::Sanguinary

I’m rebounding from the strep or whateveritwas.  Which is why I was all wax and grit and not quite as forthcoming as I originally intended to be, last time.

Now I’ve got that not-quite-full-power feeling, where my mind is back in gear; antsy and ready to go out and play rockstar.  And my body is still the quivering vampire-thing you just discovered under a slab in the cathedral — buried for a century, flesh still pale and untouched.  Cobwebs.  The eyes snap open and the dusty, shivering fingers reach out for comfort-

– like I could grab you and fasten my lips on you and feel you stiffen and I bite down and wrap my arms around your hips and carry you off to the rooftop and leave you limp and satisfied and smiling in the moonlight.  And I’d walk out full of bloodmusic and flushmagic, a little sweat on my brow and a brand new suit over my shoulders.  Licking my chops and leaping from shadow to shadow like some kind of unholy beast.  Crossing miles in the blink of an eye.  Biceps to stop a freight train and the claws that catch.

That’s where my mind is.  Ready to kiss and bite and fuck and saunter through the night as if I owned it.  Hunt and tear.  Rend and howl.  Eyes full of atombombs and a ravenous, acid tongue.  The weight of my heartbeat thundering down on the city, bending it to my will until the sun comes up.  My personal plaything, my web of flesh and bone and shadow.  A puppet show dancing to my raucous tune.  After the first devouring, the remainder is leisure.  We savor, we play, we dance, we writhe, we climax and we laugh about it after.  Vainglorious whispers amid gooseflesh and erect nipples.  Panting in the dark.  Drinking deep.

My body isn’t on board with this plan, the cagey fucker.  It’s all slumping eyelids and bulging waistline and watery muscles and sniffling.  Goddammitsomuch.  My hands are ready, fingers clutching.  And my eyes and tongue and skull all hungry.   And my cock.  The poor stupid thing is like a dog that’s been left alone too long, he’s all pushy and whiney and afraid I’ve forgotten about him, that I don’t love him any more.  It’s been days, boss, won’t you pet me?  Ugh.  You’re supposed to be this great muscled hunting hound, powerful and intimidating and exciting, to help me bring down the most magnificent beasts of the wood.  Instead I get Marmaduke.  Slobber and derp.  Thanks, boy.  Go sit under the fucking desk and quit asking me to look at porn.  It’s all the same as it was last week, I promise.  Empty.  Stupid.  Repetitive.  Numbing.

I can ignore that for a while longer.  Twirl my hair around my thumb and pull absently.  Scrape at my beard with a calloused palm and do another lap through the gibbering Internet.  Ten billion words about nothing much of importance.  The sight blurs, the yawns erupt one after another.  The bloodmagic grows weak; I didn’t drink deeply enough.  The flesh whimpers as the power ebbs.  I can feel the earth turning on her tiptoe and I know that I have to crawl back under that slab before dawn.  In the soil among the worms, to dream of being someone vital and excited again.  The next time you come down from the roof and dig me up. 

Until then, I sleep.  Bring a shovel, and wear that outfit I left in your room.