Forward Slash. Mark Edwards

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      It’s why I do everything possible to ensure I never get caught.

      I methodically made my way through Soho’s grid of streets, looking into each bar I came to, checking to see if the Slut was in there. I didn’t bother with pubs – I didn’t think she would go to a scummy, crowded pub on a hot Sunday night. If she had a date, it would be somewhere a little more upmarket, though not too upmarket, unless she was punching considerably above her weight.

      Unable to stop myself, I popped into Agent Provocateur and picked up a few pieces. The girls in there are so different to the tramps walking around outside. Classy, educated. They are always welcoming, and whenever I go in there, I think I must look one or two of them up online. There is a young lady in there called Coco, who I at one point thought could be the love of my life, but she doesn’t appear to be on any social networks. I bought some double cuffs, a patent-leather paddle, some nipple pasties, a lovely Fifi slip and a white corset from the bridal range that gave me a hard-on just looking at it. I think Coco noticed. Her eyes were full of admiration.

      I found Katherine in a cocktail bar. I went in and sat with my back to her, watching her and her date in a mirror. He looked like a money man, a City idiot. He was loud, pawing at her, buying champagne and tipping it down his thick neck like there was no tomorrow. She kept throwing back her head and laughing, running her hands through her hair. I wondered if she genuinely liked him or was making these gestures because she knew that’s what men expect women to do.

      Between glasses of bubbly, the two of them also kept going off to the toilets and coming back sniffing and rubbing their noses, as subtle as two dogs fucking in the street. After I’d watched them do this a couple of times, I got up and went into the Gents’, and was washing my hands as City Boy was coming out of a cubicle.

      ‘Got a little powder showing,’ I said, touching the skin below my nose.

      He scowled at me and I thought how nice it would feel to smash his chubby face against the mirror. He had a scar cutting through his eyebrow and I wondered how he’d like a whole map of scars on his face. I said, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any spare?’

      He looked me up and down.

      ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a cop.’

      His lip curled. ‘Sorry, mate, only got my personal supply, you know what I mean? But come back tomorrow night and maybe I can sort you out.’

      ‘OK, thanks,’ I said, all smiles. ‘Who should I ask for?’

      ‘Fuck off,’ he replied.

      So he was a dealer. That was interesting, and useful.

      I finished my drink and went out. The disgusting party was still raging in the street. A girl was being sick in a shop doorway. I walked to Leicester Square and got a cab to visit an old acquaintance – let’s call him Joe – who deals coke. I told him I wanted the best stuff he had and he was happy to oblige.

      Joe had a flat in Chelsea. Nice pad, overlooking the river. He and I did some business together once. He’s an idiot but he had a reputation for being able to get hold of any drug ever snorted or injected by man, woman or beast.

      ‘I’m looking for some china white, too,’ I said.

      He gave me a surprised look. ‘What do you want that shit for?’ he asked.

      ‘It’s for a friend,’ I said. ‘A girlfriend.’

      ‘You know china white is, like, really fucking strong?’ he said. ‘I don’t sell that shit.’

      ‘But I bet you know a man who does, right? I’ll give you a referral fee, of course.’

      That persuaded him. He made a couple of calls, and next thing I knew it was being delivered like a takeaway pizza. Fentanyl. It’s like a synthetic form of heroin, a hundred times as potent. Joe looked at me like I was a cockroach as I left, but I was buzzing so much I forgave him.

      Then I booked into a hotel and watched porn for a few hours. I took the bridal corset out of the pretty Agent Provocateur bag and masturbated over it. The porn wasn’t as strong as my usual tastes but it had to do. I pictured her – not slutty Katherine, of course, I mean my new Number One girl, wearing the corset on our big night, bending over and telling me I was a good boy, the best boy, all grown-up and so big …

      Part of me wants to take her now. Grab her and carry her home, across the threshold and into the darkness. Knowing she’s out there now, living her life, unaware of my plans for us to be together, is a kind of delicious torture. But the time is not quite right. For now, I will have to continue to keep an eye on her. Everything about her ticks my boxes. She has the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the right proportions. As important as that, is the way she carries herself, the words she chooses to use. She is not coarse or tacky or trivial. She is intelligent and sensitive. She feels things strongly. I also sense that she has been wounded in the past, although by whom or what I don’t know. I picture her lying on my bed, happily secured, gazing up at me with respect and love, telling me all her secrets. I can’t wait to share my secrets with her too.

      To whisper in her ear as she exhales her final breath, to bathe in her blood and kiss her silent mouth.

      Sitting in the hotel room, aroused by this lovely fantasy that will soon be reality, I reminisced about my first Internet date, turning the corset over to its clean side and imagining it splashed with blood along with my come.

      I started using the Internet in the mid-nineties. Online dating already existed then but it was primitive and there was hardly anybody using it. There were very slim pickings. But I met a beautiful girl through one of those early sites.

      Her name was Diane. She was a northerner living in London in a pathetic bedsit. Lonely. Trying to make it as an actress. Extraordinarily pretty. Incredible tits – the ideal shape and size. In the perfect woman, her nipples should sit at 45 degrees from the top and point skywards. Plus, she should have a curvy hip-to-waist ratio of 0.7 and the distance between her eyes and mouth should be 36 per cent of the overall length of her face.

      Luckily, I’m not quite so fussy. I only want the perfect woman for me. But Diane could have been put in a museum as an example of physical perfection.

      She had a lovely vagina too. I still have it somewhere.

      I was Diane’s first Internet date, she said. I told her we were pioneers. She liked that. She had this chiming laugh that I’ve read can be highly appealing, so I ticked that off as a positive even though the sound made my brain throb.

      I took her out on a couple of dates. Traditional. I wined and dined her. I dazzled her with treats. She was a poor actress, living off Cup-a-Soup and thin white bread. Over dinner, I could tell she really liked me. She ticked all the boxes. She played with her hair, twirling it between her fingers, stroked the rim of her glass with her fingertips, pushed items on the table towards me, fiddled with the cheap necklace she was wearing. She looked at me then looked away before returning her gaze to me.

      Yes, she definitely liked me.

      She wanted to sleep with me on the second date. I was disappointed. The perfect woman waits until the third date. She was too easy. I was almost willing to give her another chance, as she was clearly overpowered by my masculinity, but I refuse to settle for anything less than perfection.

      It was a shame.

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