Dawn Olmo

There’s just something about guns. I don’t know what it is. I can guess, though. Maybe it hearkens back to days of old, back to the time when men were men and women were hit over the head with a club if a man wanted her. Throughout time, men were the breadwinners, the food killers, the hot, hunky, tasty home protectors. They knew what they wanted, and they took it, or killed it. If you read any romance book, any at all, the men resemble that description. They are muscular, strong, and commanding. They only show their softer sides to the ladies they love, and only then when it seems they may be losing them. I could analyze that idea a bit more in-depth as well. How many people have been with a man like that? Sure, he shows his feelings, but not all the time, and not as much as he will if it looks like he may be on the verge of losing you to another piece of man-flesh. MmmmMMm man-flesh.

Anyway, whenever I see Dee cocking his pistol, or when I know he’s carrying, I get a little tingly. I find it sexy and scary. “What if it goes off?” I think. “What if, God forbid, something horrible happens right this minute, and I lose him forever?” There is this urge I get, this wanting to touch him while he’s touching it. Is that, what do those old people call it? TMI? Am I sharing too much? I don’t think so, I’m sure others out there can and will agree with me. I’m sure if he had a hobby of collecting bows and arrows it’d be the same. If I saw him pulling back on a string, all taught and quivering… yeah I can see that.

Now, here is where the title comes in. We’re upstairs, finally, after having forced Yvonne to watch Zombieland. My back is killing me, I’m tired as hell, and all I can think about is how nice it will be to lie down and maybe, perhaps, sleep. He brings up a box of ammo (unbeknownst to me) and takes the gun out of the safe and removes the clip. He recently bought “defensive” ammo (which mostly means the bullet won’t go through a body, therefore killing innocent bystanders) and wanted to change out the non-defensive bullets that were currently in the clip. Let me correct myself. It isn’t a clip, it’s a magazine. A clip is when the bullets are exposed, like in the old machine guns. A magazine is when the bullets are enclosed. I correct Dee all the time for his silly English snafu’s, he can correct me for inane gun-part names.

So, I look over and see him pulling back the slide, after having replaced the magazine. Now and then he forgets his 1911 has a hammer, and so the bullet wouldn’t pop into the chamber. This causes the slide to stay open. All I saw was him, pulling back the slide, looking all sexy and gangsta.

I wanted him. In that moment, the pain in my back, the long-ass day at school, the drive to and from Cheney, all these things were far away from my brain. My libido had kicked in. (This doesn’t happen often, just ask him.) I’d been chattering about something inconsequential when I noticed this, and he was doing his best to ignore me as he tried to figure out why the bullet wouldn’t engage. I ignored his ignoring of me and said, “Hey you know what?” I was going to tell him how sexy he was, and how much I wanted to throw him down and make sweet love to him. (Please don’t vomit, that hurts me.)

Instead, without even looking at me, he said, “What! I’m kinda doing something here!”

Instantly, I felt like weeping. Like crying and bawling like a big old baby, and I knew it was stupid for me to feel that way. I mean, he was holding something that was potentially dangerous, something that could perhaps maim or kill either of us, and I was thinking with my she-dick.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being a tad too touchy.

But, he doesn’t know what he missed, because my libido shriveled into its regular tiny, cranky, dried-up husk and went to sleep. I may be too touchy, but now he’s not getting any touchy. Ha! So there.

Now, my back hurts again. I’m going to curl up with my netbook and read some more from Life After Death by Jennifer Adams, and then, maybe sleep. Perhaps to dream. I wonder if I will dream of some hot, hunky, hunter from the great unknown, training his pistol into the distance, telling me, “Stay back, love. Something dark and wicked this way comes.”