I hit him. I balled up my fist and hit him square in the sniffer. I’ve always said that if I had the chance, if I were ever in the perfect time and at the perfect place, I would punch Billy Sharp just once and make it count for everything. It didn’t happen that way, though, and you know what they say; once is never enough. I wish I could say it was only twice or thrice but no, it was many, many more than that. I regret nothing.
It is bad enough that I am in certain company and that tossing a table in an attempt to murder what would appear to be an innocent man with my four-inch stiletto would be entertaining, but poor form. Still, the moment alone in my head with a mental movie of him screaming in agony with my Jimmy Choo treasure sticking out of his left eye and the toe of my shoe keeping time with his tuneful yelping is almost hysterical. I actually fight the urge to laugh out loud, lest it give the douche the idea I was happy to see him. Yet here I am, with a spoonful of crème brûlée frozen halfway to my lips and that motherfucker standing there in front of me smug and sporting a smirk.
The crème brûlée needs work, but it dampened the dangerous tinny gall that filled my mouth. Wiping my lips delicately on the cloth napkin, I stand, giving the fellas to each side a glance at the skull-and-roses embossed nylons I wear. They don’t match my business attire but c’est la guerre. I don’t care what they see as I return Billy’s smirk with a grin. I don’t even mind the feather touch of a warm palm sliding along my inner thigh as I step around to the other side of the table and punch that dicksicle in the face with every ounce of coiled rage I possess. One punch. Make it count. I ring his bell hard enough to make him stagger backwards into a chair.
The first hit hurt my hand and broke his nose. I felt it crunch under my knuckles like eggshells, and admittedly, I liked the way Billy had squealed in surprise. Like a stuck pig. Fucker didn’t see it coming and how could he? He was so busy watching himself in the reflection of the coffee shop window to realize my fist was hurtling towards his handsome face.
I can hear the muted voices of several of my cohorts, ranging from stunned gasps to aroused horror. I like it. He collapses into the chair, then to the ground like a sack of hammers and I land as hard on his chest with my fist still pumping like a piston. I like that too. The horrified sounds are amusing and the melon thunk of my fist in his face feeds that ragefire in my stomach that I couldn’t mange to drown before. This current activity makes me wonder if I should join a boxing club. It feels so good that I hit him again. And again. And again. And again.
Billy’s squeal of shock turns into a dismayed cry, then a choked moan that punctuates each wet smack. He begs mulishly for me to stop and I do, for a few seconds; for a fraction of a heartbeat, and in an intake of breath, I actually considered ceasing, dropping my fist to my side while he sobs my name but he reached up and squeezed my ample tit with a gurgly chortle. Another old but apt principle, an object in motion stays in motion; my arm swung forward.
My favorite red stiletto heel was embedded into his left eye and it did in fact slap in time with the gyrating and writhing Billy was doing. It was an oddly tuneful song that I didn’t find offensive in the least.
I know what you are wondering and the answer is no. I feel nothing more than absurdly horny and that carnal hunger intensifies every time I hear that thud-slap. I should feel something, other than the urge to get myself off on his bruised and battered lips. Considering who he is, it’s ridiculous that I even register that desire. Still, he was good for something at one time, in some way. At least at the start, the sex was unfuckingbelievable. Billy was heroin and I needed a fix. I wanted him constantly and he was more than capable of providing, then.
But after the newness rubbed off, his wandering eye came alive and was down the cleavage of every woman from late teen to fiftyish. If not there, then his virtual hand was down the gusset of each said female he made contact with. Even with me stand there feeling the fool. That son of a cunt practically panted when the neighbor’s nubile seventeen year old granddaughter came to visit and to cut the lawn. He stood at the side window rubbing at his crotch and sweating while he watched her push the mower in her short shorts and bikini top. Then came the punishments for crimes I hadn’t committed. Finally, through some kind of divine intervention or because I suddenly grew a set of balls and a backbone, I ran from him and emerged from Hell into freedom and into a new kind of fear. Battered, I had to rebuild the temple of Me from foundations.
I survived and vowed that one punch. Once for all.
My hand hurts badly, and it throbs like my starving sex for relief. Billy’s face is a pulpy patchwork of blood, eyes and teeth and shoe. He’s quite repulsive and my desire to fuck him while cutting his throat had mostly passed. Thankfully. One place Billy Sharp will never be is inside of me again. In any way.
The voices are louder now and I sense another male close but far enough out of reach of my one track mind and aggressive fists. “You’ve proven your point. End it or compose yourself. They are watching,” a familiar voice stated in a cold, understanding tone that contrasts sharply with the heat of fingers playing along my spine like a xylophone. He is right and from my bra, I pull a small handled, sharpened spoon that had been a gift from an old friend. I made it dance in front of Billy’s remaining frightened eye.
“You loved seeing me suffer didn’t you, fucktard? Guess what Billy? I’m sharing the favor. You’ll never have a woman again, unless she’s blind.”
Oh, he knows then and bucks his bulk around under me, hoping to knock me loose, or judging from his hard-on, trying to ram his dick up inside of me. He couldn’t even decide between sex and self-preservation. What an idiot. I have very strong thighs and he failed. I did, however, extract my pound of flesh, so to speak, and composed myself while bidding my colleagues adieu. His eye I left floating in the glass of bourbon he had been sipping when I made good on my vow. Sadly for Billy, no amount of skin grafts can fix the ugly face that now matchs his ugly soul.
That was five years ago today. I’ve been in hiding since the jury exonerated me and for good reason. His family resents me and I their reasoning, sort of. I’d feel worse if I didn’t know the apple was rotten inside long before it fell from the tree. I had a long hard laugh over my coffee this morning when I read that he that he had blown his head off in the night during rush hour traffic. What a fucking drama queen.
“My goodness people are crazy in those big cities!” Ginny, my waitress exclaims as she refills my coffee cup, “I feel sad for him though, Eloisa. He must have been miserable.” She smiles into my eyes with her innocent glazed stare focusing on my own with a fire I hadn’t seen in a long time. She would make a sweet treat for my tongue later. I feel my smile widen and I chortle with delight at her stunned and pleased expression as my hand slips under her uniform and strokes the cleft of her perfect ass, “I hope so Ginny, darlin. I sure do hope so.”
Ah. Sometimes you can get some satisfaction.