Before I Kill Again!

  It began when Noel was just a boy, and as he grew to manhood, so too did his obsession. He did everything he could to outrun it, to be normal, but even a life-changing move from England to Hollywood, California, couldn’t help him suppress his urge … the urge to indulge his particular fetish.

  Noel was as much a victim as the women he targetted. But when his desires exploded into violence one dark night, there could be no hope of a cure, or of ever going back to man he was before the murder …

  Noel had tipped off the edge of sanity.

  BEFORE I KILL AGAIN!

  Originally published as FETISH

  By Steve Hayes

  Copyright 2014 by Steve Hayes

  First Kindle Edition: July 2014

  This Revised Edition: January 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Sixgold Book

  Author’s Note

  I would just like to acknowledge the help of my friend David Whitehead in the writing of this novel.

  Hollywood, California, 1969

  NOEL

  I am normal. I really am. It’s everyone else who isn’t. And I’m not just saying that because I think everyone’s crazy but me, the way people who’re really crazy do, I’m saying it because I am normal. I really am. I really and truly am.

  Normal.

  DIXIE

  Harry sent another of his buddies over this afternoon, a big, good-looking guy named Noel Adams.

  Man, if that Harry doesn’t have the weirdest fucking friends! But then, in my line of work you got to expect a few freaks. It’s only normal. I mean, sex is like any other commodity that’s for sale—it’s got to have variety. If it doesn’t, well, goodbye customers. And that’s the truth. Nowadays, any working girl who can’t spice her bed with a little variety might just as well quit peddling her ass for a living and go back to pounding a typewriter in some stupid, boring office. I mean it.

  Because, like an old whore down in L.A. once told me: “It ain’t important that what’s inside the box is new, honey, just so you keep changing the label!”

  She’s right, too. If you don’t believe it, then look at some other well-known, salable products. Take breakfast cereals for instance. How long do you think any of those would last without variety or new boxes? No time at all, right?

  I mean, shit, not everyone likes the same cereal every morning—even if some hot shot Hollywood movie star does endorse it, claiming that it increased the size of his dick or helped her develop huge tits or something.

  The result is the Madison Avenue Brains have to keep dreaming up new gimmicks else the public won’t buy their product. And when the public don’t buy, baby, the Brains don’t eat.

  It’s the same with me. Except in my business, it’s the customer who usually dreams up the gimmick. I just go along with it. You know, try to do the best I can. Or, if possible, even improve on it.

  Oh, sure, once in a while some john will leave everything up to me, hoping, of course, that I’ll come up with some spicy new twist that’ll really turn him on. But that’s not the way it usually happens. Most times, it’s all their idea. Like this afternoon for instance, with Harry’s buddy, Noel. Know what really got his rocks off?—a woman’s old white rubber raincoat!

  I’m serious. All he wanted me to do, before and while we were fucking, was to wear this raincoat, pretend my name was Kathleen Johnson and act like we were screwing among some ferns on the far side of some river in England—the Thames, I think he said it was.

  Of course, he wasn’t really having sex with me. Not in his mind, anyway. He was making love to this algebra teacher at his high school—some cute, young blond named Kathleen Johnson. Which is pretty fucking dumb, if you ask me, because according to Noel, though he was crazy about her and every night as a kid would jerk himself off into this old white raincoat (which he kept hidden under his bed so his mom wouldn’t find it), this Katie Johnson didn’t like him. In fact, she spent most of the time either ignoring him or putting him down in front of the class.

  At least, that’s the way he described it to me. And since I wasn’t there, I have to take his word for it. But after listening to him all this time and never once hearing him change his story, I pretty much think he’s telling the truth. If he’s not, and in fact is making all this stuff up, then all I can say is he’s got one hell of an imagination. And a great fucking memory! Because the way he described everything right down to the tiniest detail, it was like he was still back there, living every moment as if it was still happening.

  I’ve heard a lot of fetish stories in my time and for the most part they’re so familiar, so boring they go in one ear and out the other. But I got to tell you, with Noel it was different. His story was so fascinating, I clung to every word. In fact I was so hooked by what he was saying, I kept hoping he wouldn’t stop but would continue until he finished the whole story. But of course that wasn’t his way. Noel was so shy, so embarrassed to talk about himself, he only told me stuff in dribs and drabs—like, for instance, how when he was at school he used to love going down in the shelters during the air raids because the benches were close together and he got to touch her, to feel her raincoat rub against his bare legs as she walked up and down the narrow aisle; or, like, how she used to wear this same old white rubber raincoat to school every day, rain or shine, and hang it on a hook in his home-room where, after math class, when all the other kids had gone to P.E. and Kathleen was in the administration room with the other teachers, he would stay behind just touching it or putting his arms around it and pretend it was her, inside, he was holding.

  It was on account of this fetish that Noel eventually got expelled. Because one afternoon, Kathleen had a dentist appointment after school and didn’t stay in the admin room as long as usual. As a result she caught him with his dick in his hand, jerking off, while holding her coat pressed against him like it was her he was doing it to—which, as you can imagine, really pissed her off.

  Anyway, he was expelled and called a lot of dirty names by everyone—including his family and friends—till finally he had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill himself three or four times.

  By then, he was almost sixteen and praying for the day when he’d be old enough to leave home and start a new life for himself in Hollywood, California where everyone wouldn’t stare or whisper about him like he was some kind of pervert. Trouble is, though, you can’t run away from yourself or your problems. No matter where you go, they remain with you day and night, constantly eating your guts out, until you either kill yourself or end up in some nut-house full of sex-addicts and fancy-talking shrinks.

  Before most people reach that stage though, a lot of them do what this Noel john did: find some whore like me who is used to kinky sex, and doesn’t mind wearing raincoats or rubber gloves or black-lace panties or dress like a high school pompom girl. Hell, I even had a john once who insisted on bringing his pet chicken—said he couldn’t get a hard-on without it being there, watching. Did I care? Not for a second. My only rule is—anything goes just so long as you don’t try to hurt me, like, say, by wanting to use a broomstick or an ear of corn. Oh, yeah, and you got to pay in advance. In cash, not by check or with your credit card.

  Naturally, Noel’s raincoat didn’t ring my bell or anything. Fact is, it was too small on me and made things pretty goddamn cramped and sweaty. But it was his money, and like I said, I am in the selling business and here to please, so I played it cool and pretended like it made me as horny as him. And since he never complained or
nothing when it was over, I must’ve pretended good enough—which is just fine with me because, like anyone else who’s trying to sell or promote something, a repeat business is a prosperous business. And I ain’t in this for my health, hon. That’s for goddamn sure!

  So, like I say, I was real glad when he asked me if he could be a steady customer. Because, even with this raincoat fetish, Noel is still a lot easier to take than many of my so-called “normal” tricks. Fact is if I wasn’t a working girl, I wouldn’t mind shacking up with him for a while—he was that big and cute and sensitive and everything.

  But, as I’ve already explained, sex is strictly business with me. And once you start giving it away—even to the cute johns—you end up too old and screwed-out to make a decent living from it. And that’s the truth. I mean, shit, let’s face it. It might be good advertising for big companies or corporations to give away free samples—they got plenty to spare. But a girl pushing forty-plus doesn’t. Especially if she’s trying to put aside enough for a rainy day when she can settle down and go straight with some small town guy who treats her halfway decent.

  But that’s in the future. It’s what’s happening now that counts. And right now, it’s almost six o’clock and time for me to turn on my tape-recorder. You see, my next trick has kind of a fetish too. With him, though, it’s this long-playing tape that he listens to while we’re humping. And since he hates having to wait for anything and arrives promptly at six o’clock, I always put the tape on a few minutes early. That way, it’s already playing when he walks in and no time’s wasted. And time is real valuable to Mr. Six O’clock, him being such an important politician and all.

  What’s on the tape, you ask?

  Well, it’s all the sounds and noises going on at some big train depot in London. Victoria, I think he called it. You see, Mr. Six O’clock was a G.I. during World War Two, and while stationed in England he fell in love with this real doll of a nurse. They planned to get hitched and everything, but before they could D-Day arrived and he was shipped out.

  Well, to cut a long story short, she saw him off at Victoria. And since there was about a million other guys and girls doing the same thing, the only place they could find any privacy was in this phone booth near where the trains were leaving. Here, they made love standing up and made all kinds of promises about how they’d wait for each other, and not screw around with anybody else while they were apart, and—well, then, Mr. Six O’clock went off to Normandy.

  Unfortunately, that was the last time he ever saw the nurse. Because a few weeks later, the hospital where she worked was hit by a Buzz-bomb and all they ever found of her was her left hand and wrist with ID bracelet embedded in the flesh.

  No big deal, you say? It happened to a lot of other guys and none of them go around balling chicks while listening to a bunch of whistles blowing, people crying and saying goodbye, or trains pulling in and out.

  Well, my answer to that is, how do you know they don’t?

  I mean, unless you’re in my business or are some kind of nympho who goes around fucking every guy she meets, then how could you know? Right?

  I mean for all you know, some of the nicest, straightest, most normal johns around could also be the biggest sex freaks at home.

  And, so what if they are? Like they say in the song, it’s nothing to get hung about. I mean, what you do behind your own bedroom door is your business. At least, that’s the way I look at it. And believe me, honey, I should know.

  Something else I know, too: If you girls love a guy, and it never gets any worse than your having to wear an old white rubber raincoat or listen to a bunch of trains coming or going, then believe me, honey, you got it made.

  NOEL

  I am normal. I really am. To prove it, yesterday was trash day and early in the morning I wrapped the raincoat in some old newspaper and threw it in the trash bin behind the apartment. Then I went back upstairs and sat by the window, watching until the city truck came and took everything away.

  And now I’m glad.

  I’m glad.

  I’m…

  Oh God, dear God, if I’m so glad, why do I feel so totally fucked up?

  TERI

  I have a date tonight with the grooviest looking guy. His name’s Noel Adams. He’s tall and sort of shy and quiet, has long blond hair, sexy blue eyes, and this cute English accent.

  He lives in the ground floor apartment across the pool from Donna and me, and yesterday, while we were out sunbathing, I made a bet with Donna that I could get him to take me to dinner and—guess what, I won.

  It wasn’t easy, though. I had to drop about a trillion hints about how crazy I am about Mexican food, before he caught on—and, even then, it was me who had to actually make the date.

  I said, “Don’t you like Mexican food, Noel?” and he said, not looking at me, “Y-Yes,” and I said, “Well?” and then as he looked shyly at me, “If you promise not to complain about my bad breath, I’ll let you take me to dinner tonight.” I thought that would make him laugh and break the ice, but it didn’t. It just embarrassed him and he went all red.

  Meanwhile Donna, who was sitting next to me, said: “Don’t mind her, Noel. She attacks all the guys who move in here. “

  “Not true,” I said. “Only the cute ones.”

  That embarrassed Noel even more and he started to get up.

  But I wouldn’t let him off the hook. “Well?” I demanded. “Do we have a date?”

  He chewed on his lip for a moment before saying: “I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  He chewed his lip again, then shrugged and said, “I guess.”

  “Tomorrow it is, then. Around, say, seven-thirty? “

  He nodded, murmured something I didn’t catch, and went back into his apartment.

  As the door closed behind him, Donna gave me a dirty look. “That’s not fair, Teri. I bet that you couldn’t get him to ask you out—not the other way ’round.”

  “Same thing,” I said, laughing. “—in the end.”

  Donna wasn’t amused. She’s twenty-four, which is only two years older than me, but she acts like she’s my guardian angel. “You be careful,” she warned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He might misunderstand you coming on strong to him like that and think you’re some kind of nympho, and you’ll wind up getting it in your end!”

  That Donna, she really is a hoot!

  But all that took place yesterday, when the sun was shining and everything looked groovy. Now, this evening, wouldn’t you know it, it’s almost seven thirty and it hasn’t stopped raining since this morning. What’s more, it’s pissing down so hard now I wouldn’t be surprised if Noel showed up in Noah’s Ark!

  Truthfully, though, I don’t mind the rain. It gives me a chance to wear this really cute raincoat I just bought at the Broadway. It’s made of vinyl, is super white and shiny, and has these darling blue polka dots all over it. It also matches my white boots and Donna’s new blue-and-white umbrella; and if I say so myself, after looking in the mirror, you can believe that Noel won’t be taking out the ugliest airline stewardess in town!

  NOEL

  It’s seven-thirty. I can’t stall her any longer. I don’t want to take her out, but it’s too late now to call it off. I mean she’d never believe me if I said I was sick or had suddenly come down with Asian flu or something. Besides, pushy as she is, she’d probably come over with chicken soup and still jump my bones.

  But would that be so bad? She’s really good-looking and—well, you’re not queer. You’re just a bit weird.

  Why, because I find white raincoats stimulating? Christ, I don’t think that’s so weird. Lots of people—normal people—have sexual hang-ups. So don’t think because I’ve got a fetish that makes me abnormal, because it doesn’t. Fact is, I’m probably more normal than some of these other so-called normal people walking around. And that’s the truth.

  Besides; like that whore, Dixie, always says: What you do be
hind your own bedroom door, hon’, is strictly your own business. Right?

  TERI

  “You’re late,” I told him. “Twenty-minutes-late. What’s your excuse?”

  He shrugged and said something about receiving a phone call just as he was leaving his apartment.

  “Who was it?” I kidded. “One of your many girlfriends begging for a date?”

  He looked at me as if I were crazy. “I don’t have any girl friends,” he said.

  ‘

  “None?”

  “None.”

  He sounded like the loneliest human being in the whole world and suddenly I felt sorry for him, so sorry that I almost put my arms around him and kissed him. But I knew it would only embarrass him to death, so instead I smiled and said: “You’re wrong, Charlie Brown. You have me.” Then, before he could argue, I went and got my raincoat from the bedroom, put it on, came out and modeled it for him. “What d’ you think?”

  He didn’t say anything. He just gaped at me.

  “Isn’t it darling?” I continued. “I’ve been dying to wear it, ever since I got it last week. You do like it, don’t you?” I added.

  “It’s… nice. Very nice.”

  “Then, why the look?”

  “What look?”

  “Like you’ve just seen a ghost or want to barf or something?”

  He sort of shrugged, but didn’t say anything. He just stood there by the door, pale and nervous-looking, chewing on his lip.

  “Wait a minute. It’s not the raincoat,” I said, suddenly realizing, “it’s me, isn’t it? You’re afraid of me.”

  He started to say something. His mouth opened, his lips moved as if he were about to tell me some kind of secret, but no sound came out.

  I said, “Look, Noel, you don’t have to be. I won’t bite. Promise. Oh, sure, I come on pretty strong sometimes, but that’s just me—the way I am. I don’t mean anything by it.”