Vampires feed on blood. I feed on disquiet and decision, on rage and regret. On the decisive moment and the slow flowing syrup of bitter aftermath. These days, I maintain a strict rule not to trigger it, but if it falls in my lap, lover, you cannot blame me for the pleasure I take in fortune’s little favours.
So when, in a moment of fury, you draw back your hand to hit me, I hide my smile. I savor the cusp of choice, the trembling drop that hangs on the tip of the moment, and feel the thrill of pause, of decision, slip serpentine into my veins. That perfect instant in which all free will is distilled down to its essence. Whether you succeed or fail to control yourself hardly matters, the fruit is squeezed. The bruise you leave on me is a small price to pay for the long draught of repercussion I may drink in return.
To see the pieces fall, to watch the slow pallor of doubt creep across your face. After the momentary righteousness has ebbed, shame steals into the muscles of your shoulders, into the hesitation of your glance, and colours the careful uncertainty of your apology.
There is nothing so flagrantly decadent as regret. It lies across the landscape like a spare whore, unrequired, costly and useless, an exquisite mosaic walled up in a windowless, doorless room. Only her perfume matters. Only the imagined luxury of creamy thighs that won’t be parted today. The potential for what might have been done differently but wasn’t; it’s an impossible future past.
In love, in lust, in terror or temper, the story is only fully told in the consequence. I do, above all, love a good story.