There weren’t many bathrooms that could bring about the same enveloping, luxurious calm as the one at Jade Vine. I had visited this marble-tiled room many times in my life—a handful of which I spent in the backmost stall, with my fingers knuckle-deep in Cassandra, Amanda, Winona… Whichever woman it was that had most recently crossed my path and caught my fancy.

I had good memories of this place. Powerful ones. Just being in it reminded me of wealth and sex and everything else that fulfilled that hedonistic hunger that had plagued me since childhood. That compulsion that got me to just grab and take—with force, if possible. Using force was better. It was good. And it satiated that hunger.

As I stood over the sink, the bathroom counters shone like a goddamn mirror. They were optimal for snorting crushed pills and fine powders. For looking yourself in the eye the moment before you ceased to recognize who you were. 

They were also good for mounting women. The only way to view a woman was from below, after you lifted her onto that sham pedestal so she towered over you, her chest at head level where you could see it swell with her every breath of excitement. See it and know you had just forged in her a false sense of adoration, and a very real sense of longing. The view from below was ironically empowering.

My accumulation of conquests has grown over the years, and from them all I learned one thing: all women like to be handled. But they also like to be treated like queens. They seek men who can effortlessly carry them in their arms and lift them onto a table, throw them over their shoulder or pin them to the ground. Beneath the facade of every strong-willed woman is a creature yearning to be put into submission.

A lot of men are scared to admit they have this knowledge, this power. They let political correctness bastardise the laws of nature. The delusional idea of the strong, independent woman strips men of their full potential. It’s a tragedy how modern man lets himself be overpowered by the false construct of feminism.

It was because of this that I had to dominate with a little subtlety, in a way that a woman could discern only exaltation even as I subjugated her. And when she realized that things weren’t as they appeared, it would be too late. She’d be finished, and I’d be gone.

The jewellery box was light and smooth in my hand. I slipped it out of my pocket and snapped it open. The pearls nestled inside were strung so tightly that the necklace resembled a clunky chain rather than an elegant string, though this just added distinction to the piece. It was an unusual feature that would give Cindy the illusion of being special—a feeling that women like her were hungry for. I took the necklace out of the box and unclasped it so the pearls hung limply, catching dull reflections of light. I gave myself a onceover in the mirror before heading back out. My amber eyes reflected a fiery determination.

Approaching Cindy from behind gave me a vague thrill. She couldn’t see me coming; I was, for those brief moments, in control of what would happen to her next. My breath quickened as I stood behind her, admiring the abundance of lustrous hair that hung between the smooth skin of her shoulder blades. I raised the necklace over her head and around her neck. Her shoulders jerked in surprise, and I smiled as I tightened the string. The clasp clicked into place with the snick of a folding knife being flipped shut.

Cindy’s fingers traveled delicately to her throat, running the pearls between her fingers. “Artie, are you serious?” she asked in wonderment, twisting in her chair to look up at me. “I didn’t get you anything!”

I towered over her with a proud smirk on my face. I’d gotten the reaction I wanted: complete awe and admiration.

“Thank you,” she took my hand and squeezed it. “I’ll make it up to you.” She looked at me suggestively and gestured to my empty seat. “Why don’t we start with this fancy lunch and see where it takes us?”

Women who felt indebted to men were more obliging when it came to just about anything. My pleasure deepened at the thought that I had created that obligation in Cindy.

As I sat down, she still gazed at me with mild disbelief. “You know, when I met you in Sydney I never thought I’d end up sitting in a place like this with this thing around my neck.” She chuckled.

I raised my eyebrows and looked her in the eye, prompting her to elaborate.

“I mean, we met at a medical conference. On the ‘challenges of the aging population,’” she continued with an eyeroll. “I’m a dermatologist! Watching out for wrinkles and skin cancer is pretty much my main duty to the elderly. Most of my patients younger than 50. Honestly, I only went so I could have an excuse to spend thousands on a trip to Australia.”

I laughed in complete agreement. I understood the power of an ulterior motive, how it drove people to do unwise and questionable things. I was familiar with the allure. It was by my desire and design, after all, that my seemingly serendipitous meeting with Cindy took place. And with the way she chattered on thoughtlessly, she clearly had no idea that she’d been in my sights long before we met.