Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll

Its 6:04 on a Saturday morning, and the woman I fed on the night before is running her tongue enticingly along the length of my cock. I fade from blissful unconsciousness to start analyzing her wants; those shared unwittingly between the temporary blood-bond between us, as well as those expressed in the scent of her hormones and the poignant scent of the moisture between her legs. My second-favorite silk sheets are rumpled and stained with various fluids. I hate how my hair smells like her.

She wants me again.

I don’t begrudge her. I’m really at my weariest and most obliging. I focus on making myself erect to her satisfaction. As if the slow, warm strokes and pressures against the head of my cock were really the deepest, most pleasurable incentive for my mind and body. It’s not that I don’t enjoy her sucking on me. She’s not by far my best, but she isn’t unskilled. I try to push the thoughts out of my mind, relax, and let the rest come naturally.

I pretend as if she was doing me a favor.

I moan softly for her benefit. She’ll want a “favor” in return. I’d love to give her another massage. I gave her one last night, but she stopped my gentle fingertips to push me back onto my back. I went. A massage is not the favor she wants. With hundreds of years of intellect and knowledge, it’s still beyond me. Women used to like gentle affection. After I climax and she licks me clean, I kiss her deeply; soothingly, tasting myself on her, careful to not disturb the still-tender flesh on her neck.

She doesn’t remember being fed off of. In fact, if you ask her tomorrow, she will laugh off vampires as those cheap peel-off Halloween stickers with capes and glowing eyes. I was careful to daze her mind and heal her wounds adequately enough that all she remembers is the sex, and passes her dehydrated exhaustion off as the effects of too much beer and physical exertion.

She finally curls against me again. She strokes my chest, watching my face intently. I wrap a gentle arm around her. She likes the way my skin feels against hers.

I sense that the cause of her current minor distress is that she can’t remember my name. My name is Saia (Saiathimarael Imionara-Yjansar is as close as it can be reproduced in English phonemes).

After a moment, I laugh reassuringly, pressing my lips against her overly-highlighted hair and pretending to tentatively guess the question, “My name’s Sean.”

Even if I could tell her, I wouldn’t really want her using my real name. The spiteful thought is inappropriately trite and immature for someone of my age.

Her name is Jessica Ann Scott and she was born on December 15, 1979. I could tell you what her first day of Kindergarten was like, who her first secret crush was, or every minor thing she hates about the portly woman who sits in the cubicle across from her at work. (Of course, I won’t; that’s personal.) Anyway, I feel her embarrassment. Jessica Ann Scott blushes slightly in admission of guilt and then giggles somewhere against my stomach.

“I’m Jessica. I mean, if you like… forgot… Sorry…”

I force a charming, boyish laugh and roll gracefully on top of her, brushing her hair back and caressing the spaces between her shoulder and her collarbone.

“Mmm…So, Jessica, what are you feeling like this morning?” I whisper seductively. My soft grey eyes meet her sky blue. She’s got that “naughty” glint in them again.

Her answer is supposed to pleasure and surprise me. It won’t. But I hope. Someone as “wise” as I am isn’t supposed to hope. All outcomes result from multiple stimuli and probabilities of varying complexity, and in this case the outcome was exceedingly easy to predict.

She murmurs against me, toying with my fingers and one of my nipples, “Fuck me again, Sean. Like you did last night…”

Spem perdidi…So much for hope.

I kiss and caress my way slowly down her chest and abdomen, and delicately lick her thighs for a rewarding gasp before I settle my hands on them and position my head between her legs. She strokes me softly as I start to pleasure her with my lips and tongue. This is more fun. I wish it could stay like this…

“Oh, god… Sean…!”

Please do not make the mistake of taking me for a prude or as sexually dysfunctional. I enjoy giving and receiving pleasures and amusements with both my human and vampire friends and Family. I am attractive (by this era’s standards – my luck hasn’t always been so good). I have a fit and supple body. I’m skilled enough to pull off pretty much any pose in the Karma Sutra, except for one on page 16 of my copy that’s been giving me a bit of trouble. I’ve been told I taste pretty damn good (in multiple senses). And sure, I don’t mind describing sexual acts in enough detail to make a porn director blush.

What I don’t like is being so roughly used; a glorified sex toy to be used and thrown away by a partner in the morning.

She’s ready for me, so I leisurely tease her body before the first thrust.

And now… before you stop reading in bemused disgust, I know what you’re asking yourself: “What the hell kind of guy is he? The dipshit complains about being good-looking and sleeping with lots of people!”

I’m old. In fact, I’m older than the vast majority of dirt on the planet. I know this courtesy of a college geology course I took in the 1960s. In conclusion, I’m really, fucking, goddamn Old. My needs and drives have changed. Sex is an amusement, but not a motivation anymore. The predatory need to feed conflicts with my overwhelming need to protect my offspring.

I’m inside her now, but all I want to do is stop and kiss and caress her for hours. I want carry her slender body to my shower and wash each inch of her in painstaking detail without ending up penetrating her. I want to melt into her mind like I did last night and share my most intimate feelings with her before I do beautiful things to her body.

“Harder!” She moans pleadingly, clawing my back in delight. The little abrasions heal almost instantly. I surrender to her whims; I wasn’t being rough enough for her. That isn’t such a new request at all. I pretend to enjoy hurting her fragile body. Hell, I pretend to be able to stand it.

Maybe I can at least get her some breakfast after we’re done. Her weakened body needs fluids. I mentally kick myself and try to think like her previous partners… losing my awareness to the moist warmth and sensations around my cock and her intense need. I will myself to stop thinking. I savor her pleasure mixed with mine, but her pain is killing me.

So why’d I coax this chick back to my condo after the club last night?

For the purposes of concealing my identity in the unabashed world of security cameras and the internet, I can’t build an emotional attachment to the majority of the people I feed off of. Relationships with humans would put me and my companion at risk. Young vampires almost always learn that lesson the hard way. I know I did; and the world has gotten much more observant and dangerous in the long interim since then. So my choices are charming men and women I meet in clubs into one-night-stands, paying for prostitutes, or stalking unwilling “victims” in less populated parts of the city. I’ve never made my peace entirely with either of the latter.

And the Goths wearing black at the back of the club? They’re the worst. Grateful and submissive at first; but they always end up a threat; either doing anything they can think of to be Turned or bragging to the wrong people.

For those of you kind souls who recommend packaged medicinal or animal blood, I suggest you try to find some on EBay and buy it every two weeks for the next year without anyone you would rather avoid asking questions.

Besides, animal blood tastes like shit.

If you were wondering, Jessica tastes like microwave dinners, late night episodes of Friends, soy lattes, three other partners, low-carb beer, and a copious amount of L’Oreal makeup.

I used to enjoy the taste of a virgin; pleasuring his or her tender body through soft lovemaking or other methods than mindless fucking. Do you have any idea how hard it has become to find a virgin in the last fifty years? While the legal age of consent has remained more than adequate, the age in which girls find it appropriate to allow themselves meaningless abuse and risk of worse has catastrophically collapsed.

All of it has nothing to do with the patriarchal dominance and need to reproduce which one finds in less advanced cultures. The laws in most influential countries protect women and children; it’s about damn time. Nevertheless, girls who I would like to protect and teach wear their promiscuity like a mark of passage. The few humans who remain celibate into adulthood are so antisocial, sickly, or devout that I don’t dare try to coerce them home with me. I like that women have gotten stronger and bolder. But they are unaware that the world has gone horribly wrong against them at the same time.

I wish I could hold her all day. I wish I could take her out for a moonlight stroll tomorrow night, my arm around her like a favorite Childe. I wish I could explain everything to her and that that would make it Better. I wish those things wouldn’t end up with immense suffering for us both.

Men? I really have no preference. Especially for something so devoid of real intimacy to me, when the real pleasure and sensual intimacy is asexual. Some things about some men have gotten better, I’ll give you that. I fed on a man last month who was deliciously waxed and soft with ample use of lotion. I really enjoyed that. But other things…. Their minds are frequently full of such violence. The primal struggle for dominance remains; repressed but waiting for an outlet. Minds apathetic to movies and games that numb every bit of shock and pity for people being hurt, maimed, and killed horribly. I’ve fought in eighteen wars and countless battles and it still makes me nauseous.

(That violence, of course, isn’t totally limited to men. I’ve been shocked at the wanton aggression of some women as well.)

Anger isn’t new to me; these 21st century bipolar needs for orderly, sterile perfection and fantastically intense violence and pleasure are something dreadful and new. Similar repression and release existed in the Victorian era; but it was never so appalling. People at least pretended to feel compassion and continued to show courtesy despite their perversities.

It’s the age of the internet, and the human race is about sex, drugs, and Rock and Roll.

Oh, and she’s not a “slut”, you know. (I use the term loosely as I have no problem with mature humans mutually enjoying sensuality.) Maybe that’s what you were assuming. Truth be told, she’s a pretty ordinary young woman. A hundred like her live in my memories now…

I feel her orgasm in my mind and in her body. I let the pleasure take me along with as I come inside of her, and for a tiny instant my mind is peacefully silent.

Jessica goes to her unrewarding job on weekdays; she comes home tired to an apartment that isn’t good enough, she gets into fights with her mom and dad on the phone, and she forgets those fights over the colors and sounds and smells of holiday meals. She laughs and cries. She sings in the shower. She gets dumped by guys and dumps other guys for reasonable as well as fantastically insignificant reasons. She worries about her weight; even though I consider her unhealthily thin. She goes out to the clubs with her girlfriends on the weekends to try to forget, and because she’s lonely. She wants to be someone… She’s ugly and beautiful in all the ways she thinks she isn’t and I love her for all of it.

But I’m delving into too many of her personal details again.

This story is not about Jessica.

This story is about you.