One shot is all I needed. One shot is all he ever gave me. Just one shot.

I am a self-proclaimed light-weight. One shot would do me in. It was always enough to make me tipsy. I had been known to do more than one, but I can’t tell you much about those nights. They aren’t a memory for me, just a tall-tale my closest friends rehash whenever possible. Especially when I least expect or want to hear it; when my parents or a new boyfriend are around, for example.

He was my senior by twenty years. His eyes were steely grey and his hair matched, but he definitely wasn’t old. I know old, and he wasn’t. Our romps under the covers were evidence of that. His name was Alex. Alexander the Great was what I called him, occasionally. I’ll let you figure out why.

This night was not an ordinary night, it was my birthday. Well, to the vast majority of human-kind, that meant nothing, but to me, it was special. Alex and I had gone out. He took me to a fabulous dinner. Chez something or another was the name of the restaurant. He ordered: medallions, broccoli with hollandaise, potato with all the toppings, and of course, that shot. This time it was Brandy. We’d moved up from Whiskey and Vodka. No ordinary Brandy, something he knew the name of, and I couldn’t pronounce, and it was lit on fire too.

It felt good going down. It was my first time, with fire. I’ve grown used to it by now, but that night was special, and the fire still stands out. Fiery would be good description of the night in general. He ordered a flaming desert too, and, unfortunately, had them sing to me. The wait staff sang some non-traditional song of happy birthday. It was sad. But at least their voices were clear, in tone, and the clapping along helped, a bit.

So there we were, done with an amazing, overwhelming, and frankly, exhausting dinner. I was ready for bed; bed with sleep, period. He wasn’t done with me yet, though, and bed was just a dream. Next we hit the dance floor.

My idea of dancing involves cheap linoleum or plastic lighted floors, loud music, flashing lights, and a deep bass to use for the beat. His idea involved hardwood floors and a five piece orchestra. We waltzed, rumbaed, and fox trotted. After about an hour I fell exhausted into his arms and our dance turned into a slow, seductive, snuggle on the dance floor.

His breath against my ear and neck began to have its effect. Goose-bumps formed, well, almost everywhere. I felt safe, loved, secure, and I began to trust him.

My error.

He grasped my hand firmly and drew me toward the exit.

“One more shot?” I suggested.

“Not tonight, darling.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue. It’s not like I didn’t want to go home with him, or hadn’t before. We had gone back to his place many times. It was always good. But this time was different. I don’t know if it was my desire to have the night last forever, or my fear of my growing feelings for him, but it was definitely different.

I followed him. He led me out the door to the waiting limo. He opened the door, but I hesitated. His eyes glistened reflecting the moonlight. He brushed the hair away from my cheek and kissed it. His fingers traced my neck so softly that I barely felt the flesh of his fingers. It seemed it was more of a whisper touching me. Waves of excitement, anticipation, and pleasure covered my skin.

“I want to go home.” I said, hoping to run from my feelings.

“Not tonight, darling.” He said, and smiled. Suddenly it seemed like his teeth glowed. Maybe it was more of that moonlight, or my wooziness, but it was the strangest thing I’d ever seen. It looked like his teeth were ultra-white and he was standing under a black light.

“I really want to go home.” I tried again.

“Darling,” he responded; a firm, seductive, whisper. His voice frightened me.

Hypnotized I didn’t argue, instead I obeyed. Sitting in the back of the limo he wrapped me up in his arms. I pulled a bottle out of the bar and two shot glasses. He took the bottle from my hand and returned it.

“One shot is enough, darling.” He said.

He followed me up to his loft. I undressed and slid between the black 800 thread count sheets. Satin had nothing on these. His hands traced my curves, settling on my thighs, while his lips settled on mine. That feeling, the strange sensation of my skin rippling returned. I wasn’t sure if it was the one shot or the food or the dancing or his natural charm, but it was unsettling. Still, his soft warm lips on mine comforted me. His fingers found their way between my slender thighs creating a rush of warmth and wetness. His pleasure was evident.

I opened my usually shut eyes and watched his silver head slowly work its way to my breasts. My pleasure was unsurpassed at that moment, and I squeezed my legs together trapping his traveling fingers. I watched, as if outside of myself, and the depth of my desire grew with each passing moment.

Our passions progressed, as one would expect, for a while, until the unexpected happened. As he penetrated me, the usual way, he kissed my neck in a most unusual way. His teeth pierced my neck at the exact moment I succumbed to the pleasure he had inspired, and everything I knew began to slip away.

Extraordinary wouldn’t begin to suffice to describe that orgasm. Perhaps astonishing, amazing, remarkable, exceptional, or magnificent would come closer, but then, I digress.

And at that moment, when I felt everything slipping away: my heart lost, my soul melting, my mind decided to fight back. One shot, it turned out, was not enough. I tried to move, but couldn’t. I pushed his shoulders with all my strength. Nothing happened; he didn’t budge.

Slowly, what little strength I had left, I felt draining away. I reached for my purse next to the bed, buried under my clothes. I felt around until I found it, the gun I always carried. I tried again, weakly, to wriggle free, but in a panic, pointed the gun in his ribs, and pulled the trigger.

He released my neck. The blood dripping from his mouth was probably mine, but, I imagined it was his, like in the movies. They always bleed out of their mouths in the movies. He stared at me, grey eyes, shocked, hurt, and then blank. Moments before he collapsed on me, I rolled off the edge of the bed and watched him fall face first on the pillow. Blood oozed.

I shoved the gun back in my purse, hastily pulled on my clothes and ran. Somehow I ended up at home and in the shower. Everything in between was a blur.

Then I waited. Someone would find him. Someone would come looking for me. Someone would find out what I did, and then, how could I possibly convince them that I had to. Was it possible anyone would believe me? Of course not.

Monday I had to return to work. Everything seemed normal. I felt like everyone was staring at my neck, but the truth was, it didn’t show. Paranoia began to take hold. Every day I hurried about, kept my head down, and waited. Weeks passed and fear’s chokehold gave way to guilty terror and the need to relieve it. I hit the bar.