A light switch came on in Jasper’s brain. Why didn’t he go somewhere colder? The same things he loved about beach communities—seemingly designed for transient living and those who preferred to stay anonymous, in addition to having a guaranteed population of working professionals and wealthy residents—possibly went for winter-weather resort areas as well. He’d grown up in the South and had never dreamed of leaving the humid heat, but maybe a break from the heat was just what he needed. Particularly after Elizabeth. With that one, simply crossing the state line might not be enough for her to lose his scent.
He scratched gently at his balls; he hadn’t shaved them for a few days, not since the breakup. They always caused a pleasant response in women. “So soft!” Moley E. had exclaimed the first time. “I didn’t know they were like that without hair. I always thought balls felt more like elbow skin.” She’d pinched his scrotum between her thumb and middle finger, rolling it like satin finery. “It’s like your balls are made out of rose petals.” This exclamation had made him feel sad for her somehow, like he was spoiling her forever. In a few months, when she’d somewhat recovered from the shock of loss—both of her money and of her illusion of love—and found a new boyfriend, Jasper supposed that boyfriend would have hairy balls. Unusually hairy, even. It seemed fate was like that. It would be a tough transition for her, though maybe, Jasper had reasoned, that would be for the best. Maybe from now on, hairy balls would feel like safety to her. Maybe anything that wasn’t smooth would. Maybe she’d purposely start to buy low-thread-count sheets that scratched, single-sheet toilet paper with no quilting. In fact, before they’d even finished having sex the very first time, Jasper had already begun to decide it was Elizabeth’s fault that she didn’t realize what a foreshadowing his smooth balls were—that she couldn’t see it was all going to slip through her fingers so easily.
JASPER HAD BEEN IN THE SAME LARGE BEACH TOWN FOR NEARLY A year now, and in his line of work that was too long. For a few years he’d been uncharacteristically diligent at holding himself to a six-month deadline then relocating. Self-control didn’t come naturally to him; he found schedules boring, but the money responded well to this routine—it was eerie how he was able to chart out the courtship, the committed and loving relationship, and then the con into three symmetrical parts, like acts of a play. The formula paid off but it grew dull. Eventually he noticed he was staying longer, letting things get more heated, thinking about trying to fit in a second con with those who seemed particularly gullible.
Instead he’d kept up the same pace but had dropped more lines into the water, and clearly he was getting distracted—Moley E. finding him was proof of that. He’d grown sloppy. A year in the same city was careless, which was why it had been exciting.
He needed to go. He’d take in one last sunset by the ocean and pack up.
The sun was sliding low, toward the waves, seemingly melting down a little smaller and thinner as it went, but the day’s heat was still tightly packed in the air; someone needed to lift a giant lid off the sky. He walked farther and farther into the water until the waves crested up against his shoulders and chin, then he relaxed and went limp, floating. Soon there were only the ocean and the sun, the unmoving heat and the endless drum of the water. He closed his eyes and felt flattened between these two forces. He loved the lobotomized feeling he got from putting his ears beneath the water, hearing nothing of the world. His groin began to swell with a halfhearted erection.
Then something struck Jasper in the face. Hard. So hard his entire body slammed down beneath the water and hit the ocean floor.
He should panic, he knew. But moving wasn’t easy. In his head he heard an affectless female voice, a somewhat arousing one, begin saying the word “suffocation,” repeating it with clear enunciation, like a word in a spelling bee. He could imagine that might be death’s style—to talk in a sexy voice that made people want to give up and quit fighting.
Gradually his limbs came back online, tingly and a little painful, as though they’d all fallen asleep. He managed to sit up and push himself to the surface. Jasper took a few relieved breaths. What the hell was all that?
Then the water next to him parted with an unexpected ripple; his eyes startled open and were hit with saltwater from his drenched hair. The stinging blindness that followed brought true fear.
Had she followed him to the beach?
“Elizabeth?” he called out worriedly. His stomach was churning. “Honey, I’m so glad you’re here. You’re right, we need to talk.” He tried to scan for threats with his cloudy vision, but the motion of the waves made it impossible to tell in what direction he should look. Then he felt an unmistakable thigh graze: something was moving in the water around his legs.
Jasper stumbled back. Dread and self-pity were knotting in his chest. Something had just nosed his groin. He pictured Elizabeth in scuba gear, kneeling on the ocean floor holding a length of piano wire. About to attempt castration.
He needed to get to shore.
Jasper started pumping his arms, then the sensation of being painfully and forcefully goosed came over him. Something launched his body several feet forward in the water; his head submerged. He came up coughing. “Moley E., please!” he howled, then howled again in raw distress—he had accidentally cried out her secret-joke name.
If she hadn’t been certain whether or not she was going to go through with it and actually take his manhood, now he had convinced her. It was coming any instant. Then he’d have to end his life in a eunuch suicide, all because of his big mouth. If only he’d said, Liz, please, instead. If he’d just said it tenderly enough to her, he probably could’ve turned things around.