Musings of a High School Vampire: July 9

Sex.

Man, is that going to make the multitudes hit on this.   How appropriate.   How fucking appropriate, to be even more accurate.

But, look – it’s about time we had this talk about the bats and the bees, kiddies.   Let it be said, though – I am seriously not objecting to being eroticised in fiction and folk tale.   Hell, no.   Fucking awesome ego boost for my kind, I can tell you.   Not that we really need it.   Maintaining a sense of superiority is pretty bloody easy from our perspective.

Of course, from my personal point of view, I’d probably be able to capitalise on the reputation more fucking often (literally) if people knew what I was.   But we can all see why that is not going to work, so Jonathon will have to keep on getting it on without the commercial advertising.   Aw.

I find it damn funny what you lot fetishise about when it comes to us, though.   Seriously – I doubt any of our little groupies and besotted Twilight/True Blood/whatever-other-fiction-is-vamping-it-up-for-you fans have really thought this through.   On way too many levels.

 

Let’s start here.

Ever given blood?   You know how you feel afterwards, yeah?   And that’s just a tiny bit gone.   Nowhere near death.

Not deterred?   Fine.   How about this?   I’ve said before, the whole dainty twee little fang holes idea is a load of shit.   We’re not fucking arachnids or reptiles, for fuck’s sake.   No Halloween-style fakey pointy choppers or spring-loaded incisors that pop out ready to chow down (sheesh, people – show some respect).   We just – rip into it.   Got it?   We mostly don’t care about making a mess, or leaving you looking pretty, or posing glamorous screen shots.   Why should we?   Point being (and pun intended), it’s gonna fucking hurt, it’s gonna look like hell, and it’s going to be raw, scabby and bloody painful until it finally heals.  

If you’re lucky and we leave you in a state still able to heal, of course.

Still oo-ing and ah-ing?   Sure.   You, my messed-up friend, are into auto-haemofetishism – sexual pleasure from blood and bleeding.   Fucking weird, if you ask me.   Okay – so for us, our nighttime activities can be – stimulating – at times, in the way food can be sexy, and eating can be erotic.   But – geez.   I’ve done some kinky shit, but you people getting a kick out of watching us eat, or getting yourselves eaten?   Man.   How come you find it arousing in Dracula and vulgar if it’s cannibals?

But okay – if that’s your thing, freak.  

Think about this now.   The whole ‘sex symbol’ idea.  

Now, there’s what I look like.   And then there’s my age.   Take the Edward Cullen/Robert Pattinson icon, or the Buffy and Angel stuff.   Hey.   HEY.   Focus, people.   Enough with the fantasizing – think with your upstairs brain for just a minute, will you?   Shit.

Listen.   This isn’t just about preying on humans.   This is romanticising paedophila, for fuck’s sake.   Sick as.   What’s with the whole “they’re centuries old, but always into teenage girls” idea?   How the hell do you find that romantic?   Wanting to be fucked by someone old enough to be your grandfather’s grandfather, and after his dozen lifetimes and sexual histories, you’re turned on by the sick bastard who likes deflowering underage virgins?   Fuck off.

And I’ve gotta say it.   The Bella chick in that Twilight book? – talks about herself and her ‘relationship’ with all the language of a rape victim, man.   Fucking disturbing, if you ask me.   All that “It’s all my fault/I asked for it/He can’t help himself” bullshit.   And then the “I must try to stop breathing/smelling good/letting my heart beat in case I excite him”?   For fuck’s sake.   If the dude can’t fucking control his blood lust, it’s not “love”, sweetpea.   Get the hell out of that bloody unhealthy relationship.

Still besotted?   Shit, people.   You need a life.   And that’s a good point.   Got another new word for you to think about, boys and girls.   Necrophilia.   Ah yes.   Walking, talking, moving, grooving – but you’re doing it with the dead, nonetheless.   Nice one.   Still turned on?

Okay.   Here’s a final thing fiction eroticises about us, and this one seriously creeps me out.   Infection.   Spreading ‘disease’ through blood-letting and sex.   For starters, it’s a myth.   You heard it first here.   You can’t get ‘infected’ from us taste-testing – we’re not a fucking contagion.   I know 80s flicks and novels loved to read all kinds of HIV and STD metaphoric shit into us, but it’s the other way around.   We’re more likely to get fucked up from your bad blood.

And that’s not even slightly sexy or sensual.   Fuck, no.   That just sucks.

 

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