes, that’s it. We were drinking. We met in that pub over the way, you know, the one I took you to last time you were here?”

“Okay, Gin, take it easy, you’re starting to sound a little hysterical. What happened?”

“What … happened? I guess I kind of lost it. I don’t remember, but that must have been what happened.”

“Lost it. All right. You were angry-drunk. You’re sure he’s dead? Did you try to take a pulse?”

“He’s dead! I know he is … he’s dead. What do I do?”

“Now listen carefully, Ginny. I’m not sure what happened with you. And it’s fairly clear that you don’t quite know either. You were drunk, not in full possession of your faculties. That’s kind of extenuating … circumstances.”

“Yes!”, she sobbed. “I don’t know what happened, I really liked the guy. I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was like that knife had a life of its own. I just meant to kind of poke it at him, gently, you know? I did, I just touched him with it. He sat up, looked at me with those big deer eyes, I could see he was fearful. Geoff, that made me feel kind of good, seeing him like that. I guess I must’ve just kept going.”

“Kept going? You mean you really stabbed him. Where?”

“Um, oh God, this is horrible, I can’t take it. This is killing me”, she sobbed.

“Where, Ginny, where did you stab him? Get yourself together. C’mon, let’s hear it.”

“In … in his chest. I guess in his chest. Maybe a little lower down, too. More than once, you know?”

“I see. Now listen to me, listen carefully. You’ve said you don’t remember.”

“Yes, I don’t, not really. I must’ve blanked out for a minute or two. When I came to, I saw him lying there, blood oozing. He wasn’t breathing. His chest was absolutely still. His eyes were still open. He still looked scared. It was horrible. It is horrible, he’s still there!”, she lapsed again into sobs.

“Ginny, now listen. First thing, don’t touch anything. Leave everything the way it is. Leave him alone, don’t touch him.”

“As though I would! I couldn’t touch him if I wanted to!”, she cried.

“Ginny, stop that. You can’t afford to be hysterical. Here’s what I want you to do. Call 911.”

“911?”

“Yes, just as soon as you’re off the phone with me. I’ll be coming … no, I can’t. You can’t let it be known that you spoke with me. You’ve got to let it appear as though the first thing you did when you became totally aware of what happened, his condition ... that you dialled emergency. Call them, and it’s all right if you sound a little out of it when you do, because that’s understandable. Under the circumstances.”

“All right Geoff, I’ll do that. And then what do I do, what do I tell them?”

“You’ll tell them everything, everything you told me. Emphasize your grief. Make certain they’re aware of your … innocence of intent. That it was an accident. You're utterly distraught, contrite, horribly upset. That you hadn’t intended to kill the guy. He’s nude, you said?”

“Yes, he is, yes. We were making love. Only it didn’t happen. That’s why, I guess … “

“Never mind that!” he said sharply. Don’t speculate about why you reacted as you did. Just describe the situation. The knife, where was it? In the kitchen? Say you brought it into the bedroom for a practical purpose.”

“Practical? Like to use it for something else? Like kind of to pry the cork out of a wine bottle kind of?”

“That’s my girl! That’ll do nicely. That’s your story. Got it?”

“Yes, I’ve got it. Geoff, thanks. You know I wouldn’t go to anyone else for advice. Geoff, it’s horrible. I must be a monster to have done something like that! I feel awful. He’s got parents, he’s only a kid, he’s only 20. What’ll I say to them?”

“One thing at a time, kiddo. Just play it as it goes. First call emergency. Then you’ll have to deal with the police. There’s plenty of time before you’ll have to face his parents. That’ll likely occur in court.”

“Court? In court?”

“Ginny, there’ll be a trial. Sorry kid, but you’ll have to go through with that. There’s no way this can be covered up. Someone’s dead. You killed the guy. But ... there’s extenuating circumstances, you’ve got to play that card.”

“Yes, right”, she said.