Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,2

herself in with me for the first jump. The guy turned out to be a romantic at heart, wanting to make love to both Maggie and I on a musty sleeping bag he’d spread out in the back of his Range Rover. It worked out well for us considering how many places there are in the hills to ditch a burnt-out douchemobile.

I had a couple of nibbles, but Maggie ate most of him; to be honest, it was not as bad as I’d expected, and while I certainly felt an urge to brush my teeth, I was left with a feeling of power that I’d never gotten from my summer internship as a dominatrix for war amputees.

I felt like centuries of manmade oppression were being swept away, tossed aside like a meat-stripped shin bone by two women who were building enough confidence to stand up for themselves.

The strangest thing about that night was that after we had done the deed, we never once felt like we’d be caught. They hadn’t even mentioned the missing douchebag or the torched car on the news, and since Juanessa was a detective at Robbery-Homicide, she let us know that no one in the LAPD was spending much time looking into it.

“It’s not some kind of morality play,” Maggie explained a few days later while we waited for our waffles at IHOP. “We eat the bad ones and leave the good boys and girls to rest up for next time, simply because no one cares if the douches die. Half the time the family thinks the guy’s just run off with a new mistress, or that he was into so much illegal shit it’s pretty much a given he’d disappear eventually.”

“Have any of you come close to being caught?” I asked.

“I’ve had a few close calls, but none of us has ever been arrested or anything. We’re too pretty to get into trouble... you know that.”

“That’s true,” I said. As far as the justice system was concerned we were all too cute to execute.

I changed the topic to Prop 8 as our Fresh ‘N Fruities arrived. Maggie then gave probably the best impression of closeted Mormon missionary boys making out that I’ve seen so far, so funny that I even blew a little bit of syrup out my nose.

I was really starting to fall for Maggie... big time.

And the best part was that I was pretty sure she was falling for me.

The best indication I had that I was now one of the succubus sisters was when Mia asked me to make a contribution for an upcoming bake sale, to benefit the teenaged victims of paranormal romances.

At first it was awkward as I tried to figure out just what kind of baking was expected, as I generally don’t consider any kind of raw flesh to be good in cookies or cakes, but Mia soon specified that chocolate was the most popular flavor among their buyers. I knew right then that I had the perfect recipe.

I rushed over to my dealer to get started.

I baked four dozen chocolate chip cookies, going pretty light on the pot butter just in case any kids would be buying. I was pretty well-known for my cookies back home in Bakersfield, having been in charge of the snack tent for the Police Officers Association’s Relay for Life three years in a row. I would have done it for a fourth, but by then the Hell’s Angels had taken control of most of the charity racket in the Central Valley.

The secret is to boil out all of the green and then strain it through an old Kenny Loggins t-shirt before you mix it in with the butter. Then you bake it, no pun intended, and you cover it in saran wrap and use a little bit of ribbon to make an attractive little bow. A big part of it is the presentation.

I sampled one, just a bite, and I knew I hadn’t lost my touch. My cookies would be a hit.

And I just couldn’t wait to share them with Maggie.

She was surprisingly drunk for ten in the morning, but since it was a Sunday I didn’t judge. She invited me into her apartment and after a quick session of doing what succubi do best, we sat together on her white leather couch watching the weekend forest fire smoke drift in from the southeast.

She’d put fresh white lilies into the long-necked crystal vase she kept on her side table. I leaned in and