Sunrise in Venice by Amelia G

written by Amelia G

He wasn't the sort of guy I normally saw at The Probe, not the sort who would normally be there on a gay night. Maybe for their Gothic or industrial nights, but not for hip-hop and not for gay. I'd actually checked out the Probe's Gothic night a couple of times because I'd heard some positively supernatural stuff goes on there. Didn't see much of anything. Mostly I just felt as out of place on those nights as this guy looked on my night. Well, my night or not, the DJ was doing that interminable techno remix style which makes every song sound exactly the same as the one before it. As a result, I was developing a splitting headache and I was bored of dancing. Normally I love to dance and I'm pretty athletic. I guess maybe I was more upset about the whole thing with Skip than I wanted to be.

So I was uncharacteristically standing in one of the dark corners by the bar, rubbing my temples and contemplating that the one thing which would fix my headache for sure was a good orgasm. I've always gotten laid easily and often. I'm a good-looking guy -- no ego there, just fact. I work out. I condition my hair. I take care of myself, unlike some of the losers who come here. I expect my sex partners to be men who take care of themselves too.

So the only thing which could explain my attraction to the skinny guy I met that night is something, well, supernatural. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the flashing dance floor illumination, I saw him looking at me. I smiled my best winning smil e at him. (Caps, but whose to know.) I wasn't really considering taking him home, but I thought I'd give him something to think about while he pulled his pud that night.

The guy had dark, fairly straight hair down just past his shoulders. He was tall, but really on the thin side and he was wearing a totally fucked-up looking outfit. He had on these black jeans with this gigantic belt buckle with an eagle or some othe r kind of bird on it, like he drove a pick-up or something. And he was wearing this ruffled shirt with a leather jacket over it, and this big velvet-looking black cape with a red satin lining. In my opinion, his nose was too big and his eyes had a downw ard tilt which made him look gloomy. But then he smiled back at me and I saw the fangs.

Normally I prefer my lovers buff like me, but I liked the idea that this consumptive looking boy would never look sick no matter how ill he was. Not like Skip. Skip and I had met at Gold's Gym. And for the record, Gold's is not just some meat market ; you have to be serious about your body to go there. Well, at least the Gold's in Venice Beach, the one I go to. Skip was always a little farther along in his bodybuilding than I was. He was sculpted, beautiful. He'd even been photographed for a coup le of fitness magazines, although he had never competed. Competition just wasn't in his nature.

It started out with a little flirting while we spotted each other with the free weights. We both lived in Venice, so after a while, we started finishing our workouts at either his place or mine. Skip had blond hair and blue eyes and less that 5% body fat. Skip came across so straight, his father had blown his own head off when he found out his son was queer. The man just could not process the information.

Skip wanted to be an actor and I was managing an ice cream shop at the time. I offered him a job, but he turned it down. I wanted Skip to move in with me, but he liked his place and I liked mine. I might have been willing to move, but when I met him I had just bought this great set of matched furniture -- black leather easy chair with matching ottoman, black leather sofa, black lacquer dining room table, black lacquer straight back chairs with black leather seats. My apartment was painted a dark cr eam color and the rugs were tan, so it wasn't as Spartan a look as it sounds. Anyway, I was going to be paying off the furniture purchase forever, so I was determined to have the use of it.

Thank goodness I held off so long on moving in with Skip all things considered. He came into the ice cream shop one sunny Tuesday afternoon. I had one of the soda jerks give him a strawberry shortcake popsicle. We'd just gotten them in and I wasn't sure whether they'd been a good buy or not. At the time, it seemed outrageous to me that the sun should continue to shine while I stood there on the sidewalk and Skip told me he'd just come from the hospital. They'd told him he had maybe six months. Ma ybe a year. Maybe.

"Maybe I should go get tested," I said, standing there stupidly with the Popsicle Skip didn't want melting in my hand.

"Fuck you, it's leukemia." Skip's face contorted into this absolutely horrible expression. "I have it because my fucking father had it. I called my mother from the hospital and she told me. Probably the real reason he shot himself. Fuck just left that note to make me feel rotten."

I protested, but not that strenuously because Skip looked like he was about to cry and I didn't want to make him sad. I really just wanted him to be healthy and happy. With his golden tan and his clear blue eyes, he looked like he couldn't possibly g et sick.

"You can't get leukemia from sexual contact," he told me grimly.

"I never said --"

"You can't get it from butt-fucking, you self-centered prick!" Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the two soda jerks that were working that day were looking out the front window and they pretty obviously could hear what was being said. Passe rs-by were staring. Skip was turning purple beneath his sun-bronzed skin. "You can't get it from smoking cock either!" I felt really bad for Skip that he wasn't even really that sick yet, but he was already deteriorating mentally like that.

When I went back inside the ice cream shop, one of the soda jerks had put her hand into the smoothie machine. There was blood and pineapple-banana mix splashed all over the wall. She had been paying attention to my argument with Skip, rather than to her work. I've told them a million times to be careful, but they act like the training isn't important, like the ice cream shop is just some stupid gig they have to do before they go on to write award-winning screenplays or something.

The girl was clutching her wrist as gouts of blood pumped out of her hand in time with her heart. The shop was a disaster. It was going to take forever to get it cleaned up and disinfected. After all blood can kill you these days. The soda jerk's w ound looked pretty bad so I washed the strawberry shortcake Popsicle off my hand and called 911 to get an ambulance. I knew I was going to get grief about workman's comp from the owner, but I didn't see what else I could do. The girl was bleeding horrib ly and all the fingers on her right hand were bent up and mashed into implausible positions. She kept screaming until the ambulance arrived and the whole thing gave me a splitting headache. But looking at her mangled hand made me really happy that it ha dn't happened to me. It made me wish I were religious so I could go sacrifice a goat or something to say 'thank you for letting it be somebody else, thank you for letting it not be me.'

On the way home, I found myself thinking the same thing again when I passed a grisly car wreck. I lived pretty close to the ice cream shop, but only a nobody walks in LA. So I was driving along Santa Monica when I had to slow down to look at the Ferr ari which had been crushed by this white van full of long-hairs. The rescue team was using the jaws of life to get the guy out of the Ferrari. I guess the guy was in shock or something because he was missing practically the entire lower half of his body , but he kept screaming at the paramedics about how they messed up his car and how that Ferrari probably cost more than all of their combined salaries for a year. Strong words for a guy with essentially no legs. I was very very glad it was not me.

And I kept getting that rush of thankfulness all the time for the next two months. I started renting all the horror movies I could find at Blockbuster. Just so I could feel that grateful rush. Serial killer movies and Frankenstein rip-offs and vampi re flicks -- I rented them all, anything with illness and death. I even rented the tearjerkers where a person's loved ones croak. But I especially liked the vampire movies. I loved the idea of not having to be afraid of blood. I mean, it was interesti ng to look at, but it was annoying to have to be afraid of it. Or of sperm.

Skip's mother called me and said I should visit him in the hospital. His mother had actually flown out from Connecticut and reconciled with Skip and the whole nine yards. I actually tried to go. I really did. But there was this bag lady outside my apartment building when I went out to my car. She looked ancient and she was wearing a winter coat like Californians don't even wear in the winter. But she was shivering anyway. And hawking up phlegm. She asked me for a dollar and I gave it to her, bu t I went back up to my apartment. I wedged my Reeboks under the edge of my black leather sofa and I did three hundred and fifty sit-ups. I was so glad to be healthy.

When Skip's mother called again a couple of weeks later, I tried to explain how I'd loved Skip and I just couldn't handle seeing him unhealthy, bald from chemotherapy or any of that. I couldn't handle the thought of looking at him and being glad not t o be him. I thought she would understand, maybe even be touched by the sentiment. She didn't and she wasn't, but I'd thought she would get it.

So I had hung up the phone with Skip's mother and gone to The Probe with the intention of getting laid. I hadn't really had sex for the preceding two months and I decided it was time to get over Skip and get on with my life. After all was said and do ne, I still had a life and Skip did not and that was just the way it was. Maybe it was just because I was distraught that I ended up hitting on a weirdo with a mouth full of fangs. Distress or the supernatural because that just wasn't like me.

I asked the guy his name and he told me it was Vlad. I started to laugh and he said, "I am a two thousand year old vampire. The name was common when my mother gave it to me and I am afraid I have grown attached to it."

Maybe once I would have just laughed at him and gone off to fuck somebody else, but the idea that vampires must be real had certainly been in my head a lot of late. How else to explain the incredible number of vampire movies and books and myths? Wasn 't this creature what I'd been looking for when I went to the Probe on the Gothic nights I'd tried? I had to admit the answer was simply yes.

I was excited. The idea that this skinny boy could give me immortality or more importantly freedom from disease, freedom from fear of disease, well, it thrilled me. I promptly asked him to come home with me, but he declined. "It is too late in the n ight," he said, "the dawn is almost upon us." But he took my number.

That night I went home alone, which was unusual for me. If I braved The Probe's smoky air and bad music, I always got laid. It was just that I had my mouth all fixed for Vlad and if I couldn't have him, there wasn't anyone else there who would be the same flavor at all. So I went home alone and touched myself thinking of what his skinny hipbones would feel like against my ass, thinking of what his fangs would be like against my throat. Then to make myself pop, I thought of how then I'd hold Vlad's head tight against my groin, gripping his hair roughly to guide his mouth to my cock. My headache went away completely.

Two days later Vlad actually called me and we made a date for the following night at sundown. He looked a lot more normal this night and I found this both relieved me and disappointed me. Most of his outfit was the same I guess, but he'd ditched the big stupid cape and I'd figured out that his belt buckle was a bat not an eagle. We went to Blockbuster and picked out movies. Vlad wouldn't let me rent any vampire pictures though. He said they were boring, too much like life, and anyway they always g ot the transformation ritual wrong. I told him I wished I were a vampire.

"Why?" Vlad furrowed his pale brow.

"Well, you're a vampire aren't you?"

"Umm, yeah, sure. But that doesn't explain why you want to be one."

So we went back to my apartment and curled up together in my big black leather easy chair. I told him about Skip and about how grateful and thankful and happy it made me to look at injured people and sick people and Vlad (unlike Skip's mother) underst ood. "Maybe later, I can give you what you want," he told me. I thought he was going to kiss me then, but he didn't.

So we both sat in my big black leather easy chair watching "Apocalypse Now." (Vlad's movie choice, along with "The Professional". I had rented "Terms of Endearment" and "Faces of Death" for later in the evening if we weren't already otherwise occupie d.) We were taking in the movie fully clothed, I'm afraid, but I was optimistic. I'd gotten him back to my apartment after all. He kept asking me to adjust things on the television and patting my butt encouragingly when I leaned forward and stretched o ver the matching black leather ottoman to make the requested adjustments. I wasn't really hard or anything yet, but my dick was certainly twitching in my jeans.

"The volume is still too low. Can you turn it up please?" Vlad asked.

I leaned forward over the ottoman again, but as soon as I'd popped the sound up a little louder, Vlad was on me. He'd cuffed my right hand to one curved chrome leg of the ottoman before I knew what he was doing, but I struggled before I let him get th e left. The four legs of the ottoman are really two curved bars of metal which meet at the bottom in a circle. Because of the ottoman's construction, there was no way I could free my hands, but although it was a heavy piece of furniture, it wasn't that heavy for a guy like me who is in good shape. So I stood up holding it in my chained hands, the two pairs of handcuffs jangling against the chrome. "What the fuck do you think you are doing?" I raged at Vlad, trying to maintain some shred of dignity wh ile chained to my own living room.

"I thought you wanted to play vampire games," Vlad said so quietly it was hard to hear him over the TV. "I thought you wanted to reap the rewards of my way of doing it." As he spoke, he slowly unbuckled and removed his belt, the black one with the h uge silver bat clasp.

"Are you going to fuck me?" I asked. The belt seemed promising and I so wanted what I knew Vlad could give me.

"If you like."

I relaxed a little, then held up the ottoman towards him. "Then what is this for?"

Vlad made no reply as he began stripping off his black jeans. He still held the belt in his hand and when his pants were off, he folded them neatly and laid them on the sofa. But he kept the belt in his hand. "Part of what I like for foreplay."

My arms were getting terribly tired, but I stood there watching him. Vlad was still wearing a pair of black bikini briefs, but the bulge in them was pretty apparent. "You don't look like you really need much foreplay just now." I flashed him my alwa ys-gets-me-laid smile.

"Come around the back of your sofa. There's a good boy. Now put the footstool on the sofa and I want you to lean over the back of it. Very good."

I stood there quivering and embarrassed, but still fully clothed. "Aren't you going to need to take my pants off?" I tried a little laugh, but I think my nervousness showed through.

"I don't want to mark you."

I realized what he meant and what he intended a split second before the doubled-up belt whistled through the air to land on my upraised buttocks. I started up off the sofa, but Vlad hit me much much harder the second time and said, "stay where you are or next time I'll use the buckle end."

I decided not to move, but I was about to tell him to cut it the fuck out, when I realized that I was suddenly so rock hard my zipper was scratching my cock through my Calvin Klein underwear. Well, okay, if this is what it takes to become a vampire, a pparently my body was up to the task, even if I was kind of horrified. Vlad smacked my ass with the belt a couple more times. The stinging sensation was hideous, but at the same time I felt like my erection stretched all the way from where the stinging began to the very tip where I could feel precum oozing out through my Calvin Kleins. He hit me again, harder yet and my whole body pressed into the couch. I wondered whether I could come rubbing off against the furniture while he did that. I doubted it , but the very thought excited me.

"You're a healthy boy," Vlad sneered, "I imagine you could take a lot of this. But the important question is whether you like it." And he thrust his hands between my legs and, bliss, grabbed my dick. He squeezed gently for a minute up and down the l ength of my shaft, as though measuring. "Well," he told me, abruptly removing his welcome grip, "I can see that you don't need any foreplay either."

I practically choked as I tried to find a response that would make him put his hand back. My face burned with arousal and embarrassment. I lay there docilely strapped across my own furniture, but I said, "Please, I-I want you now."

"Suit yourself." Vlad's long black hair rustled as he shrugged, standing before me. His gaunt features looked mocking and when he smiled I could see the fangs. When he slid down the black bikini briefs, I saw him spring out fully ready indeed. His cock was not the biggest I had ever gotten next to, but it was so white and so hard it looked like it was made of alabaster. The splendid fact that he was totally shaved added to the effect.

When Vlad began guiding his fabulous pale cock toward my mouth, I said, "I'm still totally dressed. Aren't you going to do anything for me?"

"If you like," he replied as he effectively cut off any questions I might have. Vlad's cock was cool to the touch, but it warmed quickly in my mouth. He was not gentle and at first I gagged until I got the hang of what he wanted. I tried to tell him that I could do this better if he didn't have me lashed to the furniture, but he held my head firmly so that I could not pull back to speak. His sex smell was incredible though. It aroused me still further if that was possible. And it was like my worl d shrank to include nothing but my sore arms and my sore jaw and the demanding pounding of Vlad's cock and the desperate begging for attention from my own member.

When he finally did pull out, my tired lips and tongue almost missed him. Vlad strode purposefully around to the back of the sofa again. "Sit still," he commanded as he reached around and undid my belt and my jeans. He slid my clothing, underwear an d all, down to my ankles and secured it there with my own belt. I felt Vlad dribble something cool and wet down the crack of my ass. He slapped my right buttock once, twice and then he was pressing the head of his cock into me. Oh well, I would have li ked a little more attention to my needs, but maybe after 2,000 years, it becomes tiresome to think of others. Besides, I was able to will myself to relax and I was ready enough. Soon Vlad was thrusting freely in and out of my ass. Some thrusts were sho rt and hard, while others were long and easy. Each longer plunge brushed my aching cock up against the back of the sofa. I wanted to reach back and stroke myself properly, but of course my hands were still cuffed.

I was about to tell Vlad to give me a little reach around, when I suddenly thought of Skip. I really didn't want to be thinking of Skip. I wanted to be having a damn orgasm. And then I wanted to be made into a vampire. Or the other way around. Eit her way really. But suddenly I thought of Skip, thought of the fact that he'd always been able to come just from me fucking him. I tried to concentrate on coming just from Vlad fucking me, but no dice. I was just not going to be able to come that way. It felt kind of good to be that aroused for that long, but I wanted release as well. When Vlad finally came himself, it was like this weird minty-cool stream flowing up me. Almost like an orgasm for me, only chilly.

Then I heard him pulling his clothing back on, only I didn't have the nerve to lift my head to look. Face-down on the ottoman, I whimpered, "I want you to make me immortal and I-I want to come."

When Vlad came around to face me, I saw that he had already put his leather jacket on and there was a wet red spot on one of the wings on the bat belt buckle. He held his wrist out to me and I realized that he had cut it on the belt buckle. "Drink up , little wannabe," Vlad told me in an impatient tone of voice. I suckled at the wound, bumping my nose against the sleeve zipper on his biker leather. His skin still seemed oddly cold.

After a few minutes, Vlad directed me to stand up, but I immediately tripped over my own restrained ankles and sat down hard. At which point I realized that my ass was sorer than I had thought where Vlad had taken his belt to it. I winced but said no thing. Vlad lifted the ottoman over my head and stretched me out on my back, laying the ottoman back on the floor over my head. I was painfully aware of my hard-on still waving hungrily in the air. "Now, whatever you do," Vlad admonished, shaking his i ndex finger at me, "don't come before I tell you it is time." He plunged my cock into his cool wet mouth and began to suck hard. I figured he gave me that little warning because he didn't feel like swallowing my sperm. I thought that the vampire was re ally a thoughtless prick all around. But his mouth sure felt nice, the relief my cock felt at finally getting friction, well, it was almost painful. I was trussed-up in my own living room and Vlad was certainly taking his time about giving me what I wan ted, but at least I was finally going to get the orgasm I craved. When I exploded in Vlad's mouth, it felt like the tendrils of my orgasm reached all the way up my abdomen, through my lungs. The sensation was that strong.

"Idiot," Vlad said, letting my softening cock fall out of his mouth so that it hit my stomach with a plopping noise. A noise which was no less unappetizing for being nearly inaudible over the explosion noises coming from the television. I looked down at my wilting dick and saw that there was blood and semen swirled together there. It looked like some perverted strawberry shortcake popsicle. "Well," said Vlad, "I guess you didn't want to be a vampire that bad. Now you ruined the whole process."

"If I wasn't supposed to come," I whined, "why did you do all that other stuff first, before the vampire stuff?"

"Because it gets me off," he answered standing up. "You didn't have to get off on it too." He strode over to the VCR and pulled out "Apocalypse Now" and replaced it with "Faces of Death," pocketing the movie he liked. "Well, I have to get home befor e sunrise and you'll just have to figure out how to escape yourself or wait a couple of hours," he sneered at me, baring his fangs as he did so. "I don't think anyone is going to hear your screams over the VCR."

"But, so, uhm, am I a vampire now?"

"No," Vlad replied, tossing his black hair as he pressed the play button. "You are not a vampire. You are a fucking ghoul." He closed the door to my apartment when he left, but he left it unlocked. I couldn't decide whether I was pleased or worried that the unlocked door made it more likely that I would be discovered. I was pretty sure my windows were high up enough that no one could see through my open blinds, although I kept thinking that something about the windows was a problem anyway. But I just watched the movie and contemplated how I could escape my bonds, as my dick slowly grew hard again.

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