OMG Vampires are so lame (a vampire story)

This was the first draft of the first chapter of a silly vampire novel I was planning on writing. I've moved on to other things, but still have kind of a soft spot for this orphaned chapter from an unwritten book
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I am the palest woman in Los Angeles. Sun definitely does not agree with me.

Rich, pale, fabulous, and excruciatingly gorgeous, I am unembarrassed to be the stuff of fantasies every time I walk into a room. I am also--and I say this to you very casually, matter of factly, as though I were telling you about a glass of Chateau Mouton I'd recently sampled at Ma Maison, or some other equally quotidian delight--I am also the stuff of nightmares. By my own count, I am responsible for (conservative estimates, round numbers) about 200 murders, 800 kidnappings, 2500 (extremely) aggravated assaults, and I routinely cheat at cards. I have a beauty mark just to the left of my ideally retrousse' nose. So add to my other crimes the number of times I've driven other women to nosejobs and/or eating disorders.

My bedroom is done in preppy pink and green, in stark contrast to the minimalist aesthetic that defines the rest of my condo. Above my bed is a large painting of myself, in pinks and greens natch, that I commissioned from Lucian Freud several years ago. I'm sitting in a hot pink beanbag chair admiring my nails, which are painted the fourth darkest of the 40 or so shades of black offered by Chanel this season and complement my black hair, which is, in turn, especially shocking next to my snowy skin and million mile deep blue eyes. A semi-famous musician (a keyboardist so not very very famous, admittedly) is bound to my bed, bleeding, as they say, profusely. I'm wearing a pair of black ankle boots with stiletto heels from Gucci, white Versace jeans, and a tight black top by Agnes B. The keyboardist, whom I met last week at a party at some movie producer's house (at which David Bowie failed to show up, to my disappointment), is struggling frantically but clearly not going anywhere and I stare at him for a few minutes, giggling and urging him on, until it gets a little boring and I go back to my nails. I have an engagement later in the evening, an afterhours deal at Spago, but I still have some time to kill, so I pat him on the head, smile sweetly, then bare my fangs once more to see his reaction. I'm thinking that it's sort of too bad he likely won't remember much of this evening, and will likely doubt the few memories he does have (drugs, booze, the rock and roll lifestlye), as I laugh once more and walk into the other room to maybe watch Jeopardy or listen to Blondie. The keyboardist, who doesn't know whether to fear more my absence or my presence (which should he fear more? what do you think?) is thrashing clumsily, smearing blood all over my pink Hermes bedsheets.

Jeopardy is a rerun. I walk to my refrigerator, open a Tab, and walk back into the living room, luxuriating in the clickety-click my heels make as I walk across the marble floor of my kitchen. I briefly consider putting on a Blondie CD (Parallel Lines), then I consider watching my Back to the Future LaserDisc (I have a huge crush on Michael J Fox) but there isn't enough time to watch the entire film. So I sprawl out on my couch and stare at an enormous reproduction of Francis Bacon's Painting (1946), that hangs alone on my south wall, which always tends to make me hungry, hyper, and horny (note my use of the Oxford comma juxtaposed against my occasional pseudo-Valleygirl vernacular).

(continued)

reply to post by IsThereLifeOnMars


I'm transfixed by the violence, the horror, and the pastels of Bacon's painting when the semi-famous keyboardist, moaning and thrashing around in the other room, snaps me out of my trance. I walk to my bedroom and stand just inside the doorway, backlit by a harsh halogen lamp in the hallway. Leaning laconically, I make pouty pink lips at him and giggle, because he has managed to wiggle out of the bed but his hands are still bound over his head and behind him to the bedpost. His body is stretched out now and I stare at his abs, straining and distended and defined, and wonder what Bacon would have painted if he'd seen this particular meat in this particular pose (Predicament? All poses are predicaments--ask any model).

As I lean down next to him, I can see that the rope is cutting into his wrists and that his hands are now purple and swollen. I take his head in my hands and laugh, more or less, directly in his face. "Awesome job, dude. You took a mildly bad position and made it into total torture." He's nodding, emphatically agreeing, trying to babble but I put my hand over his mouth and the babbling subsides into a trickle of murmurs and then nothing. When I met him at the party, I remember he had asked me "So babe, are you ever kinky?" and I'd smirked and said "Yeah, hideously kinky."

I reach into my front pocket, take out a single white pill. "Guess it's time to put you out of your misery." His eyes go wide now and he starts to scream but as soon as he opens his mouth I cram the pill in, cover his mouth with my hand and massage his throat with the other hand to force it down.

The pill works fast. I can feel his pulse slowing down almost immediately, and he quickly fades into unconsciousness, fully believing he's dying. Since he's been a good sport, I decide not to make things too hard for him once he wakes up, and I don't even drink from him anymore, even though I'm hungry and aroused. So I drag him into the living room and prop him up on my couch. Even though he's all done bleeding, I go to my medicine cabinet and grab a bandage and apply it to his neck, because better safe than sorry when you're dealing with fine furniture. I leave a note, which I write in big happy letters using pink, sort of sparkly, ink, and which reads "Tonight was soooo fun. Had to go somewhere. Be a doll and let yourself out?" Then I lock the liquor cabinet and every door in the condo. Modern boys are very like lab rats and will go where you want them to (in this case "Out") if you remove all other options and temptations (especially the vodka and Bolivian Marching Powder).

It's now 10:46, according to the time displays on both my VCR and LaserDisc player, and my car service is picking me up at 11. The party at Spago begins at 11 and should be in full swing by the time I arrive. It promises to be an extravagantly debauched, utterly scandalous night. Fat lines of coke. Champagne. At least one human sacrifice (contingent, among other things, on the availability of virgins in Los Angeles on a Friday night). I slip on a denim jean jacket, made by Chanel, and I'm thinking La Maison de Chanel making denim jackets? Wow! Welcome to the 1980s. Enjoy 'em while you can, kids.

The semi-famous keyboardist mumbles something in his sleep, probably dreaming that he is dead. I ruffle his hair and walk back into my bedroom to grab a sassy shiny pink handbag that I bought at Privilege. The boy who is now dreaming of being dead, who it turns out bled like a geyser (coke, probably), has done a real number on the pink Hermes sheets which are neither cheap nor easily replaced. One of the first things I did when I moved to this city was find a specialist who was famous in certain circles for being able to get basically any stain out of basically any fabric. I am a vampire. My drycleaning expenses are monstrous.

i'm lovin it.

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