From Issue 2.2 - October/November 1995
As far back as I can remember I've been fascinated with blood and with vampires. Not that I'd cut myself deliberately, but even as a youngling, whenever I started to bleed, if I could get the wound to my mouth, it was snack time! A few cooperative friends would also allow me to feed, but after a couple of times, their bravado gave way to "ewww... gross!" and concern with germs, which is in fact correct.
By the early eighties, I was deep in the throes of erotic perversion -- which I still celebrate -- but I was also deep into alcoholism and unsafe sex. Blood was easily found, and that lust as easily indulged as all the others. My memory fades in and out of those intoxicated nights, but I do remember once at the Hot House pulling my arm out of a very capacious ass and delighting in the blood that covered my bare arm like a glove. Priding myself as a proper son of Vlad and de Sade, I licked up this exquisite treat like a cat cleaning its paw, like an ogre feasting on gore.
Now sober and epidemiologically educated, I know better, but medical considerations aside, that memory remains a favorite.
More recently, a piercing brought streams of blood from my nipple, and one of the boys assisting fed me from that spring via his latex gloved hand. Hungrily I licked at his protected fingers. He fed me, he teased me, he smeared my blood all over my face, leaving me to wear a crimson mask of passion and power the rest of the night.
It's not easy finding men into bloodsports. Is blood such a feminine pleasure? From the dawn of humanity, women's mysteries joined blood and power in an erotic union every month. It's been suggested that Eve's apple is a scarlet euphemism for menstruation. Exclusive to humans, this is a physical catalyst for conscious reproductive choice, as well as chronological awareness. For women, blood is indeed a deep power signifying life and wisdom.
It's no wonder that male initiation rites invariably involve wounding and blood, in imitation of the feminine truth that gives us humanity. But it remains that men bleed only in wounding, in pain. Of course some men enjoy pain, but for male sadomasochists it's mostly whips and wax, clips and electricity. Knives, needles, and other sharps remain mostly in the realm of women. For Gay men the blood also holds HIV, or at least the potential for deadly infection, but that fear is only mythologically male. Anybody of any gender may be carrying blood-borne pathogens, so any form of hemosensualism must be carefully practiced.
Usually I have to enjoy not the blood itself, but its trappings. The sensuality of a pulse, the lick of a tongue against the wrist, teasing at that delicate skin and the vein just beneath it, tracing my way up along the arm through the inner elbow, that wellspring so adoringly polluted by junkies. But no poison here, my sweet. Just a tongue savoring the taste of your pulse, your life, your passion, tracing up further past the pulse at your pit, just enough to tease and tickle before I take your neck. Yes, there I can hold you tight, my arms securing your body while my mouth holds down on your jugular. Your skin still intact, I taste your flesh, with just the hint of blood behind it as we celebrate the shadow of a communion, a pantomime of nosferatu lust. I ache for your blood, and with my whips and canes, with needles and knives, I'll see your pretty ass and thighs dripping with ruby life that only you, my dear, may taste.
Inspired by the Parisian band, we created our own Theatre des Vampires to perform on the feast of St. Sebastian. In our homage to the saint, we sacrificed a pretty little blond boy to Diocletian's lust. As archers took aim, a dark angel pierced the saint's flesh with needles, and trickling blood set the tone for the night's festivities.
Under the watchful eye of a dungeon monitor, scalpels and needles tapped the springs of life and joy. One pair of young nosferatu pierced each other with filaments threading back and forth. Separate threads were connected at knots to preserve prophylactic integrity, yet the knots connected them like mutual marionettes, each pulling with gentle tugs to draw a bit of blood where the strings ran through their flesh. More than a bit. They drew enough blood to put on some ice cream for sanguine sundaes. In the art room our own dear little Claudia was drawing out her own crimson ink onto paper, truly putting her life into her art.
My master went to le Theatre des Vampires and all I got was this bloody t-shirt! Some lucky revelers received pet leeches, pretty little things that showed the most amazing colors as they fed and grew, almost becoming plaid before they fell, sated and happy, into their little cups.
For the producers it was a dream come true, but it was a lot of
work and some expense! And yet... Claudia says, "I want more!" and
we could never deny the beloved child anything. Someday, my dearest,
Vlad and I will be ready, and more you shall have. Patience, my child,
is not only a virtue. For the undying, it is an easy
luxury.