Bloody Virgins

I am annoyed. My eyeballs, I am sure, glint with it. Shining in this handsome face.

It is not arrogance, no, only fact. I have not seen it in many years, (shaving is tricky) but I am popular with the ladies, am I not? Good genes. Good skin. Good cheekbones. Charisma. I open my mouth wide, like so— —and I lick these long fangs. I poke one nail in and pick them clean. I am fastidious about this. One must floss. Very important. It is habit now, a thoughtful semi-colon. The bed: crumpled, empty. Tattered remains of the curtains billow into the room. Knowing what I will see, I stalk to the balcony and peer over, talons beating an irritated rhythm on the railing. Far below, her rather pretty form moves steadily down the rock face. She has fashioned a rope from torn and knotted curtains. What is wrong with the door?

Ahh, the fool! Even if the fabric holds, she will catch her death! The sheer material of her nightie and matching fur-trimmed robe offer no protection against these climes. Another one! Always they leave without so much as a "by your leave, good sir, much obliged".

They arrive, bedraggled, lost, eyes wide, bosom heaving. They stay awhile. In my best rooms. They enjoy my hospitality, my sparkling conversation. They have their pick of negligee, and balconies. They simper, they smile, and arrange themselves so sweetly in their chosen four-posters. It is no great secret, what I am. The clues are all there. My pale complexion, impeccable style. My nocturnal habits, with excuses that are plainly poor excuses. The many mirrors, none of which show my face. And yet! They poke in corners, candelabra held aloft. So nosy! They compile evidence, they clutch at that (oh!) that hollow at the base of their slim, white throats... And then they flee! As if I am ever anything but a perfect gentleman. At least this one did not ruin another of my shirts with a point-ed stick. or tear down the stairwell curtain to let in the sun. It is rude, is what it is. I am insulted. And so! I must purchase more flimsy nightwear and perhaps, a sign for the front gate.

NO BLOODY VIRGINS

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Sunday 24th November at 21:45

The story behind the story: I recently learned of an Icelandic version of Bram Stoker's Dracula which was "punchier, and more erotic" than the original. Goodness! It made me want to write my own spot of Drac fanfic. I see him as a dignified gentleman, and his guests as a wee bit melodramatic.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 329 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

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