We met on online, and even though she seemed somewhat indifferent with her responses, we finally got together for drinks at a cozy second floor bar in West Philly. It was a quirky cash only spot above an Ethiopian restaurant and featured a live bluegrass quintet every week. We got to know each other a little better over beers, before the music started, while the scent of dried beef and stewed tomatoes wafted up the stairs. We talked about medications for depression and bipolar disorder, OCD, the abyss, etc. We talked about serial killers, and how Forensic Files is always on at the hotel tv when I travel. As the music got underway, they cleared out the tables, and we held hands while absorbing the passionate sounds of traditional American music. I dared kiss her. She kissed me back. And she moaned gently.

I said, “I like the way you moan.”

She asked, “Do you want to find out what other noises I can make?” I nodded and finished my beer.

On the way out, we both remarked how nice it felt outside. And since she was a huge fan of true crime and remarked that Philly Police are one of the most prolific serial killers, it would only make sense that we wound up standing outside 6221 Osage Avenue at one in the morning, talking about the historical marker that wasn’t there, and may never be, to canonize the murdered members of the MOVE organization. Just a simple, brick, two-story rowhome. I thought it would be taller.

We held hands and made out in the cool, late autumn night. Some windows were boarded up. But people still live here, on the 6200 block, and despite seeing no one, I felt we were overstaying our welcome.

Back in my car, we drove to pick up a friend of mine out front of a bar. He hopped in the back and he gave me the money and I gave him the weed and I drove him around the block while I fingered my date in the passenger seat up her skirt and under her jacket, and the whole time my friend was going on about something I couldn’t recall while this girl built a playlist on my phone, and the Animal’s version of “House of the Rising Sun” came on the Bluetooth and she came on my fingers, and she came quietly like a good girl with her eyes fixated on specters on the sidewalk, and I said, “I love this song,” and she said, “I know, Daddy,” right as I pulled up to the bar again and my friend said “aight thanks again” and hopped out.

Back at her place I sat on the bed, waiting for her to come back from the bathroom. I noticed a claw hammer under her nightstand, and could only assume its purpose,  so when she returned I asked her what she would’ve done if I had hidden away the hammer. She said she would have gone, “oh woops I forgot something” and taken a knife from the kitchen.

“What kind of knife?”

“A big one,” she said.

I nodded. “Personally I think a boning knife is the way to go.”

But we settled in, and it wasn’t long before she made me her “Daddy,” telling me I can do whatever I want to her, hit her anywhere, Daddy, just no blood, she only exists because I want her to, writhing on the bed, she wants to be a good girl, Daddy, she’s my princess, sheshe’s sorry Daddy, I only exist because you want me to I only exist because you want me to hurt me, Daddy, I can be whatever you want me to be I can be whatever you want I only exist because you want me to, Daddy, but what kind of monster calls a man her daddy one night and then never calls him again? Is there a power dynamic in being a deadbeat princess? Making someone your daddy takes certain responsibilities you must be ready for. But I never saw her again. 

In my frustration, I reached out to another girl I had one date with. It showed some promise of development, but while it turns out some women are huge fans of serial killers, and true crime, and celebrity murderers, other women don’t really appreciate jokes about John Hinkley in a string of overnight texts. That made two women I would never see again.