For this post, I excerpted the beginning of a short story that was originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. If you like the story, perhaps I will give you some more of it. But you have to let me know your wishes.
From a park bench cloaked in the deep shadow of night, I observed the progress of the quasi-organized brawl these people called baseball, a neighborhood game of frequent bawdy disputes, usually resolved just short of mayhem. Despite the throbbing pain occasioned by bright, glaring lights mounted atop poles, only marginally eased by heavily smoked glasses, the raucous vigor and raw emotions of the participants were ambrosia, feeding my vortex, easing the gnawing of a voracious hunger and restoring my pranic energy sufficiently to dull the edge of my depression, a condition I often suffer.
Yet, even the massed force of those straining, sweating, cursing young men on the field did not sate my appetite—not completely. For that, I required an intimate confrontation with the tall, wiry young man with the broad Magyar brow generations of New World blood had not significantly altered. This youth, whose towering aura occasionally flickered in my direction, surpassed the collective beauty of all who cavorted on the field.
My name is Tancready, although that is not the appellation bestowed at my birth in 1047 Anno Domini. While not my first alias, Tancready is the one that has served for the last two hundred years. I am an Eternal, or if you prefer, a Vampire; not the idiotic caricature of fiction or the loathsome, bloody fiend of legend who stalks the unwary with deadly intent, but one of a miniscule elite who escape the usual constraints of humanity. I exercise an eccentric lifestyle and develop unorthodox relationships, such as that I seek from the most uncommonly beautiful human I have encountered since the Italian Renaissance, the youth I patiently stalk.
Over virtually a millennium, I have endured many lifetimes, embracing death often over the centuries, but true to my ilk, I endlessly return from the earth to assume another name, another persona. I endured Vlad the Impaler’s tortured reign. I died at Hastings with the Conqueror’s army and attended Henry’s knights as they slew Thomas à Becket at Canterbury, fought with the Mongols on the Steppes when Temujin became Genghis Khan. I battled the Emperor in Russia and again at Waterloo. I died at the hands of German Nazis at Stalingrad. I have seen … lived … momentous history!
The game on the sports grounds ended in a pungent burst of sweaty enthusiasm as redolent as a potent Russian brew. The field cleared and the terrible lights slowly died, allowing my photosensitive eyesight to regain its sharpness. Body vibrating, nimbus soaring, the boy approached on the paved walkway, his corded arm riding the shoulders of a young lady. The easy, comfortable companionship between the two elicited an instant burst of energy. His rich luminescence, yellow with affection and friendship for the creature under his arm, suddenly flashed red as he crossed the path in front of my sheltered bench. Tentacles reached toward me uncertainly. I quickly reined in my raging jealousy and sent a more benign form of kinetic energy toward him, seeking to block his unconscious curiosity. I overdid it, as was frequently the case; he visibly staggered, but recovered and continued across the park, his aura drawn close against his body. His flesh, I knew, would be puckered in a case of ‘heebie-jeebies,’ in today’s pedestrian vernacular.
The boy was aware of me now, too much so at this point, although he had no real understanding of that fact. Nonetheless, I would need to proceed carefully. His name was Boris Balint, a good Hungarian patronymic miraculously not yet Anglicized into Valentine. Born in the northern New Mexico mountains twenty years past, he now attended classes at the university in Albuquerque. His passions were chess and photography. All this and more, I knew from clandestine midnight visits to the university records room. Chess, I decided, would be my gateway into his life.
As my quarry passed from sight, my energy level dropped precipitously. Edginess and irritability, frequent companions, returned until I focused on a distant figure on the field. My need honed to a keen edge, I moved toward the sleek young Hispanic putting away the game equipment. Anticipating the touch of his smooth, dark flesh, I literally salivated. He was at that brief age when adolescent mestizos were as pretty as girls, yet exuded the budding machismo of their elders. Delicious!
Although he had not yet seen me, the youth demonstrated a sharp alertness as he slowly turned from the equipment shed to nervously scan the darkened pathway. I flooded his slender form in tentacles of friendship yellow and purple desire, overpowering the fearful red of his suspicion. His resolve faltered, and enveloped in my powerful sexuality, the boy obediently trailed me into the deep shadows behind the equipment shed. Without physically touching him, I pulled him to a halt before me. He swallowed hard.
“What is your name, my beautiful young friend?”
“Ah, Carlos. You bear a noble name.”
He flinched at my hand on his cheek; no sign of a beard. Beautiful. The boy stood hypnotized while I stripped him naked in the cool, high-desert air. My sensitive fingers traced the broad, bony shoulders, the curve of the chest. His heart raced at my touch. I inhaled the push of air from his diaphragm as I slid down the gently bowed belly. He awakened at my touch. Well-endowed for one so young and slight, the boy responded readily.
Young Carlos moaned, torn between fright and desire. I wrapped my physical arms around his buttocks and pulled him to me, allowing the salt of recent sweat, the aroma of strenuous exercise and sexual arousal to tease my nostrils pleasantly. His hands closed on my head; his hips twitched. He was lost, and I was greedy for his fresh young semen.
The youth’s thin frame jerked in the throes of an orgasm he would fruitlessly strive to match for the remainder of his days. Shuddering, this fledgling Carlos, this namesake of powerful kings and emperors, would have fallen had I not eased his weight to the ground. I contemplated arousing him again, but he was drained beyond quick recovery. Satisfied for the moment, I disappeared into the night, leaving the boy naked and spent. I smiled to myself. The boy’s seed, while sweet, had yet to reach the peak of potency. The lad was an immature eighteen; in a year or two, his sperm would ripen.
Well, well, well. Will Tancready find a way to connect with young Boris Balint? Has the hungry Eternal realized at this point his target is a Prescient, one who has an awareness of and affinity for vampires? Sometimes they are companions and willing victims, but sometimes they are dreaded hunters of the Eternals. Let me know if you want to hear more of this story by contacting me at email@example.com.
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