Interview With A Gofer

Interview With A Gofer
by Kiernan Kelly


"Come on, come on! Hurry up! Yes, I know he' amazing. Yes, I know you're in love with him. Yes, I'm certain that he's very fond of you, too. Yes, I'm sure he'll call you. No, I'm not just saying that…well, actually, I am just saying that. He won't call but then again, you won't remember any of this in the morning anyway. That little love bite he gave you? You're going to think you nicked yourself shaving. No harm, no foul. Go home, twinkie boy."

Jesus. I just slammed the door in his face but I'll bet he's still on the other side, staring at the knocker, hoping to be let back in, those big blue eyes of his filling up with fat tears.

Fuck. Why can't he ever pick up a biker dude or a daddy bear, someone who doesn't cry when I have to show him the door? Why does he always come home with the sweet, innocent, wide-eyed kids who don't know jack shit about anything? For that matter, why can't he show them the door himself? Honestly, what does he think I'm doing around here? Running a fucking daycare?

I have things to do, damn it. Important things.

Those curtains aren't going to iron themselves, you know. And if I don't get my scrawny ass under the sink in the bathroom, that constant drip that's been driving me crazy for a week is going to cost us a fucking fortune when the water bill comes in. Not to mention that there's the dusting to do, the vacuuming, the laundry…the list goes on and on.

Does he care?

Fuck no.

All he cares about is eating and getting laid.

I'd like to get laid once in a while, too. But does he ever think of my needs? Of course not! It's always, "Renfield, fetch me my cape. Renfield, where's my tie tack? Renfield, did you tape Days of Our Lives for me?"

He's totally addicted to the fucking soaps, like some middle-aged housewife in Peoria.

I swear that I'd love to accidentally-on-purpose forget to tape an episode. Then again, I've grown rather fond of my head over the years and would rather not have it removed from the rest of me.

Shit. There he goes again. "Renfield, get up here!" Given the size of this house, you'd think he would have had an intercom installed. Walkie-talkies would work, too. Hell, I'd settle for a freaking cow bell. But no…better to bellow at the top of his lungs, right? Classy, that's my Master.

Now I get to climb those fucking stairs for the umpteenth time today, and my knees aren't what they used to be. Why couldn't he have bought a nice ranch-style house? You know, one where all the rooms are on a single floor? Then again, I suppose that whole "the Children of the Night, what music they make" speech just wouldn't have the same impact if he gave it while standing in the middle of the living room.

He's all about the drama, you know. Fucking queen.

"No, nobody's here, Master. I'm just talking to myself again. What do you need, Master?"

Yeah, I have to call him "Master." He's got an ego as big as a semi, in case I'd forgotten to mention it.

"Yes, he's gone. Yes, he was cute. Yes, he begged to stay. Said you were the best lover he'd ever had in his entire life. Said he couldn't live without you, that no one could ever hope to match you."

Of course, since the kid couldn't have been a day over eighteen, I'd say his portfolio of experiences was tissue-thin to being with, and considering that he wouldn't remember a goddamn thing by breakfast, the whole can't-live-without-you threat was pretty moot. But reminding Master of those little tidbits of information would be incompatible with my ambition to keep on breathing.

Okay, so maybe the size of Master's ego is partly my fault, since I keep feeding it. But that's what's gotten me to where I am today – a 145 year-old, glorified housekeeper.

"The sun will be up in another hour and a half, Master. Shall I run a bath for you?"

Running a bath is one of the things he can't do for himself – running water ranks right behind sunlight, garlic, and crosses on his list of Things I'd Rather Gut Myself with a Rusty Fork than Let Touch Me. Before I came along, he smelled like a fucking sewer. Honestly, the odor was enough to curl your nose hairs.

"What? Oh, yes, Master. I bought another box yesterday morning."

Mr. Bubble brand bubble bath. He loves it. Go figure. He's really just a kid at heart. Well, he would be if he actually still had a heart - one that worked, at any rate.

"Do you need me to attend you, Master?"

Of course he does. What did I expect from him? A "No, Renfield. I'm fine. Take the rest of the night off?" Not bloody likely. God forbid he should scrub his own back for once. Lazy bastard.

Well, at least he's easy on the eyes. Not like Count Orlok, that gray, bald German guy with the bad skin and the aversion to manicures. I once had a chat with Orlok's manservant, a guy by the name of Knock. He told me that it would be easier to get Orlok to wash with a clove of garlic than a bar of soap. That vampire has a serious reek issue. Honestly, if ugliness was sand, he'd be the fucking Sahara.

Not my Master. I have to give him that much - he's kept himself in really good shape, considering his age. Got himself a head full of thick, long black hair that flows past his shoulders like obsidian silk, and a face that could make the angels weep with envy. Eyes the color of dark Belgium chocolate framed by lashes that would make any mascara manufacturer cum in their pants. No pasty, pale skin, either. His skin is beautiful and tawny, like golden velvet stretched tightly over rock-hard muscles and long bones. Graceful hands with elegant pianist's fingers. Got himself an ass that doesn't quit, too, and a cock that…

…oh, you've got to be shitting me! How can he have a hard-on again? He just fucking got laid! This is so not fair. Now he'll want me to take care of that for him, too, as if I don't already have enough to do. Would it kill him to jerk off once in a while?

God knows I do. I've had an exclusive, ongoing relationship with Mary Palm and her five sisters for the last hundred years or so. If masturbation were an Olympic Event, I'd be a shoo-in for gold medalist. Honestly, the bicep in my right arm is almost twice as large as the one in my left, and it's totally due to the frequent rounds of one-handed hokey pokey I'm forced to play.

"Yes, Master, so I've noticed. Which would you prefer tonight, Master - a blowjob or a handjob?"

Oh, no. Not that. Wasn't twinkie boy enough for him for one night? God damn it.

"Of course, Master. Do you want me here in the tub, or shall I wait in the bedroom for you?"

In the tub. What else did I expect? He thinking I'm a fucking contortionist.

Ouch! A little preparation would be nice, you know. I'm not asking for much – just some lube, maybe a finger or two… OUCH! Dammit! He's not exactly small in that department, either. It feels like I'm getting fucked by a 747.

"Oh, yes! Give it to me, Master! Harder!"

You'd think he'd notice that every time he pounds into my ass, I hit my head on the shower stall. I'm going to have the imprint of the tiles on my forehead for a week.

"Master! Oh, Master! Fuck me! More, Master! Oh, I can't get enough of your thick, fat cock!"

Yeah, and if you believe that, I have some lovely timeshares in Florida to sell you. Honestly, I don't know how we've managed to fit me, him, and his ego into the tub all at the same time.

Finally, he's finished. Now I get to help him dry off, get into his nightclothes, and bed him down in his casket for the night, all while trying to keep my asscheeks clenched tightly enough so that I don't spurt joy juice all over the Italian marble tiles or – heaven forbid – his footie pajamas.

A big ol' pair of Dr.Denton pj's, complete with feet and a conveniently placed trapdoor are Master's choice of sleeping apparel. Oh, I'm sorry…did I just annihilate every midnight fantasy you've ever had about sleeping with a vampire? I won't even mention the teddy bear or the nightlight he had installed in his coffin, then.

"Goodnight, Master."

Thank God. Once he's in his coffin and the lid is closed, he'll sleep like – pardon the pun – the dead until nightfall. This is really the only time I have to myself and I treasure each and every moment, too.

Tea. I need a nice hot cuppa, and maybe a couple of those lovely shortbread cookies I've been hoarding since the last Girl Scout cookie drive.

How did we meet, you ask? Nothing as dramatic as what you've read about or seen in the movies, I'm afraid.

I presume you've read "Dracula" by Bram Stoker. Slanderous, each and every word! I've never been in a mental asylum in my life, nor have I ever eaten worms, flies, or birds. Wait, I stand corrected – I have eaten birds, of the chicken, duck, and turkey variety, but only after they'd been plucked, fried, or roasted. Really, do I look like a lunatic to you?

Don't answer that. I don't want to know.

In truth, I answered an advertisement for employment. "Valet wanted. Long term position, no experience required." And here I am, one hundred and twenty-six years later, working for the same employer. Well over a century of faithful service, and I'm still only a valet. You'd think I would have earned a promotion by now. Been hitting my head against the glass ceiling for so long my goddamn skull has more bumps on it than the Himalayas.

Not that I have much of a choice in the matter. The problem is that while I'm not exactly alive, I'm not one of the undead either. I'm sort of like lukewarm water. Not hot, not cold, just…blah. Pseudo-dead is how I like to describe it. Anyway, job opportunities for a guy like me are somewhat limited.

Besides, without Master, I'd be all-the-way-dead and that simply wouldn't be any fun at all. Let's face it – corpses get even less sex than I do. They can't even jack-off. Where would my dreams of scoring a big time endorsement deal after winning the Wanker World Championship be then?

Truthfully, the only real regret I have is that I never fell in love while I was fully alive. Well, that and the fact that they picked Tom Cruise to play Lestat in Interview With a Vampire. I mean…come on! It was like Risky Business Meets the Addams Family. Trust me - I know Lestat and Cruise didn't even come close in his portrayal.

Plus, the blond thing just didn't work for him.

But I digress.

When I was nineteen, I was just figuring out which side of the bread I liked to butter, and I had no idea of where to find like-minded individuals such as myself. Back then, it wasn't as if you could place a personals ad, or join an internet chat room. There weren't any gay bars, no singles' clubs. Meeting someone and falling in love seemed to be a terribly complicated, dangerous, nearly impossible undertaking to me. Mind you, at that time, sodomists were high on the short list of people to be chased down with torches and pitchforks. The only thing "out" about me was my bellybutton. Then I started working for Master, my right hand became my most frequent lover, and the hope of finding someone to love was filed away under "impossible dreams."

Que será, será, as the song goes.

Shortly after I first entered Master's employ, I thought that I'd fallen in love with him. Who wouldn't? After all, he was sexy, sophisticated, and if he didn't have a pulse and had a blood fetish, well…so what? Nobody's perfect. But as time passed and I matured – psychologically, if not physically – I realized that it had only been an infatuation. Hero-worship. Then as even more time passed, I came to understand that what I'd felt for him had been simple lust.

Now of course, I see it for what it truly was – the first signs of a deeply seated psychosis with a masochistic tendency.

I could have saved myself a whole lot of time, energy, and heartache if I'd just bought a whip and beat myself silly with it.

Dracula? Yes, he does call himself that from time to time, usually around Halloween in the States. Remember what I said about him being a drama queen? That's never truer than during that particular time of year, when children run around in capes and plastic fangs, and there's a vampire marathon on every fucking channel on television. Because, well…you know…it's always all about him.

Translated, Dracula means "son of the devil." I suppose "son of a bitch" would be a more appropriate moniker, but it wouldn't look nearly as good on a marquee.

So, that's my whole sorry, sordid story. Milo Renfield: nineteen years old forever, servant to a vampire with a gi-normous ego and a dick to match, sadly misrepresented in print, doomed to an eternal career as a gofer with no hope of advancement, and jerk-off champion extraordinaire.

On second thought, forget the tea. I need a bottle of Tanqueray and a very big glass.

~End

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