Jason didn’t know what happened just before he was murdered. Sally, the young woman he’d met at the Red Lips club on Freemont Street warmed him about her pansexuality. Androgenous or metrosexual tendencies didn’t worry him. He never revealed his own Klinefelter’s Syndrome to anyone. His extra X chromosome and small testes development was personal, and it didn’t interfere with his overt sexuality. Sally picked his drugged-up wayward personality inside of Red Lips, a bar not so friendly. The small woman whose black column hair, and compact figure stuffed in hookers clothes was his type. Sally said her fetish was young, indifferent, slightly-off-centered handsome men. Jason would be her perfabulicious Brad Pitt Dirty Sanchez for the night.
After their engaging sexcapades at his apartment, Jason lay bawlsy on his back and snickered at Sally while she cut his thumb and rubbed their blood together. With the mixtures of alcohol and drugs he didn’t care what she did with him. After all, she was his type of woman. Three or four beers created chillaxing, and being topped off with a couple of snorts of white, a shot of morphine and a half dozen of Tylenol PM, he was good for at least two sexual climaxes and a blood lovers thumb slice. But the penis, don’t cut the penis. His last thought and last vision were watching Sally cut off his penis. Blood spurted everywhere. She held his manliness between her fingers and laughed at his paralyzed body.