1968. Revolution clouded the air like a roomful of chain-smokers. Didn't really care about the politics, at least not until he knew more, but he wanted to learn. Wanted to meet people.
Month-old apartment, New York City, away from his parents for 5 years now, barely remembering their hypocritical rules. He checked himself out in the bathroom mirror, not displeased with the results. Sandy brown hair, falling to his shoulders (grown out only to hear Dad scream "GODDAMNED NELLIE HAIRCUT" every few months), brown eyes, even nose, clear complexion. A few inches (mainly in height, but he wouldn't complain about growth in other areas) might make him feel better, overall he felt pretty groovy.
The footsteps from his small apartment to the creaky elevator were more hesitant, but once he hit the pavement, he went in stride. Sunny day, Motown blaring from transistor radios, tunes pumping him into getting a closer look at the other side of his own generation. You just don't run into enough youngblood while stocking dusty Agatha Christie novellas at the corner bookstore. As soon as he got the money, he had to get a car, find a better job in a different location.
For all the tension, and talk of ending in flames, day to day living was about the same. Dogs still shit on the sidewalk, the upstairs couple were still too lazy to move the bed away from the wall, he was still unsure of where to go in his future. Probably his main reason for going to this park rally, to see if the spirit lit inside him. He wanted to find the next chapter for his life. Preferably a life not involving buzz cuts and a one-way ticket to the jungles of hell.
Finally, the park. He recoiled from the smell, body odor, anger, people pushed together for a common cause. A voice yelled from a podium that seemed miles away. Tie-dyes and beads everywhere. His jeans and ratty shirt were practically dressy, at least he had the forethought to undo the cuffs before he left his place.
A Negro...FUCK...black guy stared him down as he neared the outer perimeter.
"Hey man. Takes all kinds."
"Um...yes. My name's Terry Emerson."
Didn't offer a hand to shake, he couldn't with one holding a joint and the other scratching below his frizzed, Hendrix-like hair.
"Cool. Why you here?"
"I want to learn."
"We all do brother, but I'm just sicka people...."
Terry saw another longhair, just like him, tanned skin, tossing his shirt aside as he and his multicolored buddies played touch football. Grunting, grinding, pressing firm flesh tight against each other in the name of sport. Wished he could be touched that way, feel strong hands on his body and not have to feel bad or sinful or sick...
"...think they were destined to save the world cause they heard Janis & Jimi on....."
Some chick watching him watch those men, watching him period. She had the most beautiful hair, just like Julie's on the Mod Squad. Blonde and flowing, slight bangs. Her blue eyes danced in the sunlight, calling for him. Unknown, gibberish words flew in and out of his head, drawing him more and more toward this goddess. *I don't even like girls!* He did now. Dad would be thrilled.
"...so I said, hey man I don't give a fuck how many girls told you you could be Clapton's brother, I still ain't givin' you a ride...."
Transfixed, Terry ran after Cynthia as she blurred into the crowd. Maybe she could change him, maybe she was the one, where'd she go? Running, running, elbowing hippies, he lost track of her on the street. Sitting on the pavement, he got his breath back, ready to give up. Then the whistling started, flitting through the air, words only he could hear. He followed their path, through rows of rundown apartment buildings, finally ending in a deserted alley.
/Finally I found searchin all around
Just was not the answer/
He saw her, taut body covered by a minidress and tons of beads.
/One I thought was true looked a bit like you/
"Cause I'd like to get to know you, know you..know-oh-oh..."
She smiled, hands clasped at his repeating of the chorus. He made her happy. Good.
"Cynthia, I love that song."
She never said her name out loud. She never had to. She swam through his mind, tranquility left behind.
"You wouldn't prefer 'I Can't Help Myself' ?"
No. Of course she knew that. Their bodies moved closer, hers naturally, his beyond his own control.
He tried saying, "Why me?" He didn't deserve her.
Her impossibly long fingers brushed his hair back, rubbing his neck. Their eyes locked, any shreds of self-control long obliterated.
The alley suddenly closed in around them, Terry's whole world crashing. He wouldn't be a part of this. But he had no choice. Pain throbbed around his jugular, blood gushing from her sharp teeth. Way too much to be his. She licked and sucked at every drop, never satisfied. Pain long gone in favor of numbness and joy, he felt her words in his mind again. He loved her as much as he hated her. Then she was gone. He pined for her as he collapsed to the ground below, last minutes spent alone and used.
Nosferatu. Count Dracula. Terry Emerson. Now there's a trio.
Three weeks at Oz, two in Emerald City. Night shift was his specialty. No objections from the other guards, especially those with families. The fabled Emerald City lacked green walls and benevolent wizards, but it did have enough bloodbaths to satisfy every vamp in every cheesy horror flick ever filmed. Terry never believed in the supernatural, no reason to. Not even as a kid. He loved horror films as an escape from a world of poor parents and uncaring masses. He had been told he was an attractive man, *unique*. He had to go on the words of those people, since mirrors were out of the question. When was that last day...1968. Vietnam, violence, veins, vampires. The big 4. And the bitch who chomped him never looked back as he bled to death in a dirty back alley. Not even an "I'm sorry for giving you eternal life" card. Disoriented, hungrier than he'd ever been, he woke up (still in that damn alley) three days later. The years passed by so slowly.
Lights out bathed Em City into a teasing, misleading sense of peace. Men asleep, or getting their jollies in hope no "hacks" noticed. All shapes and sizes, going from ugly to a few delicious pieces of neck. Life as a fag vampire included way too many jokes about living an Anne Rice novel, but he wouldn't trade it for the het vampiric lifestyle. During the 70's he tried the offbeat path, too many leather jackets, smoky bars, and fangers hissing and pissing over poppers and packets of raw meat. Only a passion for hair tints and tattooed fangs meant free passes into the manmeat crowd. He never even clicked with the ostracized minority of a minority.
The rejects of life. Maybe that's why he wanted to work at a prison. Another reason being free samples. No one cared about scumbags, even with their token weeping relatives and letters from home. Terry used to think about being one of those noble vamps who only took out animals or blood banks (*that* lasted until his frostbitten lips). In a way, he still took out animals.
"Murphy, I'm gonna take a piss."
Going down the familiar dull hallway, into the cramped bathroom. A stall beckoned to him. Teleportation time.
Concentrate....concentrate....close your eyes...
....made it. A pod. The biker muffled into his pillow, humping the rough mattress. Delusions and dreamscapes. Terry yanked Hoyt's boxer shorts down, losing the battle to just go about his business. A ring of ink circled above his full ass, a strange contrast to the rest of his uncovered body. Not exactly his taste, but he craved diversity. An outflung (thanks for making this even easier) arm tempted him as fingertips danced on the floor. Grabbed the arm in a quick movement, bathing his wrist with tentative, caressing licks. Flesh moist and prepared, he blew a hot path with his mouth, biting in. Hoyt squirmed and woke in pain, but Terry wasn't worried. Sure enough, the shock blunted his instinct to scream. Waves of pleasure began washing over the biker's drained face, helped along by Terry's hand sandwiched between starchy cloth and cock.
Lust for blood replaced Terry's thoughts, his feelings, his emotions. It'd be easy to drain every drop, but even in prison such a bizarre death brought risks. And he'd create another vampire, which he swore never to do. Reluctantly, the arm fell from his grasp, Hoyt's eyes pleading with him to keep going. He swallowed every last drop of red heat, full and satisfied after a period of hunger. His other hand slowly pulled out of Hoyt's underpants, covered in juices. Quick licks took care of the cum on his fingers and palm, mixed together the two fluids weren't a completely unpleasant taste.
Overpowering eyes gently met with Hoyt's, reminding him. Soothing him. A bond formed, never to be broken. He had total control over the biker. His placid Hell's Angel rolled back over, injured wrist cradled between legs. Hopefully Hoyt had enough gray matter under the gruffness to come up with a believable excuse during count.
Time to go back. Too bad he couldn't wear a cape or wave a magic wand on this job. As he made himself ready to go, Terry saw an imposing figure a few pods away, standing proud amidst chaos. Adebisi flicked his glance in the general vicinity, probably trying to see in hidden corners. Eyes of darkness. Crouched in shadows, tendrils caught in Terry's chest. A deep yearning tossed away during Reaganomics, a desire he never expected to feel again.
Strong, but sleek like a panther, beautiful ebony skin, chocolate fingers massaging as he snapped your neck. Flimsy barriers barely hid the majesty of his penis and eye-grabbing, muscled ass. His legs were tree trunks, stomach rippled enough to withstand a thousand punches, head lusciously devoid of hair. In the assorted catalogue of black perfection, Terry never completely took his eyes from the most important part. His long, luscious, pulsing neck. Thrumming with life, plans to survive and conquer. Terry closed his eyes, tongue strumming lips in fantasy of sinking in....
....and bumping back into the stall door. Fuck. That brought him back to reality. Did Adebisi see him? Probably not. Maybe. He had to take care of him before the other man blabbed or blackmailed. Definitely not a hard job to do. Only problem left was picking out the right time. Plans went through his head as his pants tightened. No more fast food, he had a seven-course meal on his hands. To do his bidding, to show every part of himself, to give up all control for an undead man who knew more about survival than even he ever could. And Simon Adebisi would enjoy every minute. He had no choice in the matter.
continued in Part 2