He’s standing at the edge of my bed, looking around, while I’m lying there in my quiet repose in my panties with that smirk on my face. We’re both drunk, which is what should be expected, but he’s not too drunk to notice the machine gun that’s mounted on my wall. I always forget this when I’m luring prey into my trap. I always forget about the machine gun, which is always (for a moment) so enticing and so beautiful as it is mounted above my books and candles.
“Woah, what is that?” he asks. He always asks that. The anonymous he is always asking about the gun on my wall, and I’m always forgetting about it as I clamber around and play second fiddle to the killing machine that is overcoming my overwhelming sexuality at exactly this moment.
“Oh…oh, that,” I reply, tugging the edges of the blankets around me, feeling naked in the presence of pure killing force. I always forget that I own a gun, and even when we’re drunk, it’s still there. It’s still leering at us from the wall as we strip down to our skivvies. It’s giving him a moment of pause, a second of self doubt as he slips under the covers with me and looks at the gun on my wall. Shit.
I am challenging his masculinity with this gun on my wall. With the knife in my purse. With this look on my face. He is doubting his presence here, because a boy among guns that do not belong to him is a dubious place to be. Who am I. Why have I brought him here. Am I dangerous? A threat? A predator? Sexual or homicidal? I can tell that in instant I have been vaunted from mere sexual object into the status of demonic, deranged and dangerous. I am a woman with a gun at my grasp, and he is merely there, moaning on top of me, hoping to live up to my expectations because if he doesn’t live up to my expectations, will I shoot him? Or, if I don’t shoot him, who am I planning to shoot with my gun? Why do I have a gun? Why are we both drunk in my room, and I have a gun, and we’re supposed to be fucking, but for that flash second all he can think about is the fact that I have a gun. And what the fuck does that mean.
He lets it go eventually, and we fuck, and he leaves. The gun stays on my wall, and I stay in bed. And I feel secure and self confident while he goes out into the ether, unarmed and unguarded in the face of so many women who have the means and the self sufficiency with which to kill whatever beasts cross their path. I am one of those women, and he is wondering if he was one of those men who is deserving of a bullet in his heart for his multiple misdeeds.