Hic Est Enim Calix Sanguinis Mei

His mouth pulled away from mine. I tried to force him back to me, but he slipped from my hands. Before I realized what he was doing, his mouth enclosed one of my fingers. I chuckled. At the very least he was fun. He kissed his way up my arm like Gomez does when Morticia speaks French. Again I laughed. He pulled my t-shirt over my head. “Okay, now we’re going to get serious,” I thought. His tongue toyed with the barbell in my nipple, and he licked and nipped his way back up to my mouth. Again, our lips locked. I arched my back and began pushing my jeans down. He grabbed my wrists. “Later.” Well, I was willing to wait. Sometimes, it’s best to let the other guy take the lead.

His mouth inches from my ear he whispered. “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei.” I didn’t understand and got that confused look on my face.He gave a throaty chuckle and my chest again, his lips caressing my unpierced nipple. Then I felt it. The bite — in the tender flesh of my pec. I jerked back against the couch. As much as I wanted to run, I was frozen in place. I wasn’t quite paralyzed, but I couldn’t move either. It’s more like invisible hands held me lovingly in place as he drank from me. My blood flowed into him. “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,” I thought. Now I understood.

As he sucked, my erection began to build, and finally I felt the familiar tingle at the base of my spine and the surge in my groin. I exploded. I was panting as hard as if I’d been riding him to orgasm.He stopped.He pulled his fangs from me. The holes in my chest closed instantly like when the phlebotomist takes samples for my A1C.Still I couldn’t move.

“You were fun,” he said. “I’d like to see you again.”

“Sum enim calix sanguinis tui,” was all I could reply.

Physiology of a Vampire

I love Black Friday – not because of the great deals at the malls or because it’s the start of the holiday season. My joy is that Thanksgiving is past for another year, and I’m in the midst of a long weekend. Plus, it’s usually cold enough to wear my leather duster on a regular basis. Some years I stay hone and don’t even venture to the mailbox. Other years I contribute to the local economy by picking up stocking stuffers at the museum shops down on Main Street.

This year is far different. I spent the better part of Thanksgiving night working on a short story while imbibing Tanqueray and tonic – with a touch of lime. So, I slept until noon, drank a cup of microwave heated left over coffee before I jumped in the shower and headed to one of the local brew pubs for a very rare burger with bleu cheese, garlic fries, and some exquisite mead to wash it all down. The rest of the daylight hours were spent in the dark anonymity of a movie theatre and trying not to be completely antsy about what was to come. Had this meeting not been so spur of the moment, I may have gotten a tattoo before hand – always a relaxing way to spend the day.

I walked into the coffee shop just before seven, and found Alex was already waiting for me. “Bryan described your duster quite well, but he forgot to mention you’re a very attractive Bear,” he said in greeting.

“Sadly to be as old as he is, Bryan is far too heterosexual for his own good,” I responded.

“He said you had questions about vampire physiology.”

“I do. He said you’re the person to help me better understand.”

“He would. I am, or was, a physician by training. Just after the Second World War, I was turned. I gave up my practice on mortals, but I’ve continued by education and now work with vampires, werewolves, and, well, anyone who needs my particular skills.”

I thought it better not to press for more information. The vampires and Wolves were enough. “You’re still young then,” I asked.

“Comparatively, I am. But even at just over 2000, Bryan is young when compared to some of the others – including the Wolf who shares your bed.” He had me there. Seb was nearly four hundred when Bryan was born.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” I said wishing I could rewind.

“You didn’t. You need perspective that’s all. Mortals dwell on age and the history one has seen. Once you have a guarantee of living for ever, it matters less and monumentous events pass by unnoticed. I’m hardly there, but I do know a couple of vampire who remember less of the moon landing than you.”

“Sebastian is like that. He has no clue about the Black Death or the Crusades. He loved the French Revolution and Baroque Venice, but he’s likely to think we’re still British subjects.”

“And what is it you want to know that neither your Wolf nor your vampire friend can tell you?”

“How does the drinking work?”

“Of blood? Why and two bit vampire movie can show you that.”

“No, I mean coffee, wine…”

“It works by us not drinking it. But I see what you mean. We sit around places with some drink or other and nurse it all night. If need be, we’ll slip to the restroom, toss what we have, and order a fresh one. Blood though it different. Our systems change during the turning to absorb blood. We can also ingest semen and vaginal fluid – probably because are body fluids. For the record, our saliva is chemically different than that of mortals, so is wolf saliva by the way.”

“Technically though you’re dead…”

“Not exactly. The transformation requires a physical death from which we’re brought back through the transference of vampire blood. More than anything we become a different species, far harder to kill, unable to stand direct sunlight for long, and a host of other things. Just as you wouldn’t call someone revived on an operating table ‘undead’ we’re not.”

“So sex…”

“Is still very possible and pleasurable. Our hearts beat, blood runs through our veins, and the corpus cavernosum still function normally in males. Males no longer produce sperm, but there is seminal discharge.  Women become barren and stop menstruation, but otherwise function normally.”

“Somehow I’d thought it would be more…dramatic.”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m sure some avocational writer with a laptop and a blog will find a way to make it more salacious, but it’s pretty simple physiology.”

We talked until the coffee shop closed, then walked up to the cemetery and back. “It’s been a good evening Alex, and I’m glad to have met you. Maybe we can get together more often.”

“I’d like that and if you and Sebastian are ever in the mood for a third, feel free to call me.”

I gave him a wink and a raised eyebrow as I turned on my boot heel to head home. Now, how do I bring up a three way with a vamp to Seb? I’ll figure out a way.

Tuesday’s Tale — for The Feast of All Saints

I’m not sure why I went there. It’s not my favorite bar in town. The atmosphere is wonderful though – exposed brick walls, lighting that would make a set designer envious, tables and chairs salvaged from the dump piles and refinished, erotic art done by a local artist on the walls. The bartenders are all muscle gods straining against their t-shirts. In June they put fish bowls of Trojan condoms on the tables. It’s the guys who go there. Most are the kind who look good and know it. They have a demeanor that makes them unapproachable. Hell, I’m not the best looking guy on the planet, but I do okay – mostly because you can walk up and talk to me. These stallions of self-importance and hard wrought beauty don’t intimidate me. They make me cringe. I want no part of them and their attitude that serves as a poorly disguised pall for their self-inflicted inadequacies.

I find myself sitting in their midst because I have to sit someplace. With all the revelry around it’s one of those nights when I don’t want to be alone, don’t want to be with any of my friends, and wish I had a boyfriend, so I could ignore him. I get these moods sometimes. I don’t know why I just do. There’s no pleasing me. As my mother used to tell me when I got like this, I’d complain if I were hanged with a new rope. I’d rather not have an empiric experience, thanks though. Anyway, should some guy approach me, I’ll be fine with it. Maybe a sexual release would lighten my grey mood. I wouldn’t count on it, and chances are though, I’ll leave here alone with a little more Prussian blue on my pallette than before. That’s good though. It’s what I want. No, it’s what I need at this point. At least I think it’s what I need. Damn, I’m confused. I’m also sober. Clarity might not come with liquor, but la Fe Vert will, at least make my confusion understandable. Again, darlings, don’t try to make it make sense. It just won’t work.

A band on the small dias plays a blues arrangement of Gloria Gaynard’s “I Will Survive.” I wonder if a Judy Garland drag queen will come out and do a torch song. Probably not. And this crowd wouldn’t understand the irony anyway.

I take a slow, deliberate drink of the elixir. Always best to look poised and in control. You never know who might be watching. I notice him across the bar. He’s got hair done up in a bed head that must have taken an hour to get perfect, bronze skin he must have worked on for hours during spring break at the beach. He’s about a head shorter than I am, and while he’s not muscular, he’s not frail either. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with the logo from one of the local coffee houses, a pair of khaki shorts.. I could barely make out a tattoo on his calf and a silver earring in his left ear. I nearly salivated. Maybe it’s time to get my ass up and walk over to him. Damn. I blinked. He disappeared. It’s not crowded in here, but he’s managed to allude my gaze. I feel someone approach from behind. I steel myself.

“I’ll join you,” he says without asking. He sets another drink in front of me. “You’re drinking to free Cuba right?”

“Only because they don’t sell absinthe here,” I manage. How did he know my excuse for drinking these when I was like this? I never thought to ask him that.

“I’m Steve.”

“Jack,” I said. He eyed me giving me the assessment I’d given him. Now I could see the tattoo on his calf was a dragon. It was small and elegant–almost fragile. His eyes were different colors: the left one brown, the right blue. He raised his eyebrows at me and winked. I guess he liked what he saw. He stood from the table, and motioned for me to follow him. A tryst in the loo isn’t really my thing.

He led me down a hallway I’d overlooked before. We stopped in front of a recessed phone booth – quite quaint, n’est pas? We stepped inside. The seclusion, the darkness, and those odd doors make it the perfect spot for an assignation – and far more appealing than a lavatory stall. I leaned down to kiss him. I’m typically the aggressor, but tonight, I’d met my match. His tongue was inside my mouth before I realized it. His hands were on my ass kneading it like a potter wedging clay to get it right for him to craft on the wheel. He pulled away from me. “Come on,” he panted. He pushed the wall, and a door opened. “My apartment’s in the basement,” he said. It seemed convenient enough.

We could hear the band playing in his subterranean bedroom. “We’re right under the stage,” he told me. “I hope it doesn’t bother you,” he said pushing me backwards onto the silken sheets. I watched as he pulled his shirt over his head. He’d lost his shoes somewhere on our commute. I sat up. He pulled my shirt off and began kissing my chest – admiring the many tattoos that decorated me. I wanted to taste him. I rolled him over and began working my way down his chest to his stomach. I pulled off his pants. His stature belied the nine uncut inches he was packing. There’s nothing like some foreskin to make giving a blow job a better experience.  I’ve had plenty of men’s dicks in my mouth, but Steve is the only one who ever tasted of jasmine before. It’s odd I know. I wondered if he used some flavoring there.

We switched places. It was his turn. He began at my dick and worked his way up to my chest. He couldn’t decide which nipple he wanted to work, but finally he made his decision. Circling it with his tongue while his hand toyed with my balls and occasionally slipped down to massage my perineum had me harder than the bricks in the wall. I was in near ecstacy when I felt a bite into my flesh. I’ve had guys bite before. It’s often quite pleasurable, but this was different. I didn’t cry out in pain. I nearly ululated in supreme pleasure. This was a form of ecstacy I’d never known before. He didn’t release me. Instead he placed his mouth more firmly on my flesh. I felt the unmistakable feeling of blood flowing, but it didn’t trickle like I thought it should, for Steve had his tongue moving to lap it as it poured forth. I groaned again in delight. My dick got harder than I’d ever know it get before. I tensed. I knew what was coming. My load poured from me. My eyes rolled back in my head. My orgasm was so intense I lost consciousness.

I woke on my couch the next morning. I guess I’d been out for hours. Had he drugged me somehow? I’d only had have of one drink, and I took it directly from thee barkeep. There was no wound where he’d bitten me. It wasn’t bruised or sore to the touch. I went back the club the next night. I didn’t drink anything stronger than a Diet Coke. He wasn’t there. I barely made out the hallway, and it too me half an hour to re-discover the niche. It contained no secret door. I walked back out to the club. A guy came up to the table. I’d seen him here a lot. He’d always ignored me before. We talked a little. Was he actually flirting with me now?

“I love that dragon tattoo on your calf,” he told me. I stared at him blankly. I have a whip on one calf and a scull and cross bones on the other. There’s no dragon on my legs.  I looked down where he pointed, and there it was. A dragon tattoo exactly like the one Alex had. It was healed with the hair grown back, in less than twenty-four hours.

Jack Gets His Fang On!

The house lights are moving to half. The Curtain Speech is about to being, and I’m sitting in the darkened theatre ready to get my fang on at this annual event — Dracula. There’s something magical about the stage, and something more so about this play. It’s a live performance, so I know there aren’t subliminal cuts. Still there’s something there between me and the actors that transcends the lime lights. I can’t name it or know it. It just is. When this is done and I venture out into the dark night, I’ll have a euphoria that nothing else — not even sex with the wildest abandon — can bring.

And so I partake, dear reader, in this yearly ritual that begins my Fall and starts again my journey. May it be so.

Balanced Scales

In the inevitable shadows cast by the overhead lights, Bryan stood silently waiting. He leaned against the grey concrete pillar with his glance fixed on the elevator doors thirty feet away. He heard the movement of the car in the shaft, the electronic voice announcing the destination, and keys rattling as they came out of the pocket. The attorney in the worsted wool suit was oblivious to his surroundings. He was working late tonight to prepare for an audit of a client’s account. He’d replaced most of the money he’d embezzled over the last two years. As a rule, his client’s were elderly and of sufficient means to support a life style to which he’d become entitled. His financial genius allowed him to move the funds he skimmed from Louisville to Houston to Miami through several shady ports of call in Europe, through the Caymen Islands, and then to the Bank of London where they appeared as pristine as a virgin bride. The IRS, CIA, FBI, Interpol and not a few organized crime operatives had tried unsuccessfully for years to prove the larceny, but he’d always managed to allude factual guilt. Unfortunately, he remained the model trust and estate attorney.

Over the years, his practice had increased geometrically. To be fair to the shyster, in  many ways, he was the city’s biggest champion. He used his talents to raise funds for any civic minded cause, and he was always willing to leverage a donation from a client if the cause was worthy. In the ten years since he passed the bar on the second attempt, he’d raised millions of dollars for various projects, amassed well over thirty million dollars in legal fees, renovated a deteriorated warehouse into an entertainment complex with his huge sound proof loft apartment above, and deposited billions in stolen assets around the globe for safe keeping.

Walking to the vintage muscle car, he thought himself the most clever person on earth. He reached to unlock the door and was met Bryan’s face in the flesh rather than his own in reflection. “Bryan, what in Hell are you doing here? We don’t have an appointment. Do we?” Bryan simply stared at him. “Fuck Bryan, you’re nocturnal lifestyle is a little beyond the eccentric. Give Rita a call tomorrow, and let her set up an appointment. I’m beat.”

“Uncooking the books is a little more possible than unringing the bell, but it’s a challenge none-the-less I’m sure,” Bryan finally replied.

“What are you talking about?”

“You stole money from me. It’s a crime you know. Wait, you were absent from law school the day they taught that. You were probably out stealing candy from

the orphanage, but I won’t swear to it.” Two years ago, Bryan had begun to hear rumors about the wonderful but larcenous attorney and decided to have him manage a few million to see what would happen. Had it been all of Bryan’s cash, he’d now be living in Penury rather than the Triangle.

Steve’s eyes narrowed to slits and his face hardened. “There were some bad investments Bryan. I’m sorry. Call Rita tomorrow.”

“I’m talking to you tonight.”

“No, we’re done,” he said trying to shoulder past Bryan.

“No, dearest. You’re done.”

“It’s been tried before. I’m duPont non-stick. You’ll just look foolish.”

“Really. Well, I know a lot about you Steven. I know most of your sins.” Bryan rattled off him an epic catalogue of Stephen’s sins like a well rehearsed

Altarboy. It was like going to confession in reverse. In there meetings over the last several months, Bryan had penetrated Steve’s mind and found his worst

secrets – his thoughts, words, and deeds – what he had done and what he had failed to do. Steve sank to the floor begging forgiveness. “I’m not here to grant

absolution, for I don’t believe in Imperfect Contrition. You’ve been tried and found guilty. The punishment is death. Truly Steven, I’m not sorry.”

Steven reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but Bryan glared at it. It burst into flames. In an instant, Steven’s keys were in Bryan’s hand. “Bryan think about this. The police will search. You’ll be found out. You’ll go to jail.”

“No Steven. I won’t. No one really cares about your sorry ass. They will, of course, pretend to look, but they’ll find no evidence. The security cameras here don’t work. I saw to that when I bought the garage a month ago. There will be no physical evidence, and as you’ve been saying since you saw me, there’s no appointment. Why would I be here. In fact, I think I’m asleep right now in my cabin. You know, I’m on a cruise to see the Northern Lights until the end of the month.” Bryan had enough. He grabbed Steven by his tie and pulled him close. “I love Aramis Steven. There’s such a vintage nostalgia to it. Remind me to pick up a bottle. Oh, wait that’s right. Never mind.” In record time – at least it would be in rodeo standards, Bryan had Steven tied up, and he tore through Steve’s shirt to expose his chest. “Quit struggling! It’s only going to make things worse.” Bryan exposed his fangs. “Yes, I know you vagel down badly. Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.” He bit into the flesh.

Steven let out a guttural cry somewhere between agony and ecstacy. Bryan spoke telepathically “Yes I know it hurts, but it won’t in a minute. I’m out for Justice not cruelty.” He drank deeply.  “You’ve been working out Stevie, but the coke isn’t good for you.” He took another long drink of the salty liquor. “No Stevie, this isn’t a bad trip from some acid you dropped in college. This is as fuckin’ real as it gets.” A breath. “I’m getting a slight buzz off your coke habit though.” Brayan savoured the drink he took. “It’s very nice.” The heart stopped. Bryan reached out with his mind and pumped it more.

“It’s been a wild ride Stevie. I did like you. You’re not really a bad person. You just have some odd ideas.” The blood was gone along with Steven’s consciousness. He was dead–totally and completely. “Justice is the Goddess, and She has been served,” Bryan said aloud. He picked up the body and walked up to the roof where he took flight and sailed out over the city, then the suburbs, then the farmlands. He landed somewhere in Canada and lay the body in a deep grave he’d had prepared. He intensified his gaze and the body ignited. It finished burning, and Bryan kinetically moved the dirt over it. No one would discover it. This was in the middle of nowhere, and Bryan owned it and the thousand acres surrounding it.

Again he took flight. When he came down to earth he was standing on the roof of the bridge. “Sir, I know it makes for excellent viewing, but passengers aren’t allowed up there,” one of the crew said to him.

“I apologize. It was too tempting.” He came down and walked over to watch the aurora borealis – the Path to Heaven as it was sometimes called – light the sky and remind him who he was. “Great Mithras,” Bryan intoned in a whisper “I serve now and always.”

Feast of the Undead

Some people returned to the nest yesterday to see Louisville beat Memphis 56 – 0. I’m a Cards fan, so I’m excited that my alma mater did it right for Homecoming. But my fun was starting after people left the stadium.

I had tickets to see Actors Theatre of Louisville’s production of Dracula. It’s not the first time I’ve seen the play staged; in fact, I’ve lost count of how often I’ve gone. Last night was a little special though. It’s the first time I’ve not seen it as a matinee. I had plan to have dinner and drinks and the BBC next door (aka my new favorite third place). The ride Downtown was interesting.

I had a guy sit down next to me and start telling me how Jesus had died for my sins and that God loved me. I was polite — coolly polite. He found someone else to talk to. Then a group of out of towners got on the bus. They were leaving the Garvin Gate Blues Fest and headed for their rooms at the Galt House. At least they were more fun to listen to than the proselytizer.  I had decided not to take my MP3 player. Next time, it’s going with. Soon enough we were at 4th and Main.

I noticed the chalk board menu on the sidewalk advertised a prime rib special. Okay. Sign me up. I had that washed down with a BBC pint (16 ounces instead of an imperial 20 ounces) of Bourbon Barrel Ale — Eight Hells. Delicious. I’d put it up against the more famous Alltech anyday.  The food was fabulous; I only wish they had desserts on the menu. A little something sweet would have gone nicely after the meal. As I sat contemplating my next libation, in walked one of my favorite barkeeps — Ted. Well, I knew the night would be special after his entrance. Sated with meat and drink, I climbed the stairs, scanned the crowd at the Bucket’s appreciation party, and headed west to get my fang on.

I knew I had a front row seat, but I didn’t realize where in the theatre it was. I had an undead chasing one of the characters across the wall inches before me, and my seat was directly behind the mark where Dracula was stabbed, er staked. Before taking his final exit to the wings, Dracula picked one of the young ladies from my row to flirt with. This experience beats out the year I was sitting farther back, minding my own business, enjoying the play when one of the undead descended right next to me. With the play over, I followed the crowd out to Main Street and left the vampires and the maidens to their dressing rooms.

The wait for the bus was uneventful but oddly calming. The restaurant pipes music into the street, and they had on some bluesy torch songs. It added that touch of je ne sais quois to the night. All told, but that’s a given when you go out with the intention of getting your fang on.

Amor Sanguinis

Or, Jack gets his Fang on! Yep, he’s headed out into the night to a local play house that’s doing a little vampire show. It should be exciting. But will he run into a werewolf at U of L’s campus this year? He can only hope. : )=

Hic Est Enim Calix Sanguinis Mei

His mouth pulled away from mine. I tried to force him back to me, but he slipped from my hands. Before I realized what he was doing, his mouth enclosed one of my fingers. I chuckled. At the very least he was fun. He kissed his way up my arm like Gomez does when Morticia speaks French. Again I laughed. He pulled my shirt over my head. “Okay, now we’re going to get serious,” I thought. His tongue toyed with the rings in my nipples and he licked his way back up my chest. Again, our lips locked. I began to push my jeans down. He grabbed my wrists to stop me. “Later.” Well, I was willing to wait. Sometimes, it’s best to let the other guy take the lead.

His mouth inches from my ear he whispered. “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei.” This time he chucked. I didn’t understand. He was at my chest again, his lips caressing me. Then I felt it. The bite. I jerked back against the couch. As much as I wanted to run, I was frozen in place. I wasn’t quite paralyzed, but I couldn’t move either. It was more like invisible hands holding me in place as he drank from me. My blood flowed into him. “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,” I thought. Now I understood.

As he sucked, my erection began to build, and finally I felt the familiar surge in my groin. I exploded. I was panting as hard as if I’d been riding him to orgasm. He stopped. He pulled his fangs from me. The skin closed instantly like when I have blood drawn. Still I couldn’t move.

“You were fun,” he said. “I’d like to see you again.”

“Your Chalice awaits,” I replied.

Requiem for a Lost Boy

I love the 1980s film The Lost Boys. To me it will remain the epitome of the closeted homoerotic horror film. Earlier this week, I was saddened, but not shocked, to learn of Corey Haim’s death. Despite the other roles he played, I shall always remember him as Sam Emerson from Lost Boys. Seriously, his character made the film — even if my time was spent rooting him and the Frog Brothers to fail, lusting for David (Keifer Sutherland), and wanting to join the Goth boys in their underground lair. I know there was drama in Corey’s later life, and I’m ignoring it. To me he’s the kid racing across the screen in Santa Carla to save his brother.  In my mind, he sleeps all night, parties all day, and knows that it’s fun to be a vampire.

Rest in Peace Corey.

Vampire Trick

I’m not sure why I went there that night. It’s not my favorite bar in town. The atmosphere is wonderful–exposed brick walls, lighting that would make a set designer envious, tables and chairs salvaged from the dump piles and refinished, erotic art done by a local artist on the walls. The bartenders are all muscle gods straining against their t-shirts. In June they put fish bowls of Trojan condoms on the tables. Most are the kind who good looking and know it. They have a demeanor that makes them unapproachable. Hell, I’m not the best looking guy on the planet, but I do okay–mostly because you can walk up and talk to me. These stallions of self-importance and hard wrought beauty don’t intimidate me. They make me cringe. I want no part of them and their attitude that serves as a poorly disguised pall for their self-inflicted inadequacie.

Tonight I find myself sitting in their midst because I have to sit someplace. It’s one of those nights when I don’t want to be alone, don’t want to be with any of my friends, and wish I had a boyfriend to ignore. I get these moods sometimes. I don’t know why I just do. There’s no pleasing me. As my mother used to tell me when I got like this, I’d complain if I were hanged with a new rope. I’d rather not have an empiric experience, thanks though. Anyway, should some guy approach me, I’ll be fine with it. Maybe a sexual release would lighten my mood. I wouldn’t count on it. Chances are though, I’ll leave here alone with a little more Prussian blue on my pallette than before. That’s good though. It’s what I want — what I need. At least I think it’s what I need. Damn, I’m confused. I’m also sober. Clarity might not come with liquor, but it will at least make the confusion understandable. Barmaster, give me some gin. A band on the small diasplays a blues arrangement of “I Will Survive.” I wonder if a Judy Garland drag queen will come out and do a torch song. Probably not.

I take a slow, deliberate drink to keep me safe from scurvy and malaria. Always best to look poised and in control. You never know who might be watching. I notice him across the bar. He’s got long black hair tied in a tail that runs half way down his back, bronze skin he must have worked on for hours during spring break at the beach. He’s about a head shorter than I am, and while he’s not muscular, he’s not frail either. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with the logo from one of the local coffee houses, a pair of khaki shorts, and leather flip-flops. I could barely make out a tattoo on his calf and a silver earring in his left ear. I nearly salivated. Maybe it’s time to get my ass up and walk over to him. Damn. I blinked. He disappeared. It’s not crowded in here, but he’s managed to allude my gaze. I feel someone approach from behind. I steel myself.

“I’ll join you,” he says without asking. He sets another drink in front of me. “You’re drinking for medicinal purposes right?”

“Yeah,” I’m absolutely articulate sometimes. How did he know my excuse for drinking these when I was like this? I never thought to ask him that.

“I’m Alex.”

“Steve,” I said. He eyed me giving me the assessment I’d given him. Now I could see the tattoo on his calf was a dragon. It was small and elegant–almost fragile. His eyes were different colors: the left one brown, the right blue. He raised his eyebrows at me and winked. I guess he liked what he saw. He stood from the table, and motioned for me to follow him.

At one time the little niche he led me to held a phone. Now the seclusion, the darkness, and those odd doors make it the perfect spot for an assignation. I leaned down to kiss him. I’m typically the aggressor, but tonight, I’d met my match. His tongue was inside my mouth before I realized it. His hands were on my ass kneading it like a potter wedging clay to get it right for him to craft on the wheel. He pulled away from me. “Come on,” he panted. He pushed the wall, and a door opened. “My apartment’s in the basement,” he said. It seemed convenient enough.

We could hear the band playing in his subterranean bedroom. “We’re right under the stage,” he told me. “I hope it doesn’t bother you,” he said pushing me backwards onto the silk sheets. I watched as he pulled his shirt over his head. He’d lost his shoes somewhere on our commute. I sat up. He pulled my shirt off and began kissing my chest. I wanted to taste him. I rolled him over and began working my way down his chest to his stomach. I pulled off his pants. His stature belied the nine uncut inches he was packing. There’s nothing like some foreskin to make giving a blow job a better experience. I’ve had plenty of men’s dicks in my mouth, but Alex is the only one who ever tasted of jasmine before. It’s odd I know. I wondered if he used some flavoring there.

We switched places again. It was his turn. He began at my dick and worked his way up to my chest. He couldn’t decide which pec he wanted to work, but finally he made his decision. He circled my nipple with his tongue while his hand toyed with my balls and occasionally slipped down to massage my perineum. I was in near ecstasy when I felt a bite into my flesh. I’ve had guys bite before but this was different. I didn’t cry out in pain. This was a form of ecstacy I’d never known before. He didn’t release me. Instead he placed his mouth more firmly on my flesh. I felt the unmistakable feeling of blood flowing, but it didn’t trickle like I thought it should, for Alex had his tongue moving to lap it as it poured forth. I groaned again in delight. My dick got harder than I’d ever know it get before. I tensed. I knew what was coming. My load poured from me. My eyes rolled back in my head. My orgasm was so intense I lost consciousness.

I woke on my couch the next morning. I guess I’d been out for hours. Had he drugged me somehow? I didn’t know. There was no wound where he’d bitten me. It wasn’t bruised or sore to the touch. I went back the club the next night. I didn’t drink anything stronger than a Diet Coke. He wasn’t there. I found no secret door in the niche.

A guy came up to the table. I’d seen him here a lot. He’d always ignored me before. We talked a little. Was he actually flirting with me now? “I love that tattoo on you’ve got,” he told me. I stared at him blankly. I didn’t have a tattoo. I looked to my calf where he pointed, and there it was. A dragon tattoo exactly like the one Alex had. It was healed with the hair grown back, in less than twenty-four hours.