He told me that I knew what he wanted. I laughed rather cruelly, informing him that his description was ambiguous and I could not tell whether he wanted knowledge or experience.
Him: What do you have to offer?
Me: Sex and sudden death.
Him: Then experience it is. Remember I'm only 13 and I'm only small. Be gentle.
I laughed again. Told him that if he was that interested in .losing his life then we would have to arrange it properly, make a rendezvous, savour the anticipation of the kill. Anyway, I was tired, sated from an earlier meal.
He stripped off his t-shirt displaying a small, tanned chest. He was shy, yet brazen. I shivered, watching his heart moving under the impossibly fine skin.
Him: What big teeth you have.
Me: all the better to pierce your heart with, my precious. He pulled off his shorts to reveal brown, hairless legs, begging me to do something about his state of softness.
I gazed hungrily at the fine tender flesh before me. Forced myself to remind the boyslut that true cyberotics are best experienced over a period of days . . . or weeks. I live for the pleasure of the hunt.
Him: I'm running, Crimson. Catch me Hunt me?!
Him: Catch me - Kill me - Puncture my sweet neck. Drink the essence of my life. Dance in
symbiotic grace. Drink me! Fuck me! Kill me!
Me: Enticing Child, I would like nothing better than to offer you the Dark Gift of popular novels, to go down on such succulent flesh, to penetrate every orifice but the moment is not right. I offer sex and sudden death, it is true, but the gift is not extended *quite* so easily as might imagine. There is no such thing as a free lunch.
Him: When? When will the moment come? I want my blood to pulse through your dark veins. I want to feel the vampyric embrace, the embrace that suffocates, that squeezes out the life, that kills the pulse.
Me: Be here tomorrow at midnight. I will consider killing you then. But I warn you, I have found 13 year olds disappointingly quick, and I prefer to engage in a lingering death scene. I am not convinced your youth offers me anything but silken skin. Be aware that I genderfuck as I kill, and you may find it unsettling.
Him: The witching hour - no better time to feast on the gifts of life. Young blood is better than old. I will try to struggle. I will convulse and contort as your being shrouds my brown carriage of skin and blood. I will be a thrill kill - kill me! Mask
I spent many years pretending to be normal, morphing names, costumes, masks as the situation required.
The looped masquerades worked; everybody wanted me. I was invited to dinners and power breakfasts and cocktails and film launches and art openings and raves and online parties. Headhunted by the best corporate cannibals. An executive apartment, a ridiculously over-priced Italian car with customised malachite dashboard, platinum credit lines, the latest computers shitted from my ass with enviable regularity. So many frequent flyer points when I was finally uploaded into the higher realm I still wouldn't have used half of them.
And lovers.
I was a cunt to be envied.
Male, female, hermaphrodite, transsexual,
transgendered, undecided, ambiguous, ambivalent.
Always young.
Always drop dead
beautiful.
Always brilliantly, devastatingly, relentlessly banal.
I made it a policy
never to sleep alone.
Victims.