Warning: Explicit language and gore.


"Vorarephilia: a sexual fetish and paraphilia where arousal occurs from the idea of being eaten, eating another, observing this process, or by the general process of eating."

It's a fetish impossible to achieve in real life. At least, that's what a news article told me, one written by a famous detective. He really shouldn't make such boasts, however, because here I am, a living, breathing example proving him wrong.

"Sure is fuckin' dark out tonight, huh?" says a voice from the passenger's seat. "I think it's a full moon, too."

With one hand on the wheel and the other out the window holding a cigarette, I look into the sky and don't answer. After exhaling smoke, coming to a stop at a red light, I switch off the radio. Trevor—at least, I think that's what he said his name was—takes this as a sign to keep talking. The pig thinks words will help him get into my pants, but all his dinner-bell does is make my stomach rumble.

"You know what they say about full moons, right?" he asks, resting his head back and looking at me. "They say bitches go crazy on full moons."

"Crazy, huh?" I flick ashes from my smoke. "What kind of crazy?"

He laughs and turns to the window, sips from a flask of booze he found that I had stashed in my glove box. "Is there a fuckin' difference?"

Mother always told me I shouldn't play with my food, but on nights like tonight, with such a tasty morsel sitting beside me, it's impossible to keep my tongue still.

"Of course there's a difference." Glancing at him, I suppress the urge to devour his cherry-red lips. "There's the hardcore stuff, like sociopaths, schizophrenics, or people with multiple personality disorders. Then there's the mild cases, like low self-esteemed drama-queens, stalkers, or attention whores. And then there's the special kind of crazy, the worst kind of crazy, that doesn't fall into any of those categories."

"Oh, yeah?" He sits up, interested. "And which one are you, sugar?"

"We'll just say I fall into that miscellaneous one."

He leans closer, and the aroma of his cologne makes my mouth water. "Well, consider me lucky, honey. I love myself some crazy bitches. They always taste the best."

"Oh, you have no idea." Grinning, I toss my cigarette out the window as the light turns green. "But, honestly, who are we to decide what's crazy and what isn't? Who's to say insanity isn't an enlightened way of thinking? An altered state of consciousness most people don't have the intelligence or the patience to understand? A logic attained by only a chosen few? Perhaps it's the next step in evolution—natural selection of the mind."

He scoffs, tilts his head, and gulps down more drink. "Oh, come on. Don't get all philosophical on me now, sugar."

I turn down a dark, one-lane highway littered with potholes and puddles. The sound of crickets and frogs is louder than the wind rushing through the windows. Melaleuca and cattails shed an earthly odor, and I feel the surrounding swamp will swallow us alive.

Spine tingling, that thought reminds me of my approaching feast. It's why I wore my best dress, applied my best make-up, and swam in my candy-apple perfume. After all, I want to look my finest when dining out. The lovelier I am, the better the catch, and Trevor is quite the looker with those blueberry gumdrop eyes.

He'll go down easy.

"Well, I mean, if you really think about it," I say, "what I might see as normal another person may think is deranged. The definition of insanity, or psychosis, is an abnormal condition of the mind. This is where you ask yourself if there truly is a normal condition of the mind. Though the differences are subtle, everyone has a unique opinion for any given situation. If the normal answer is the one, true correct answer, that means everyone else is wrong. They're abnormal. Insane. So does that mean there's only one person in this entire world that isn't insane? Could you imagine that responsibility?"

"Is this really the shit you worry about in your spare time?" Sounds like he lacks the ability to provide a compelling argument. "Fuck, maybe you are crazy."

"I prefer the term 'thinker'."

My eyes voraciously sweep the horizon, searching for a clearing in the brush to take us off-road. Trevor told me back at the bar he doesn't mind fucking in the backseat of a car, so I take his order to heart. Considering his appetite, I doubt he'll make a fuss no matter where we end up.

A dinner table's just a dinner table, after all. It's the food that sets the mood.

"Speaking of crazy, this'll be right up your alley, honey." He rests his hand on my thigh, eyelids drooping and head rolling, veins marinating with tainted alcohol. "Have you heard the rumors about that new serial killer? They're comparing the sick fuck to Hannibal Lector."

"Really?" I feign surprise and turn down a dirt road. "What've you heard about him?"

We leave behind the lights of society, and the darkness bites. Trevor doesn't care; he's too busy kneading my thighs and glazing my neck with kisses. I notice his strokes become clumsier with each passing second, losing his lady-killer precision. The drugs I sprinkled in his drink must be taking effect; his common-sense simmers, logic boiling over.

I shiver when his teeth graze my cheek. I close my eyes and picture them puncturing my skin, mouthful after mouthful gobbled down his throat. Heart racing, fingers twitching, I pull the car over. Coming to a stop, I cut the engine, and my stomach gurgles.

This silence is a cold, tasteless appetizer.

"Well, sweetheart, I've heard a lot of things about him." Trevor's words slur. "I read some article by a detective trying to find him."

His lips brush my earlobe. I lean closer, mouth watering, eyes intent on his lean, muscular forearm. That's where I'll start first. Licking my lips, I hold my breath and start counting. I can't indulge yet; the table still needs to be prepped. Pulling away from Trevor is difficult, but mother's advice helps; she always said how important it is to fully cook my food.

After all, I don't want to make myself sick.

"A detective, huh?" I ask him. "Was it Robert Wilhelm?"

The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

"That's him!" Distracted, he backs off with a smile. "He's been trying to hunt the sick motherfucker down. Says he's never in the same state for more than one murder. Doesn't leave anything behind either, just a half eaten body. The article says he eats what he can until the victims die, and then he tosses out the rest. Gets some sick fucking sexual thrill out of the whole thing, too. Fucking weirdo."

During Trevor's rambling, I reach into my mouth and remove my fake teeth, exposing a row of jagged, razor-sharp pearls. He doesn't notice; he's too busy swooning and giggling as the drugs numb his body. Pressing my index against a canine, I wince. The incisor easily pierces the skin. I take great care to keep them sharp and clean; they are my priceless silverware. Pulling my hand free, blood dribbles off my finger and onto Trevor's arm resting on my leg. My eyes lock onto that plump fillet, and I lick my lips, salivating.

I don't need to hear the chime to know when it's dinner time.

"Whoever said the killer was a he?" I growl, slowly lifting his arm to my lips.

"Come on, sugar." Trevor's blank stare follows my mouth, but he can no longer move a muscle. "Could you really see a woman eating people? That's a man's fucked up fantasy."

"A man's fucked up fantasy, you say?" Pausing, I smirk and twist his words. "To be eaten?"

Tonight I learn irony is a priceless spice.

"What?" His brow furrows, and I think he finally realizes something isn't right. "No, that's not what I said, you dumb bitch."

Serrated teeth sink into his flesh, and Trevor's eyes widen, numb to the pain but not blind to the sight. In his face I can see he wants to move, wants to slide off my dinner plate, but the effort is like trying to scale a mountain. His brain shuts off, grows fuzzy and unfeeling. Mouth twisting into a grimace, his eyes bulge as he fits the pieces of the puzzle into place.

But it's a bit too late for that.

I don't pay him any mind, for I'm too busy indulging my inner voice. Warm, red sauce seeps from the wound, and I run my tongue down his arm, chasing the savory sweetness. The sharp, stinging flavor makes me wet in more ways than one. He tastes like Tabasco, hot and lingering. Returning to the wound on his forearm, again my teeth slip inside, and I bite harder, dig deeper.

Deeper, until I have a mouthful. Deeper, until my jaws close. Deeper, until I pull my head back and chew, chew, chew.

His thick, slimy meat slides down my throat, clashes with my stomach, and holy euphoria grips me, refusing to let go.

If you ask me, he could use a bit more salt.

"What the fuck…" he gasps, head submerged in delirium. "What the fuck are you doing?"

After three more bites, chest and mouth covered with his strawberry jelly, I stop. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves, unroll my eyes from my head. The world falls back down around me, high shattered by his continued whimpers.

Poor Trevor. There he was, thinking he was going to be the one eating me, but I end that pathetic fantasy before it begins.

There's only one way I'll let a man enter me, and that's in bite-sized pieces.

"What's wrong, Trevor?" Syrup and skin dribble down my chin. "You should feel privileged; you'll be the next half-eaten asshole your beloved detective stumbles across. A breaking news story for everyone to watch. Another soul who feeds my unending hunger. It's thanks to people like you, the honey of the earth, that I stay alive. Stay sane. Feel special, morsel. Feel divine."

I lean forward, press my chest against his, and drag my lips along his neck. I leave behind a trail of marmalade, and gaze into eyes that look like hard-boiled eggs. Sneaking a hand down to Trevor's belt, slowly undoing his zipper, I grab hold of a ripe, plump sausage and flash a wicked grin.

"I wonder what this tastes like."

"Y-you wouldn't!" His breath hitches when I squeeze. "Crazy! You're fuckin' crazy!"

"Crazy?" I ask. "You know, mother used to call me crazy up until the day I ripped out her tongue and swallowed it. But even now, after all these months, I still hear her voice. Her curses. She thought I was possessed by the devil. Said my fetish was unholy and inhuman. Madness. Complete and utter madness."

Laughing, I tenderize his meat with one hand and brush his lemon-yellow hair out of his face with the other. Starting at his beltline, I drag my teeth up his chest and leave a trench of cherry pulp. His breathing quickens the closer I get to his neck.

"But if there's one thing I've learned about myself since then," I whisper in his ear, "I'm the only sane person left in this world—and the rest of you are just feed."

Surging forward, teeth sinking into his neck, I close my eyes and indulge.

A/N: This is for the Review Game's Writing Challenge Contest: October. I wanted to do something creepy for Halloween. This comes out to be 1,940 words in Microsoft Word, so Fictionpress is a liar. Just sayin'.

Don't forget to vote for your favorites!

(Revised 10/4/2011)