Blood Hungry

The wiry black hairs of his tarantula hands tickled my skin as his thick fingers crawled slowly across it. The sensation made me shiver and giggle. He grinned mischievously, revealing four perfectly pointed fangs that framed two rows of dull pearls. He drooled as a wet bit of lengua meat moistened his lips and his eyes rolled back into his skull. This possessed expression descended over him like a shroud and he sunk his fangs deep into my flesh. I writhed, moaned, arched, and grunted. He purred in a low growl as he decorated my neck, back, shoulders, and hips in blood blisters, encouraged by my guttural approval.
He stopped, and I fell limp.

Tired? 

No... it's just... it's relaxing.  

I could barely speak and so he continued the delicious torture, raking his sharpened teeth over the landscape of my body. His hand slowly creeped its way up my leg and its probing mandible cautiously fingered the torn hem of my shorts at the inside of my thigh.

May I?

I'm a sucker for a gentleman.

He entered me, and I thought I might die. If I had, I'm not sure if it would have deterred him.

________________

So, what? You're writing spider porn now? 

It's a metaphor.

Whatever. But I mean, is it a spider? Or a vampire? Or what?

Like I said, the tarantula thing was an image. But it's non-fiction. 

What are you talking about.

It happened. (pause) The guy has fangs.

You fucked someone who had their teeth sharpened? Jesus Christ, of course you did...

No, they were natural. He has real fangs. 

What the fuck are you talking about? Nobody has real fangs. 

I don't know what to tell you. This guy does.

Whatever. I bet you'll tell me he used magnums too.

Well, yeah.

Jesus Christ... 

For the record, fiction's not really my thing.

___________

Fangs could be a vampire, I suppose. From his long hair and massively broad stature to his sweetly romantic nature and comic Boston accent, there is something mythic about him. The way he smells drives me insane; it must be something in his blood. I could kiss him for hours, if only to keep my face in his and become intoxicated on his scent. It reminds me of what Dr. Christopher Ryan (co-author of Sex at Dawn) said about lovers' scent attraction and genetic compatibility. What a sexy thought... Evolution itself wants us to fuck.

I told my buddy about you.

Oh yeah? What'd he think?

Well, (blushes) he wasn't surprised to hear you're an artist... 

Ah, you have a history with creative types, huh?

I don't want you to feel reduced to a type, but yeah, it's who I tend to go for. The ying to my yang, you know... I hope that doesn't offend you.

Oh no, not at all. I've noticed a recent pattern myself, and you're just my type. 

Oh yeah? What's your type?

Tall goth metal heads with motorcycles and huge cocks. 

Wicked.  

Do you feel reduced?

Yeah... but I like it.  

If he is a vampire, he may just be the goofiest undead on this earth. I find myself incredibly endeared to him; his intimidating stature and harsh aesthetic are balanced by his undeniably human tenderness. I feel safe when I'm around him, protected, and sane.