The Serial Killer Club

By Monica Hess and Steve Miller

He sits alone in his car. It’s dark out, but from his vantage point, he can watch the hookers on the street. They’re waiting for a john, smoking, laughing with each other. Watching them doesn’t do it for him. He’s not turned on by their short skirts and come-on looks. His old lady hasn’t been interested in sex since she went through the change and he knows he couldn’t perform even if she was. He takes his pleasure where he can, so he watches. He prefers watching the ones who have blonde hair, like his mother did, but he’ll wait until he sees one that gives him that extra special feeling. If it happens, he knows exactly what to do. First, he’ll take her picture from afar. With the telephoto app on his phone he’s able to get a really close up look. And after that, the dance begins.

Without even thinking he pulls his zipper down and begins to touch himself. Slowly – painfully slowly – he begins to respond to the touch. He’s learned how fast to stroke in order to prolong the feeling. He thinks about his last episode. The last one was perfect. She wasn’t too tall or too short. She was just right. After he is good and hard he called her over. “Ooh whacha got there for me, baby?” she says, her eyes not revealing surprise at his gloved hands holding out a hundred dollar bill. He asks for a blowjob and of course she’s eager to oblige. He’s eager too; but not for that type of release. He’s learned where to place his hands, while she’s busy and at the right moment, when she’s about to pull away, his hands close in. After they are both limp, he zips up his pants and drives away. It’s time to find the ideal resting spot for this one.

I always thought what I felt was normal. From a young age, I was what I call a “watcher”, and I thought others were watchers too. It seems I was wrong.

Most people go about their day oblivious to what is all around them, watching nothing but the passing of time. Me, I like to watch. Not all people, just certain ones who attract my attention. I can’t really describe my type, I just know it when I see it. Or rather, I feel it. It’s like an electric jolt to my gut and, depending on what I’m doing, it makes me jerk my head up and look around. That’s never a good a thing, such sudden movement, because it can reveal my interest, and that’s the last thing I want.

Sometimes to avoid being noticed, I wear a disguise. Nothing too elaborate: a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a hoodie in the daytime, and a wig, and gloves at night. I prefer to watch at night, but it’s harder to do because my eyesight is going. Daytime watching is riskier, because, well, where ya gonna hide in the sunlight? I’ve learned to stand still for a long time, leaning against a tree or a pole or a wall. I don’t make eye contact with anyone; that would throw me off and probably scare them enough to remember me. I just let people pass me by until I get that thrilling feeling. And sometimes it takes a while to happen, weeks even. But oh, when the feeling happens, it’s so delicious!

Nighttime watching is usually reserved for those who have triggered my internal alarm system during daytime watchings. Nighttime watchings are easier because I can choose a more secluded place to observe the object of my desire, and I can set up my phone’s camera to take photos – after I’ve turned off my phone’s GPS, so that later, no one can know where I was. That’s an important part of what I do, taking photos. I’m not a very good photographer, but the photos I take suffice for my purposes. Sometimes hours go by, while I’m watching at night and it feels like only minutes. I get lost in thought, and oh what awesome, awful thoughts they are! Sometimes I’m brought back into the moment by the buzz of my phone. It’s usually my old lady calling to check up on me. She thinks I’m out meeting with a client. Wouldn’t she be surprised to learn what I’m really doing?

I do have to be careful though. If she ever found out about the watching, and the dance that sometimes happens there might be trouble and I might have to do things to her I don’t really want to do. So, I’m careful. I keep extra paperwork in the car, just in case, and if she seems particularly peeved that I’m home late, I’ll fill out some forms with bogus information and date it with today’s date. And I’ll pick up one of her favorite chocolate shakes on the way home, to pacify her. Food always seems to do the trick. Normally, she doesn’t give me too much grief; she’s too absorbed in her television shows to pay attention to my comings and goings. And that’s definitely a good thing. The day that changes is the day my watching days are over.