I'm walking down a dark street at night, alone. I'm in a deserted industrial area, wearing my sexy red dress. I'm not thinking about

A MAN GRABS ME FROM BEHIND, wrapping his hairy hand over my mouth. A gun jabs into my side and my heart starts hammering. I scream, but all that comes out is "mmk".

He's big and hormonally-specialized for muscle; I'm smaller with strategically-placed fat deposits. Physically, he easily overpowers me. He says, in a tough, threatening voice, "Here's the deal, Christina."

"mmm mmph em mmam?"

He takes his hand away from my mouth and wraps it around my neck. Now he has two different ways to kill me in a heartbeat. But at least I can talk. (I love to talk.) I pivot on my high heels to face him, his hand hurting the skin of my neck as I turn. "You know my name? Really??"

He looks down, embarrassed. "Um . . ."

"Are you stalking me?"

"Huh? I'm not a stalker. I'm . . ." I tap my foot impatiently; he again looks embarrassed. "I'm just . . . think of me as, uh, as a fan."

Oh! I'm a writer, so I like having fans. But I prefer them visiting my website, not physically overpowering me with a gun on a dark street at night. Men!

He snarls, "I can rip off your clothes, throw you to the ground, and we can have violent anal sex."

Ugh.

"Or . . ." He pauses, menacingly.

I interrupt. "Can I use that?"

"What?" He seems confused. "You want violent anal sex?"

I lightly wrist-slap his cheek. "Of course not. But a lot of my stories start with a man's fantasy. Can I use that as a short story premise?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, I guess. Go ahead and write about it, I love your stories. Anyway, violent anal sex or . . ."

Almost anything he could say next would make a good story. Nothing would surprise me.

He waves his gun at me menacingly. "Explain your website."

I didn't expect that. "Um, my short stores – all free, of course – they're erotic. But I can't really describe them."

"Are you sure? I bet your asshole is tight."

Isn't everyone's? Now a tear is coming to my eye. I don't want anal sex with this guy. Or, actually, anyone. "I'll try to describe them."

He nods his head yes and makes a motion with his gun for me to start.

"One man said he liked my stories AND they excited him. That's exactly what I want. Both. Quality stories about sex.

I hold my finger up for him to wait; I'm not done. "My stories talk about males, females, and how we interact. So I'm trying for importance too."

"Why do so many of your stories have abuse? Keep explaining, bitch."

"I love your faux-violent word choice. Is that gun really loaded?"

"Try to escape and you can find out. Do you want a bullet in your back?"

In my back?I would have written perky ass. I can see why he's just a fan. "I love writing about anything powerful. And abuse is an important topic."

He nods again. I think he's just pretending to understand, but that's probably enough to keep me off my knees. I add, "I want to help people understand men and women."

"So your stories are different."

"I think they're different." I sigh. "I can't read all of erotica, so I don't know for sure. Shoot me if you want. OH MY GOD! THAT WAS JUST A FIGURE OF SPEECH. I didn't mean it."

He presses his gun into my chest. "I thought you writers choose your words carefully."

"We also edit a lot. I can easily read my story 20 times."

"Can you write a story about me?"

"Count on it, big guy."

"Thanks."

"Help you get to sleep at night?"

It takes him a while to realize what I'm talking about. Then he blushes and says sheepishly, "Yeah. If that's okay with you."

"Of course." That's kind of the point. I point my finger into his face. "Here's the deal, my fan-slash-stalker. You are going to unwrap your beefy hand from my delicate neck. Then you are putting that gun in your pocket where it can join whatever other long, hard things happen to be in your pants."

He smirks.

"And then you can walk away. Or you can stand here and watch my perky ass walk away."

"That." He points to where I would be walking away; he seems to be having trouble talking. He unwraps his hand. His gun is now pointed at the grimy pavement. Ugh, my hands and knees would have been filthy.

"Then one day, when you're walking down a deserted street by yourself, minding your own business, you're going to get tasered and wake up looking at me in a dominatrix outfit. A 6 foot 6 stud will be standing next to me, stark naked with oiled skin, and he'll have a dong like an elephant's. And he's going to give you violent anal sex, in what was your tight asshole. Or . . . "

He tries to talk but he's still having trouble. A garbled "Or what?" struggles out of his mouth.

"Or, you can tell other people about my website." I stand on tiptoe, give him a peck on the cheek, turn around, and sashay away. He never had a chance once he let me talk.