The butcher slams the cleaver into the meat, and my pulse races at the familiar thud. Instead of raw beef, I imagine a woman’s head as it rolls off the red-stained counter and drops onto the rubber mat-lined floor. Thump, like a sack of garbage slung into a bin. Thump, like my heart when it knows how close release is. My mouth dries, and I close my eyes, imagining my fingers twisting through its tangled hair as I lift the head from the floor.

 

The paper crinkles around the filet, and I’m back to reality. I glimpse at the door, pretending I’m in a hurry like everyone else. I used to buy two filets—one for me, one for whomever I was paying that night—then I realized they didn’t give a shit about steak. They were with me solely for the money.

 

There is always something better about vegetarians anyway.

 

“Sixty-five dollars,” the butcher says.

 

My jaw ticks. Sixty-five dollars? That’s five dollars up from last time. I tap my boot, holding back the urge to rip the meat from his fucking hands. 

 

“I need a damn loyalty punch card,” I mutter.

 

“Do you want it or not?”

 

My skull tingles as I hand over the cash. I save money and live a meager lifestyle to pay for indulgences like this. The price for organic, free range, grass-fed meat can get outrageous—sixty-five dollars for one fucking filet—but in the end, it’s worth it. The savory undertones are richer than you’d expect, layered with the healthy, green life each animal had, and those flavors build on your taste buds with every bite. Sometimes, I even ask the escort services for vegetarians. Not because I’m going to eat them—I’m not a cannibal—but because of the idea of it. 

 

If grass-fed meat tastes better, vegetarian women must taste better too.

 

A hollowness flutters in my stomach, the need inching to the surface. I collect my treat and clutch the brown paper sack. The butcher scowls at me. I keep gawking at the cold display cases anyway, taking my time. I’ve practically memorized it all, and yet I marvel at a perfectly marbled sirloin like it’s a slice of a woman’s back. 

 

The door chime jingles; another customer has arrived. I take that as my cue. The butcher is distracted for now. 

 

The butcher shop is in the middle of a strip mall. A narrow alleyway is in the back, which is where the mall’s garbage bins are smashed between the stores and a row of trees. I head directly to the butcher’s bins.

 

My fingers vibrate with nerves as I jab at the waste. I need to finish shopping for very specific extras before the butcher notices me back here. When it comes to what I need, turkey is pointless; it’s too fibrous, and the follicles are annoying. Chicken will do in a pinch, but I can get that kind of meat at work. The best choices are pork and beef: their flesh is textured, yet strong enough to stay intact.

 

And near the top of the first bin, there’s a thin, black slab covered with a scaly green membrane. Thick, pink liquid drips down the sides, like blood and saliva sliding down a woman’s breast. I smile to myself. You can’t tell someone what they should or shouldn’t throw away, but you can do something with their leftovers.

 

And I can’t pass up a rotten beef tongue.

 

I open the second bin. As I reach for a piece of lightly used butcher paper, my fingers skim the hard surface of flesh. I freeze.

 

Don’t look, I tell myself. You already have a good piece, and you’re too curious for your own good. You need to be quick so that they don’t catch you—

 

My dick twitches. I can’t help myself. I pick through the debris until I see it.

 

A beef heart, the fat tinted bluish green. 

 

Warnings ring in my ears, but I’m alone, and I want this. I pry a ventricle open wide enough for my dick, then I unzip and unbuckle my pants and slide my cock inside. It doesn’t fit right, but that’s why I like it; the muscle squeezes the head of my dick, forcing pleasure up my spine. I close my eyes and let the ambient-temperature flesh soothe me. A woman’s heart—carved from her chest—would feel like this. A final fuck before eating her most vital organ. 

 

A car honks, and I startle, dropping the heart on the pavement.

 

“Damn it,” I say.

 

I quickly wrap the beef heart and tongue into the brown paper I pull from the bin, then stow them under one arm, my bagged filet in the other. It’s not really stealing if it’s garbage. And it’s not really animal cruelty if it’s already dead.

 

***

 

My van coasts down the street. In the distance, brown hills circle each side of the road, and dull green trees speckle their terrain. In the bottom layer, unremarkable stores sandwich the asphalt, and people march around like ants.

 

Then the street becomes a two-lane road that pounds through the farmland. Corn fields. Sunflower stalks. And tall, tall grass. I pass the local dump—the high sides of the pit piled with waste and backed by dead grass. The stink clears, the asphalt ends, and the path shifts to a dirt lane, which ends at my home. 

 

Although the mobile home is in decent shape, what I like most are the grassy fields surrounding it. We’re off the grid. There’s enough space that I built a platform for my industrial meat grinder, and I dug a large offal pit for any extra meat I collect. Offal pits aren’t something you usually find in California, but a week after I moved here, I began digging. Pork spleens, lamb brains, beef hearts and tongues, any organs or scraps discarded and left to rot get added to the six-foot-deep hole. Depending on the weather, the odor can get worse than the dump, and sometimes the larvae and the odd wild animal get to the meat. But if you add enough salt, they stay away. 

 

When I get time, I grind and freeze the salted meat for further preservation; I even custom ordered an oversized hopper to chop up the biggest chunks of meat. And when the urges come, I always have the offal pit to come back to. Rotting meat, salted or not, feels better than a silicone sleeve. It feels real, and with the gamey stench in my nose, I can almost pretend it’s a dead woman. 

 

That’s part of why I like living alone. You can’t predict if your housemate will appreciate your conservation efforts or your sexual needs. You also can’t know if they’ll hate what you’re doing and report it, or worse, if they’ll leave you.

 

Still, I dream of having a woman here. 

 

A rabbit bounces across the dirt driveway. I imagine a predator somewhere, a wolf maybe, stalking it. Waiting for the right moment to strike. A feast waiting to be devoured.

 

The cool wind whips past my cheek. The landfill’s compactor shudders on, the engine’s whine reminiscent of a semi truck; it’s one of the only reminders of civilization out here. Unless you invite someone to these fields, cars don’t come down this way. And as there’s no reason for the power lines out here, I keep a generator at the back of the mobile home. I switch it on, and it powers the house. I also have a small one inside for my fridge and freezer. You can never be too careful with food.

 

I toss the beef tongue and heart into the offal pit. The organs slop on top of the pink and green sea, and flies buzz out of the hole to greet me. I smack them away, then grab a sack of salt and pour some over the top of the pit. Then, after shoveling some salted organs into a wheelbarrow, I take one scoop at a time up the steps to the industrial grinder. The meat slops into the giant hopper. I power on the grinder, and it rattles away. The raw flesh sloshes into the oversized funnel, and the metal blades chirp like a million dying birds. Not many people would appreciate my hobby, but it gives me a sense of control and reassurance that I’ll never be left unsatisfied.

 

As I’m storing the first batch of ground meat in a plastic container, the low rumble of a car cuts through the metallic grinding. I turn off the machine. 

 

A car is parked in the driveway, and at the front of the home, a brunette with light skin beams at me.

 

No makeup. That’s good.

 

I clutch my filet mignon to my side and wave with my free hand.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I had an emergency.”

 

“No big deal. Let’s eat.”

 

I open the front door, and she enters the home before me. She studies the dried hydrangea wreath clinging to the door hook. Pink rose wallpaper peels in sections of the home, and an old box TV sits on the floor of the living room. I don’t use it much. There’s not much I’m invested in updating out here, unless it has to do with meat.

 

The brunette points at an old circular photograph. “Is that your mother? She’s gorgeous.”

 

I peek at the brunette’s bare legs: skinny, scrawny little things. Nothing more than chicken thighs. Not that I mind. You can enjoy a lean thigh every now and then, especially with the right preparation.

 

“She is pretty,” I say.

 

I head to the kitchen and unwrap the butcher paper. Even with the hint of sulfur and iron wafting up from the meat, I can smell something else. Something synthetic. I wrinkle my nose. Perfume. The brunette’s perfume. Honeysuckle, maybe.

 

A headache blooms across my forehead. I grit my teeth and shove it all down. This escort service is new to my patronage, but I told them to keep her as natural as possible. Honeysuckle is technically a natural scent, but it’s too floral for me.

 

I’m already irritated. 

 

She’s not wearing makeup though. I have to give them credit for that. Besides, I need this to work. Tomorrow, I’ll meet Mona for the first time, and I don’t want to blow my load the second I shake hands with my dream girl. 

 

I gesture toward the bathroom. “Help yourself,” I say to the escort. “Lay on the dining table when you’re ready.”

 

“Thanks, baby.” She disappears behind the closed door.

 

My groin tingles as I listen: the faucet runs, the toilet flushes, and fabric swishes against skin. There’s still hope. Even if she’s wearing perfume, she has to be enough to satiate my needs tonight. I have to give her a fair shot.

 

The bathroom door opens. The dining table creaks. I lick my lips and head toward my meal.

 

The brunette lies on the teal-painted table. Black silk covers her breasts and cunt. 

 

My back pinches, the strain aching through my body. I had specifically asked the manager for a woman who would be naked on my dinner table, as close to a basic, quiet woman as possible. No makeup. No jewelry. No perfume. No fucking lingerie. It’s not hard. My only special request—the reason the last escort company refused my continued business—was the willingness to do knife play. 

 

The table’s teal paint is cracked underneath her, and it exposes splotches of the brown wood. Almost like her. An unnecessary blotch on my plate. 

 

I blink and center myself. Perhaps she’s the only one willing to participate in knife play.

 

I can make this work. 

 

I have to give her a chance.

 

It’s just a fantasy, I remind myself. It’s not like I’m actually going to eat her.

 

I slap the piece of raw meat on her stomach—one of the only places that’s completely bare—and she wiggles, her lips coiling into a smile. 

 

“So cool,” she coos. “It feels good.”

 

My jaw clenches. I don’t engage. I avoid her eyes as I use the steak knife on the meat. Translucent red juices run down her skin. The serrated edge of the blade cuts through the filet, hitting her stomach, and she jolts and moans like she’s performing for a camera.

 

“Hurt me,” she whimpers.

 

My upper lip curls. It’s a line meant for a stage show. Is she making fun of me?

 

“Has your food ever made a noise like that?” I ask flatly. 

 

“I’m just having so much fun, baby.” She giggles. Fury clouds my vision, and she licks her lips. “Come on, baby. Eat me. Eat me like you’re the big bad wolf.”

 

I drop the knife, then rub my forehead so hard that I see stars. Meat doesn’t speak. Meat doesn’t respond like it’s a joke to them. Meat doesn’t act like I’m some kind of freak to be laughed at in the middle of a circus.

 

Meat simply exists. Meat is ready to provide for you. Meat gives.

 

Most escorts are like this though. They indulge through theatrics. Sometimes, I can get past the obnoxious acting; today, when I’m so close to meeting my dream girl, my patience is thin. I just need this to satiate me until tomorrow.

 

This bitch can’t even do that.

 

“What?” the brunette asks, suddenly aware that I’m upset. “What is it?”

 

I take several hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet, exactly what I owe her. I can’t tell her what to do, but I can end this exchange before my temper gets out of control. I’m not an animal, and I refuse to let my anger control me. 

 

They always bolt anyway. 

 

“I asked for someone who wouldn’t mock me,” I say, a hard edge to my tone.

 

She sits up and clutches the filet to her stomach like she can salvage this. “You really just wanted me to pretend to be dead?”

 

I hand her the money. “Lie there. Don’t speak. It’s not hard.”

 

Thoughts ricochet behind her eyes as she processes my words. I shouldn’t have said anything. They always get offended. But for fuck’s sake, she’s the one who doesn’t understand simple directions. The fucking idiot.

 

She snatches the money, and the steak slaps onto the table. She rolls her eyes.

 

“If you wanted someone to play dead, it’d be cheaper to fuck a piece of raw meat,” she scoffs.

 

I glance in the direction of the industrial meat grinder. I suppose that’s true. It’s my go-to when the daydreams are too hard to contain. 

 

I wanted someone alive tonight, a woman with a beating heart. Like Mona.

 

The brunette pulls her dress over her head. The meat juices soak into the fabric. She stomps to the front door. 

 

“I’m a sex worker,” she says. “I’m good at playing pretend, but I’m not a piece of meat.”

 

I shake my head. “Good for you.”

 

The door slams shut behind her. Within a few seconds, her car’s engine dissipates, and then there’s only the hum of the generator and the soft cries of the insects outside.

 

She wouldn’t understand my fantasies. Practically no one can. 

 

But there’s a chance Mona will.