Burnin' Love

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
The perfect guy, the perfect date. What could be weird about that?

Submitted: November 03, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 03, 2013



The grainy, crackling music flowed out of the speakers attached to my record player, filling my little apartment with the hunk-a-hunk-a burnin’ voice of The King: Elvis Presley.

Elvis is no doubt my favorite musical artist by far. His flawless smooth voice could wake someone from a coma. If he were alive today, he would hold nearly every position on the Billboard Hot 100 indefinitely. And people complain that that asshole Justin Bieber is everywhere. Elvis would appear on every commercial, on the side of every bus, even before every Youtube video, trying to sell you a loaf of bread (that you clearly do not want) while hypnotizing you with his mouth of unnaturally straight gleaming pearly whites. Hell, I would buy that loaf even if I had a pantry full of bread, just because he wanted me to.

One night, while waiting for my five gallon metal pot of water to heat up on the stove in order for me to cook some pasta, I perused through my collection of vinyl records (mostly composed of Elvis records) and picked out the first one that caught my eye: Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock EP. Jailhouse Rock is one of my favorite Elvis songs. It fills me with adrenaline and prompts me to break into the same dance that he did in The Blues Brothers—an okay movie with a great hit single.

I danced and pelvic thrust-ed my way around my tiny flat in New York City. I had all of two windows in the main room of my apartment closed while I did my routine in only my tan panties and matching bra. My breasts jiggled up and down like swollen water balloons; I giggled at my own obnoxiousness. I was excited to have company come over in an hour.

The steam from the boiling pot of water swirled up like a phantom from the container and fogged the microwave window positioned over the stove. The room grew warmer, either from the steam or because of my dancing.

My parents loathed Elvis, telling me that he was the reason why kids are disrespectful and immature. And the suggestive dance moves on television he did made them rave with fury. Don’t watch that Elvis guy. You will go to Hell, my mother would say. This made me crave him even more than I had before. If I will go to Hell because of Elvis, then maybe it is not as bad of a place as people make it out to be. But my father would give me a disapproving glare that made me feel like dirt when he caught me listening to him.

I dumped a rectangular box of dry spaghetti noodles into the bubbling bath of water. I quickly stirred right after in order to prevent them from sticking together. I dropped another box in; they never fill the boxes with enough noodles, I thought. I saved one of the hair-thin sticks for myself to crunch on while I cooked. In a small saucepan positioned on the burner to the right of the spaghetti pot, I had a homemade pasta sauce simmering on low; it was an easy-to-make recipe I pulled off of the internet, made from three cans of crushed tomatoes, a teaspoon of oregano, half a sautéed onion, and two bay leaves. The aroma that wafted through my apartment was heavenly.

When the pasta was done cooking in exactly eight minutes, I drained the pot of the starchy water with a colander in the sink and tossed the slimy noodles (which looked like brains to me) into the gurgling pot of red tomato sauce. I stirred the heap of pasta around while I did a little jig to the gospel-esque “I Want To Be Free” when it came on, and sang along karaoke style to Elvis’ sexy voice with the wooden spoon in my hand. As I stirred the pasta cyclically in the sauce to coat it evenly, a molten sauce bubble burst and splattered a drop of blood-sized dot of the tomato concoction onto the cleavage of my right breast. I made a shocked yip from the initial burn, but it cooled off almost instantly. I wiped it away with the tip of my finger and licked to taste the fruit of my labor.

The song ended with a click as the arm of the needle pulled back to its original position. I went over and delicately flipped the black record over to the second side. I positioned the needle over the record and placed it down gently. “Don’t Leave Me Now” faded in with a bit of static. I backed up leisurely and slow danced along to the song. I cannot put a reason behind it, but his voice moves me.

I dropped the blue flame on the stove to a faint whisper and walked into my bedroom. I threw open the door to my closet and was greeted with my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. I made a face of displeasure from the sight. My normally straight black hair was slightly more wavy and frizzed. I also disliked my ghost-like complexion. The idea of tanning, or even visiting a tanning salon, had been visiting my thoughts on occasion, but I could not motivate myself to find the time to do so. I also could not deny that I had gained some weight; my muffin top was back, slightly spilling over my tan panties that clung tenderly to my soft hips and buttocks. My breasts were smaller than I liked, but I knew I could not change that aspect of myself. But nothing a pushup bra could not fix. And I knew that Dan liked it, after all he did outwardly show interest in me at the concert.

I rummaged through the assortment of various outfits hanging on the metal racks, looking for something elegant but conservatively sexy. I did not want it to “all hang out” on the first date; I wanted to peak his interest without spoiling the plot; I wanted to make him keep coming back for more, so I grabbed my red dress with sparkles that were not too harsh on the eyes, but helped to emphasize the sleekness of the outfit itself. It was similar to the iconic dress that Jessica Rabbit wore in that one movie.

I slipped into it, not without a degree of difficulty due to my weight gain (plus I have not worn it in two or three years). I struggled to pull the zipper up in the back, managing to catch a strand or two of my hair, ripping both of them out of my skull with a sharp pain. I looked at myself in the mirror and I looked spicier in the dress than I first anticipated. The slight bulge of my hips was pleasing to the eye. I slid my hand down my thigh in a steamy manner and bit my lower lip playfully—a move I planned to use on Dan during dinner.

I met Dan at a concert on Monday. It was not any old concert; it was an Elvis concert. Not the real Elvis, but an impersonator. And a pretty damned good one at that! He was the best Elvis impersonator that I have seen, and I have been to nearly ten concerts in the recent past. In his famous white Elvis jumpsuit, he looked impeccably like the real Elvis. With his chiseled features and black voluptuous hair slicked back, I had to do a double take to make sure that he was not really Elvis resurrected from the grave. And when he opened his mouth to sing “Hound Dog” (his opening number), I immediately got goose pimples all over my skin and almost swooned from his spot-on voice. It was as if I were listening to the album version. It was that good. And you know who that Elvis impersonator was? He was Dan Riley: the handsome man that I somehow scored a date with. There was no doubt that I was the luckiest girl in the world. And to think it all started with asking him for an autograph!

The doorbell rang right after I put on the finishing touches of my makeup.

“One minute! Be right there!” I yelled from the bathroom, loud enough so he could hear, but trying to not sound angry or annoyed as to scare him off. After all, I knew this guy was the one.

Once again the doorbell rang. “Just one more second! I’m almost done!” I tore off a piece of toilet paper and dabbed my lips with it, producing a dark ruby red stamp of my lips on the white tissue.

I raced to the door as fast as my legs could carry me and reached for the handle before he could ring a third time. I turned the knob and there he was standing, tall and handsome. My already anxious heart skipped a beat as soon as I saw him; I thought for a second that he was the real Elvis standing in front of my apartment room. He was wearing a black expensive looking three-piece suit with a small red flower pinned on. His hair was greased back in the similar style that he wore during his gigs. His eyes were blue, just like Elvis’ were. His thin lips curved into an enticing smirk at the edge of his mouth.

“Hello, Cassie,” he said, his voice an attractive baritone. “You look beautiful.” He brought his right hand from behind his back, producing a bouquet of red wine colored roses. “I didn’t want to come empty handed so I got you these.” I grabbed them with a hesitant hand. I took a silent smell and the sweet fragrance was intense.

“I guess you made the right choice then,” I said, giving him a reassuring smile. “Come on in.” I motioned for him to enter my apartment. When he was inside, I closed the door. “It’s not the most impressive place, but I get by. I’m sure you live in a bigger house.” I set the roses on the coffee table.

“This apartment makes mine look like a freakin’ cardboard box,” he chuckled.

“Oh you’re just saying that,” I said.

“No, I really mean it. And you probably don’t have shitty neighbors that like to make love as loud as humanly possible at three in the morning.”

“Well in that case, I would rather have this hole in the wall,” I laughed, trying not to snort because that would be embarrassing.

There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation.

“What’s cooking?” He broke the silence, sniffing the air like a coonhound on the hunt.

“Oh nothing special, just some spaghetti with a simple red sauce I made.”

“Man, it’s been a long time since I had a home cooked meal, with all the shows I do. I’d be lucky to get to the store once or twice a month.”

“Then I hope it meets your standards of a home cooked meal,” I said, making quotes with my fingers while saying the last words.

“I’m sure it will be better than anything I could make, I’ll tell you that,” he said.

Another random pause in the conversation.

This time I broke the silence. “How about you take a seat on the couch while I add the finishing touches to the food. Is that all right?” I asked, pointing to the couch.

“Fine by me,” he said and sat down politely.

“Is there anything I can get you to drink? Water? Soda? Wine?” I rolled my eyes towards the ceiling, thinking of what I have in the fridge.
“Would it be rude if I asked for a glass of the wine?” His voice grew higher pitched as he spoke the sentence, as if I were his mother and he was asking for a cookie before dinner. And I was not going to say no. Not only would it be rude after offering it, but also it would have been like denying Elvis himself—a serious sacrilege.

“Of course you can!” I shouted, causing him to flinch from my outburst. “Sorry,” I said apologetically. I could feel the heat rising under my skin to produce embarrassing rosy cheeks.

“It’s alright,” he laughed easily. “I’m the youngest of four boys. You can imagine the ways I was scared as a child. I got used to it,” he confessed, but I still felt bad. “What type do you have?”

“It’s a White Zinfandel. I didn’t want to assume you drank or not.”

“That’s perfectly fine. I like to drink every so often. I’m more of a social drinker anyway. Bad for the liver,” he said.

“Okay then, one glass of wine coming right up,” I said, turning to the kitchen. I walked over to the pantry and pulled out the bottle of wine while Dan sat on the couch, twiddling his thumbs. We were both nervous, I could tell. I pulled two glasses from the dish cabinet and set them carefully onto the granite counter next to each other. I opened a drawer and took out a corkscrew. With one hand holding the sleek bottle firmly, I ripped off the protective plastic covering on the top, and stabbed the sharp tip of the corkscrew into the cork. I twisted it with the smallest amount of strain deeper into the cork’s center, producing a subtle squeaking sound that was annoying. Once I made it as far as I could and had to pull it out, I could not. I gave it a normal tug, but it was stuck. Then I jerked my hand up as firm as I could. Still no budge. I tried once more, putting my whole upper body into the yank, as if I were trying to start a lawnmower. I grunted softly. It still would not move. Since he was not looking, I wanted to tell him that I could not find the wine, and offer him a glass of water instead, but I told him I just bought it so he would not believe me. I did the only thing that I could think of: “Dan? I know this is kind of embarrassing, but can you help me open the wine bottle? It’s stuck.” My voice was timid and I wanted to crawl into a corner.

Dan turned his head quickly when he heard his name. “Yeah, sure.” He stood up impulsively and was at my side before I could blink. “What’s the problem?”

My knight in shining armor has come to rescue me, I thought. I probably batted my eyelashes in a sensual manner, but if I did, it would have been more involuntarily than purposefully. “I can’t get the corkscrew out; the cork ate it,” I said and made an over exaggerated upset face. “Can you help me?”

“Let me see what I can do,” he said in a professional manner, as if he were a plumber about to fix my leaky pipes.

He put his left hand on the base of the bottle and used his right to grasp the corkscrew’s large wooden handle. His grip tightened on both of his hands, and even though he was wearing a suit, I could tell that his large masculine biceps were flexing. He works out, I thought. He made a grunting noise as he pulled upwards with his right hand, while still trying to hold the bottle to the counter with his left. I could see the strain on his handsome face, eyes closed as if he were channeling all of his energy to his head and it would seep out through his eyes if they were open. The sudden suction noise of the cork sounded and a white mist floated up and out of the bottle’s neck. He set the bottle on the counter. “This appears to have been the problem,” he said, impersonating the deep voice of Elvis. He held the cork in front of my face. I giggled with delight. He threw the cork to the garbage can on the other side of the kitchen; it bounced in with a hollow thud.

“You’re my hero,” I said dreamily, staring into his blue eyes.

“Anything for a beautiful woman like you,” he said.

I thought we were going to kiss at that moment, but I prevented that with saying, “How about some dinner?”

I served the spaghetti on the most elegant pearl white china that my parents gave me when I first moved into the apartment. He sat at one end of the table and I at the other. He looked down at the spaghetti, with a fork in his hand, leaned down, and took an amplified inhalation of the steaming food through his nose. I smiled at his ridiculous behavior as I was blindly poking at my plate with a fork.

“Smells delicious. If it only tastes a fraction of how it smells, it will be heavenly,” he said and plunged his fork into the noodle heap. He twirled it around, the pasta spinning on it like a spool of thread.

“You do that too?” I said, surprised. “I thought I was the only one.”

“The only one? Through my life, I learned that no one is the only one to do anything,” he said. “And plus, it’s the only way you can eat spaghetti.”

“My sister eats hers after she cuts it up with a knife into bite-sized pieces,” I said.

“Now that’s weird,” he laughed. I laughed too. He shoved the fork into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. I saw his eyes widen. My stomach flipped; I thought that he was going to say that it was abysmal. I braced myself for the bad news. “This…is…a-mazing!” he said with a broad smile plastered on his face.

“You really like it?” I sounded astonished, I honestly was. I was never confident in my cooking skills. My face grew warmer.

“You should totally send me the recipe later. I don’t think I have ever eaten spaghetti this good. What type of noodles did you use?”

“Nothing special really, just the crappy store’s generic brand.” I was about to burst out laughing from the unlikelihood of his critique.

Dan took another mouthful of noodles. He didn’t even swallow before he started to talk, which came out garble. “Sorry. I said you are an amazing cook,” he said through the side of his mouth that was not bulging with noodles. He politely wiped his face with a towel.

My blush was so intense that my forehead was probably red as well. “Oh stop it,” I teased, “I can’t trying to feed a musical genius disgusting food, can I?”

“Me? Oh, you’re talking about my Elvis gig. I’m not the genius, he is.”

“I can’t argue with you on that,” I said, trying not to make it sound like I was agreeing with him not being a genius.

“Speaking of Elvis, I saw you had a bunch of his records sitting on the shelf while I was sitting on your couch. You didn’t bring them out for me, did you?”

“No, no, I’m a huge fan of The King. I’ve been to multiple Elvis acts throughout the years. And you’re the best I’ve seen so far.”

“Now you’re making me blush,” he smiled. His face was turning a light shade of red.

“You’re by far the most authentic in New York City. I mean you could’ve had me fooled if I was blindfolded.” Oh God, I just criticized his look, I thought. “Not to say that you don’t look like him, you do. But I can tell the real Elvis from a phony one hundred percent of the time.” Why would I say that? I’m just digging a hole for myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“It’s hard to keep the Elvis look going. You know, he’s—” He whipped out a flip comb from his pocket and ran it through his slicked back hair. “—no hound dog.”

I burst out laughing, trying not to snort again. I wiped a tear my eye. “You are the funniest guy ever,” I said between breaths.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he said in the Elvis voice, and shined his smile. “Enough about me, how about you,” Dan said. “What do you do for a living?”

I chewed a mouthful of noodles, swallowed, and then took a sip of my wine. “Taxidermy,” I said, twirling the glass of wine in my hand, admiring the altering image of Dan.

“Taxidermy?” he said, as if he did not understand me the first time or was just trying to clarify.


“Man, I never met a person who did that kind of thing. I’ve only seen commercials. Did you go to school for it?”

“No, I picked it up from my dad. He owned a taxidermy business in Buffalo. He taught me a thing or two and I went on from there,” I said, taking another bite of the remarkably delicious spaghetti. He wasn’t just saying it was good to make me feel better about myself.

“So you’re carrying on your father’s legacy?”

“Yes, you could say that,” I said. “I learned from the best.”

“I wish I could say the same, but my father was an accountant and you can probably tell why I didn’t want to do that.” He drank from his glass. “He even offered to pay for my schooling. I wasn’t going to turn down his offer, so I went to Syracuse. And, inevitably, I dropped out my freshman year.”

“I could not stand a desk job,” I added.

“Neither could I. It wasn’t even the desk part that I despised; it was the math. Who wants to look at the same old numbers all day anyway?”

“Not this girl, I’ll tell you.”

“Cheers to that,” he said and we both clinked our wine glasses together gracefully and took a sip simultaneously. We set the cups down in sync. “So, taxidermy. Is that hard?”

“If you are not dedicated it is. And yes it can become challenging at times. At least in the beginning. It took me years to perfect a specific technique, and I still mess up once in a while. It can be heartbreaking. It’s like losing a loved one.”

“That’s gotta be rough on your clients, having to tell them that you messed up on their pet. My dad was a hunter and liked to get his favorite deer heads stuffed and mounted on the wall in his quote unquote trophy room. My mother hated it. She even threatened to sell all of the animal heads, but those were empty threats. Even though she disapproved of my father’s hobby, it got food on the table half the year, literally,” he said, chuckling to himself and then taking a bite of food.

“It brings me pleasure every time I finish one of my projects. It’s hard to describe. It’s most likely the same way your father felt when he looked at his deer heads.”

The rest of the dinner consisted of small talk, some of it branching off into deeper conversation, but mostly topical than not. I gazed intensely into his eyes when he would talk, swimming in the blue deep ocean of his Iris. The tone of his voice was hypnotic to my ears and his charisma was captivating, that of a born leader. I wanted to make sweet unadulterated love to his soft, creamy, enticing voice. He was definitely The One—the guy to trump the rest of them. He was the perfect one I was missing in my life.

When the conversation lulled and eventually died a natural death, both of our plates were clean. I took the dirty plates to the sink and dropped them into the soapy water. He thanked me for the dinner; I thanked him for the wonderful date. He stood up.

“I guess it’s time for me to go. So I might as well tell you now. You look beautiful in your dress,” he said, his voice sweet and sincere.

“Thank you, Dan,” I said, my voice in the same manner. “You look incredibly handsome. I love a guy in a suit.”

“I know this is going to sound cliché, but, you’re the most gorgeous woman I have ever met,” he said, having trouble keeping eye contact with me. His face was flush and he was looking at the ground.

“You have the prettiest eyes that any guy has ever had,” I said. He picked his head up and looked at me, giving a delicate smirk.

It was as if we were opposite poles of a magnet because before I knew it, we were on top of each other, his hand running vigorously through my hair, passionately kissing me. His other hand was around my waist, pulling me close to himself. My hands were locked behind his neck. His breathing drew heavy, labored with adrenaline. Our lips were preforming the dance of passion. His hand was caressing my lower back. I was becoming sweaty and increasingly aroused. I pushed him against the wall, giving him support, and I kissed him with increased fortitude, rubbing my breasts against his abs. He grunted and I let out a moan. I bit his lower lip, gently, playfully. I was not startled when he pushed his slippery tongue into my mouth, but welcomed it with the frisky brush of my own tongue. His saliva was warm and sweet. I broke the kiss and leaned my forehead against his. Both of ours were perspiring and warm. I flashed him a smile and he reciprocated. I gave him one more kiss and took a step back from his embrace. The only sound in the apartment was the rigorous noise of both our chests rising and falling at the same pace. I looked at his face, which was sexier than before. I looked down and noticed my bra strap was loose and visible; I let it lay there. I bit my lower lip libidinously and he licked his lips with a smile.

“Go into the other room,” I said in nearly a whisper. “I don’t usually do this on the first date.” I gave him a warm smile. He obeyed and started to walk away eagerly. “The first room on the left,” I called out. “I’ll be right there.”

Dan walked into the faux hallway and opened the closed door that I told him to go to. He entered the room with excitement and groped the wall for the light switch. When his fingers found what they were looking for, he flipped the lights on. He immediately saw four looming figures: all male, lined up in a row. The first one on the far left was dressed in a navy polo that was tucked into a pair of tan dress pants—his name was Peter—and he had glasses on with spiky brown hair atop his head. The next man—Gabriel—had darker skin. He was wearing orange shorts with a white and orange Hawaiian shirt. He sported a shaved head and goatee. He also had a pair of black Ray-Ban sunglasses on. Jack was the skinniest and he had a pair of jeans on with a blue American Eagle shirt. He had a ponytail hanging from the back of his head. The last one was Donald; Donald was my favorite. He loved me and took care of me better than my own parents did. He had a thick beard and long hair that made him look like Jesus. He liked to dress in skinny jeans and sweaters.

And then Dan saw my taxidermy equipment set up on the right side of the room; I did not lie. But what Dan did not see was the oversized butcher knife swing down, boring itself into the back of his neck at the right angle to puncture his carotid artery, spraying crimson blood all over my nice red dress and floor. Good thing it does not have to come out, I thought. Since he did not see it coming, he did not have time to do anything about it. I left the knife protruding from his neck and quickly put him in a headlock, keeping him from screaming and choking him slightly at the same time. I brushed his blood-matted hair with one hand while still quelling his struggles with the other.

“Why?” gurgled from his throat as his mouth filled up with blood. I saw a couple of red bubbles forming and popping from my vantage point.

“Shh-shh-shh, it’s all right,” I whispered in his right ear, the warm continuous ooze of his blood over my arm was nostalgic of the others. The wood floor was catching the blood, forming a small puddle at his feet. “I knew you were the perfect man for me from the first time I laid my eyes on you. If that is not something to feel honored about, then I don’t know what is. You’re different than these guys.” I lowered my voice so they could not hear. “I know you will love me more than any of them ever could, especially Jack, he was becoming kind of a douchebag.” I glared at Jack. “I’m only doing this because I love you and never want you to leave me. Just go to sleep and everything will be all right.”

It did not take long for Dan’s delicate body to go limp in my arms.

“I know you’ll become good friends with them right away. You guys have a lot of things in common.”






“I’m glad I finally got to take a day off from work so I could spend this night with you, Cassie,” John Farr said over the din of the restaurant. I met him a couple of days ago in a bar. He had the bartender send me a drink.

It was a busy Saturday night; everybody and their brother seemed to be on a date at the restaurant tonight. “And I’m happy I could get reservations here. This is the hardest place to get into. I called every day, but they were booked pretty solid this week. I’m glad my persistence paid off because when I called to make our reservation, the maître d’ informed me that the couple that booked this time slot cancelled shortly before I called. Talk about lucky!” I said, trying to make myself heard. It was bad enough that everyone was talking, but they had this overly loud classical music playing over the sound system.

“I’ve never been to a restaurant this classy before. Thank you again for everything.”

“Only five stars would do for a guy as handsome as you,” I said, giving him a friendly smile. When he smiled, his eyes seemed to brighten. He has the perfect eyes, I thought.

I watched him as he took the finishing bite of his Swiss chocolate swirl cheesecake. “God am I full,” he said, leaning back and rubbing his distended stomach in circles. “My food was delicious. How was yours?”

“Oh, it was marvelous, thanks for asking. Say, do you like Elvis?”

“El-what?” He called, cupping his cocked ear towards me.

“Elvis!” I shouted, the sound of my voice carrying poorly to his side of the table. It was as if we were at a rock concert with all this noise, but he still managed to understand what I said.

“Elvis? Yeah, I like Elvis. I think he’s great.”

I gave him an interested look and smiled. “How about we grab a taxi and go to my place after we pay the bill.”

“That sounds like a good plan to me,” he said, looking around the room for our waiter to call over.

“I can’t wait for you to meet the guys,” I said, knowing that he could not hear me over the racket.

© Copyright 2020 AlexGrey1. All rights reserved.

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