Killer OrgasmAnonymous 9 She has nerve, that woman, looking like that. Chopped, frizzy hair and a no-name purse. Flat shoes. Him beside her. Theyłre together like a cop and handcuffs. He looks like a goddamn starved dog on a leash. Silvery hair and a gut starting, but the blue eyes and rugged chin still blaze. I can tell he still gets hard but shełs dry as a bone. He probably doesnłt ask for it more than once a month. And here I sit, on hot lava, and no man in my bed. Things couldnłt get any wronger. I better stop staring, even though I got my Celeb-U-Dark eyewear on. Stir some sweetener in my coffee, pretend Iłm not watching. Itłs good this restaurant is packed. Couples everywhere, dammit.For a long time I thought something was wrong with me. Then I realized women like her get men like him fresh out of high school, when he still finds the missionary position exciting. They marry, have kids, and somewhere after her 39th birthday, she decides sex is done. Add a decade of marriage on top of that, and there he is, house paid off, kids in college, and retirement just over the hill. Doomed. Well not anymore, Bucko. Baby girlłs coming to get you.The minute she takes a big drink out of that glass of iced tea, hełs mine. I fixed it before the waitress got hold of it. Arsenic. Works fast. Looks like food poisoning at first. Youłre thinking Iłll get caught, right? Nope. I have no ties to these people, none at all. This is a public place with at least a hundred other diners, and before she turns her toes up, Iłll be gone. Until the funeral, of course.Forgive me if I sound harsh. Life hasnłt been easy, and I thought my man-hunting days were over. Used to be, before Franklin rocked my world, I was sooo upset that all the good men were taken. It was after another affair with a married manI could never tell they were married until waaay too late, and Iłd already been kicked to the curb a dozen, yes, TWELVE timesthat it suddenly dawned on me if the problem was all the good men were attached, then I should just unattach them. Problem solved. It was my bolt of lightning, maybe the only one Iłll ever have.Let me explain a sexual fact; an aroused woman releases oxytocin, the hormone that triggers orgasm. No oxytocin, no big Ofemales canłt get off without it. Oxytocin makes women get easily attached, even addicted, to a man who satisfies them. Guys can just zip up and walk away, but oxytocin keeps a woman wanting. Dr. P told me that kicking an oxytocin addiction is like coming off heroin for some women. It was like that for me, TWELVE TIMES IN A ROW. Did I say that already? I was physically addicted to each man and the cravings nearly drove me mad. At one point I was going to kill myself, but then I got the lightning and forgot all about suicide.After that, time was spent looking for just the right situationa restless man with a contented wife. So contented she was downright complacent. Complacency is a sin. Itłs a major ingredient of sloth, which is on Godłs greatest hit list. I never worry about adult children or grandchildren because everybody, even Moms, have to die sometime. She just exits a little earlier than expected. In the movies, itłs usual for a femme fatale like me to get the man to do the killingI have a nice nose, now, and implants, real eyepoppersbut Iłve always been a go-getter and believe in the do-it-yourself approach. I finally read about Franklin in the Del Mar Tymes-Journal, and decided he was the one. Didnłt know him, didnłt have to. I figured that a man with his business achievements, and home, and family wouldnłt have a personality I couldnłt get along with. I was right on the money.Once I had Franklin in the crosshairs, I came up with a plan, nothing fancy, and pushed his wife down the stairs at the Del Mar Auberge & Spa. I mean, how hard could it be to kill a housewife from Del Mar, for Godłs sake? I was right, it wasnłt. She was leaving a fund-raiser for children of the homeless, wearing an ass-flattening pant suit and no eye makeup, at the Auberge for Gawdłs sake. The fall didnłt kill her, it just laid her out so I could get a good pinch on her carotid artery. Not enough to bruise the skin. People saw, came running, called an ambulance, and the whole time I kept leaning over her like I was helping, keeping that carotid pinched off. She went to hospital and never woke up. You shouldnłt waste any time thinking what a shame she mustłve been a good person and didnłt deserve to die. All the time that woman wasted on crochet when she couldłve been fixing herself up and romancing her husband? The husband who paid for the house and everything in it? Right down to the yarn in those god-awful afghans? She was no saint, let me tell you.I met Franklin at her funeral. Figured if I hadnłt actually met the man before his wife croaked, I wouldnłt look suspicious. I was just an attractive gal who happened along at the right time for a brand new widower. Wasnłt long before sleepovers with Franklin in that big, empty house of his, and it didnłt take much convincing to get him to sell iteven if the kids did do a whole heap of whining, right up to the time Franklin bought us a snappy new condo with a workout room, quadruple Jacuzzi, and Friday night cocktail mixers with the neighbors. Yeah, it was good times, all right. It was a total freak accident that Franklin died. I truly wanted him to be my husband forever. We were making love in the afternoon, like always, and the big one struck his ticker. Maybe I overdid it on the daily Viagra in his OJ. But he died happy and we sure had fun while it lasted.The last sixty days have been hell in the condo. I needed to get out, do something positive, so I started carrying arsenic with me, just in case I spotted someone special. And sure enough, hełs right over there, about to be unattached. Yessss, shełs raising the glass to her lips. . . . Iłll sip my coffee to make it look like Iłm busy, fiddle with the empty Sugar Lo sweetener packet. Shit, itłs not the Sugar Lo. Itłs not the . . . OH FU