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JAG

We talked for a while, and when the music changed to something familiar, I asked her to dance.  As we did our best 80’s moves, I motioned for her to lean towards me, as if I had something to tell her, and when she got close enough, I kissed her.  And she kissed me back.

From that first kiss a la femme, I knew that everything I had thought of myself in childhood was true (influenced by movies, commercials, ad campaigns, and music) .  I definitely liked girls.   I also realized that my comfort zone was equally as correct.  It felt good to be “butch”.

With experience and time, I also learned that I liked a little “bad ass” in my ladies, even in their looks.  The Bad Ass Blonde (BAB) with wit, brains, a sense of humor and just a touch of sport (the Sporty Femme) was perfect.  But did such perfection exist?  In my heart, I knew that I could not be happy with anything less, but I was told that this would be my problem:  I was searching for a fantasy.  No woman could be all that.  She didn’t exist.  Ah, but that didn’t mean I didn’t try to find her.

En route, I rode the butch roller coaster, going from tomboyish to hard core dyke (aka “is that a girl or a boy?”).    Not only in dress but in existence.  The only time I can recall being passive is the first time I met a “real” lesbian.  I was at a birthday party in all my just-out baby butchness, wearing a black tank top, Bugle Boy cargo pants, Polo boots and a Members Only jacket.  If memory serves, the cologne of the moment was Grey Flannel.  My cologne choices were largely influenced by my mother.  I studied her choices of gifts for the men in her life with enthusiasm and incorporated them into my personal style.

Her name was Selena, and once she spotted me, obviously with some sort of “lesbian virgin alert” beaming brightly around me like neon lighting, she pursued me with enthusiastic vigor.  By the end of the evening, I was claimed and branded (but didn’t quite realize what had happened).  By the next date, she proclaimed us girlfriends and by the end of the third date, I knew what “all the fuss” was about.  We lasted a whole three months.  However, in that time I received quite a schooling, and by the time the second lesbian I had ever met became my second girlfriend, I not only knew what “all the fuss” was about, I knew how to cause it.  I also learned that I much preferred to cause it, becoming a Top and taking much pleasure in giving pleasure.  I found out that orgasms come in many forms, one of the most powerful being mental and emotional.

Over the years, I would say my personal definition of being butch is perpetually evolutionary.  At times it’s been a fashion statement.  At other times it’s been a state of mind, attitude, sexual position and even a sexual boundary (refer to “stone butch” and “untouchable”).  I know that the real butch in me has grown and evolved more in the past three years than in the past three decades.  The adventure continues in new and exciting ways thanks to my partner.  Being “butch” has never been better….

I awoke to the sound of clinking beer bottles, bumping glass in a bag carried drunkenly around the corner.  Ravished with hunger, I gave no thought as to who or what might greet me and proceeded towards my destination.

A couple sat on a bench, kissing and running their hands desperately all over one another.  The man clutched the bag of beer on one hand, trying to keep his grip as he became more and more excited.  With greater speed than I even knew was possible, I raged towards them, shoved the man’s head into the wall, crushing it like an overripe melon as the bag fell from his hands and the contents shattered within.

Then I reached for the woman.

Shoving her head downward, I held her mouth tightly shut, muffling her screams as I pinned her down and tried to plunge extended fangs into her jugular vein.  Based on the myths, I thought this was supposed to be instinctual, something natural and automatic, but her veins rolled as I tried to pierce them, and again and again, I found flesh.

Her entire throat resembled ground hamburger, flesh ripped in jagged pieces partially splattered here and there, a piece or two stuck to my chin, caked on with clotting blood and what was left of her life.  Instead of piercing the vein, I ripped it in two, bathing the both of us in crimson paint that quickly dried into a dark brown goo sticking to us like mud dried in the sun.

I looked at her, dead eyes looking somewhere out in the distance, head hanging on by a few leftover strands of muscle and bone.  Suddenly, panic hit me, and I realized that I needed to find someplace to hide until I got another chance to walk the dark.

Leaving both corpses, I ran towards the warehouses along the Buffalo Bayou and broke open a door.  Wandering through the maze of goods in storage, I located a spot in a far corner and burrowed myself into it until it was safe again to come back out.

Usually I’m not one to obsess. A body is a body is a body, amounting to little more than a collection of juice boxes. Suck and toss. Disposable just like everything else at this point in history. They’re a bunch of consumers, vampires in their own way. Strange how they miss the parallel.

But on occasion, someone comes along and distinguishes themselves as more than a consumable good. Such is what happened on that night, when I saw her. The amount of life coursing through her veins, strong and fearless, so in your face, as they say, demanded more study. When you live as long as we do, any spark along the centuries gets your attention. It’s the only life we have left.

I quickly found myself hunting in the neighborhood, just a convenient excuse to be nearby, hoping to get another glimpse of her. After a week and half of feeding on the homeless, crack junkies and whores (some of whom qualified as all three), I saw her again.

Luckily, the years had been kind, and I had mastered shape changing. A second chance would require a new form, and I quickly adopted one and walked across the street towards her. She was carrying two large boxes and the muscles in her arms bulged sweetly, one large vein in her right arm particularly obvious and throbbing – calling.

Waiting for the right moment, I stepped in just as she slightly slipped on a wet patch of brick.

“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, thanks,” she replied with partial suspicion as she quickly re-composed and pulled back into her personal space.
“Would you like any help?”
“No, I’m fine.”

She quickened her step and walked confidently towards the Cock’s Crow, an English pub and restaurant on the strip. I met her at the door and held it open.

“My destination as well,” I politely explained, looking rather suspect in her eyes I could tell.

“Well, thanks again,” she replied as she made her way past me and met with the owner who was waiting at the bar for her.

I ordered a draft and sat at a table, trying not to look too conspicuous while I held what would become a warm beer. That’s the only way I can even begin to stomach it. I remember in the other life how refreshing an ice cold beer used to be, sweating with ice and dripping cold droplets down its glass body to the floor. I was especially fond of one after sex, a memory that always takes me back to one steamy summer night in Houston. The last night I was human.

My Maker found me in a state of deep despair. I had lost my parents and my two sisters in a train accident. Derailment. I was waiting to pick them all up at the train station when I got the news.

Paralyzed, I sat on a bench until they finally closed and threw me out. I didn’t know where to go, my heart crushed and numb simultaneously. I stared up at the quarter moon and got lost in my confused thoughts. I wanted to die. And like the answer to a prayer, He showed up literally out of thin air.

As soon as I looked into His eyes, I knew, and I wasn’t afraid. I just wanted to feel something, anything, other than what I was feeling at that moment. I wanted to forget.

He held out His hand and smiled. I accepted His offer and together we walked to a dark corner where He proceeded to press me in between the two walls. No escape, in case I had a second thought. I closed my eyes and let Him manipulate my body into position.

Upon penetration, I gasped and wrapped my arms around Him, holding on as the pain ripped into the vein, warmth flowing freely into His anxious mouth sucking me into Him.

As I slowly began to feel weaker and weaker, I told him to take me with Him. He paused and looked at me.

“Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll not be responsible for you, so don’t think you’re going to get a new daddy or anything.”
“Fine. Just take me.”
“You promise. You won’t hold me responsible?”
“Yes, I swear it.”

And with that, He opened His wrist and forced it against my mouth. I thought I would vomit at first but in a matter of seconds, I was drinking down His blood with enthusiasm. So much so, that He had to force me away from Him.

“There, it’s done. Now, you just die and when you wake up, you’ll be vampire.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here. It won’t take long since you want it so badly. Now, I bid you adieu.”

As my human eyes lost their sight, I watched a shadow disappear into the darkness, taking my humanity with Him.

Lost

Outsider

Alone

No connection to life

Every intimate piece in the ground

Remains  in the hands of others walking by

I read an interview with a popular author who claims her writing about vampires and their relationships  as not promoting pre-marital sex. Well, before we crossed over recently into giving vampires full physical sexual function and access, fanging was vampire sex. And in case you haven’t noticed, nipping, nibbling and biting to various degrees is very much a sexually exciting act. The symbolism of fangs erupting hard and erect, piercing virgin skin, blood dripping as the “victim” is penetrated and “taken” has been a sexual metaphor since the first appearance of the vampire genre. “Victims” are traditionally female and virgins. Perhaps while not literally promoting sex, we must acknowledge that a vampire story is not “just” a vampire story.

I watched her cross the unusually quiet boulevard, streetlamps glistening with freshly fallen rain, the click of her heals softening in splashes kissing her soles. Not sure where she’d come from, I stood silently at the bus stop, hoping the bus would not arrive and give away my deception. My car was parked on the corner. Since I first noticed her leaving the building, I made sure I was in a spot where I could continue my observation.

She was exquisite. Business professional. Shoulder length blond hair that most assuredly shimmered in those delicious natural 31 flavors in the sun. Healthy body. Firm but not too hard. She had to be involved in something seriously demanding. She looked like a fighter, an Amazon, if you will. Stunning.

Her scent carried on the evening breeze calling me, beckoning me, if I dared. Usually this was not a problem. But there was something about her. She was not to be stalked. She was not prey. She wasn’t even a trophy. She was, however, something else.

Most mortals have no idea how many of us watch them. They have no idea about what’s around them at any given moment, so self-absorbed in their minimalist minds with their limited vision. They’re much too easy, almost completely taking the fun out of it. And just when I was about to add this one to the list, she turned and stared me straight in the eye.

Time stood still, and neither one of us moved. She remained in a puddle, caring only about who this figure was across the street, watching her. I swallowed out of habit. I really had no need. Leftover human qualities that even the centuries could not erase. You can draw out the vampire within the human, but you can’t draw out the human in the vampire. Not completely. Not for those of us that had come so far down the bloodline that our genetics didn’t know what to do anymore.

Purebloods were almost extinct. We’d been interbred far too much. The question wasn’t whether you still had human in you but the quantity that remained in you. Urban legends told of vampires who could actually exist in total daylight without any unfortunate side effects. So the legends go.

Her eyes strengthened as she examined me and then she took three bold steps forward, heading straight for me. Half smiling, I crossed the street and headed towards my car.

“Do you have a problem,” she shouted as I opened the car door. To my surprise, she rushed up to the door and wanted to know what my “fucking problem was.” I lowered the window. “Just thought I knew you. I’m very sorry.”

“Fuckin’ idiot,” she gruffly spat out as she turned and walked away, looking over her shoulder and catching me watching her, to which she immediately responded to by shooting the bird at me and murmuring off about the perverts in the neighborhood. I shook my head, disappointed that I had not handled the situation better. So much for first impressions, I thought as I drove back to my sanctuary.

*** A vampiric tale in the making whispered through the fangs of Alyxis de Leon (a “Veinity Works” Project)