I don’t know what it’s like to be close to another person.

I don’t think I have ever been truly close to anyone.

I know that sounds insane but I keep checking and rechecking in my head and I can’t think of anyone I was close to, emotionally speaking.

Maybe before the rape, back when I was a cheerful charmer full of warmth and wit and, of course, way too smart for my own good.

I know I was close to my mother and my babysitter Betty back then,.

But then the rape happened and steel doors slammed shut inside me and then I went to school, Betty went away forever, and I was thrown to the wolves at school, and my mother shut down emotionally and froze me out, and by grade 3 I was absolutely alone in the world.

No friends, no family, no mentors, no peers, no anything.

And that’s been it for all the decades that came after. I have never gotten any closer than being friends with someone since then.

And even my friendships have never been very close. I love my friends and I hope they love me, but it’s a very intellectual kind of friendship, without a klot of openly expressed emotions, vulnerability, or intimacy.

It’s about all I can handle.

My social damage runs so deep.

I have decades’ worht of frostbite from all that silence and isolation inside me. Decades of the harshest of winters into which I was abandoned and lacked the wherewithal to realize how miserable I was and then I should get the fuck out of there ASAP.

I am tragically short on survival and/or self-preservation instinct. Must be buried under all that snow and ice.

Along with my heart and all those places where love should have gone.

I wish I could stick a finger down my psychological throat to make myself vomit up all the dirty snow and soiled ice and toxic sludge that I have accumulated over the decades and finally purge myself of all this pain.

But it doesn’t work like that, at least, not for me. I am stable to a fault. No matter what, I just keep toddling forward like the Energizer bunny, never breaking down enitrely but never doing very well either, trapped in my own cage and unable to escape except by painfully and laboriously tunneling my way out via words.

It’s a frustratingly tedious process, but words are what I do, and words are all I have.

Sometimes it feels like words are all I am.

An so I void my pain onto the page, melting a glacier a bucketful at a time, with nobody to help because nobody can even enter my cold little world.

That’s the real closeness issue : nobody get close because I don’t let them in.

I can’t do it. I am too broken inside. The man who raped me when I was 4 years old cut me off from humanity with his evil fucking cock.

And I have dwelled the darkness ever since.

More after the break.

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The Vampire’s Blog – Grandfather Safsata’s remarks

I have been asked (rather stridently, I might add) to address the perennial issue of whether or nope vampires have sex.

Apparently, according to a group of painfully earnest pre-centurians, as I am now the oldest vampire in Europe, I “owe it to the vampire community” to “speak with my centuries of authority” on this issue which is “tearing the vampire community apart”.

Such dramatic nonsense. This is a prime example of why I havd dreaded becominjg an Elder for centuries. I miss the days when I could haunt this castle in peace.

But if I must, I must.

The problem, as I see it, is that different factions are using different definitions for the same word. Quite typical, I am afraid.

So let me clarify :

If you cannot or do not seperate sex from lust, then vampires do not have sex because vampires do not experience lust. Lust is of the life force, even when homosexual, and therefore goes the way of hunger, thirst, and toilet needs when we join the shadows.

The only lust we have is for blood. Bloodlust, if you will. ^[1]

However, if you limit your definition to the sorts of sexual acts normally associated with the term and leave lust behind, we vampires can and do have sex.

Some of us, in fact, have quite a bit of it.

Myself, I go through phases.

You see, we may not have the lust but the pleasure remains. Even without desire, sex remains one of the most potent sources of pleasure available.

And we vampires treasure our pleasures. They get us through the centuries.

And we vamps have an unfair advantage over the living when it comes to adventures of the boudoir : the key parts of our anatomy are ours to command and we do not tire.

Oh, and we have eternity in which to hone our techniques.

There, that should give you prurient types something to think about.

The difference is that for us, it’s only pleasure. None of the emotions the living associate with sex are present. There is no sense of intimacy, connection, exultation, titilation, or fulfilment, sexual or otherwise.

Emotionally speaking, it’s like getting a good backrub.

It feels good, it makes us see our lover(s) in a favorable light as a source of that pleasure, and that’s about it.

So what it really boils down to is whether you find the idea of such detached eroticism so very appalling that you refuse to acknowledge it as sex at all.

Either that, or you have been indulging widely for so many years while telling yourself it wasn’t really sex that to change your mind now would be to admit that you are a ravenous sex fiend and have been for centuries.

For me, it’s simple. If it would be sex if the living were doing it, it’s sex for us too. Sure, there is a emotional difference, but the essence of the act itself is exactly the same.

Now I believe I have sufficiently dealt with this delicate subject to have earned my evening meal and subsequent torpor.

I hope it’s Lisette. She is delicious on every possible level.

Oh, and the next time you have questions concerning this subject, please ask someone else. Being this candid is exhausting for a man of my age and upbringing.

Until next time, may your nights be dark, your winds be swift, and your wings be strong.

And I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

T