Sunday, August 16, 2015

Type O

The whole subject of vampires is sexy, especially for the virginal. Someone gives you a giant hickey, sucking till your legs buckle. Faintly Victorian, a prettier image than sexual congress. As needs go, thirst is next to breath, deeper than hunger.

I have a genetic link to nosferati. Bram Stoker was my great-grandfather, and we carry family secrets that would stun our friends. Google our surname and you get "Bram Stoker's Dracula." Not just any vampire. Our very own.

Historically, the name Dracula is not creepy. In Romanian history Vlad Dracula was an honored warrior. He did draw Turkish blood on the battlefield, but that's not sexy, except to girlfriends of recruits still muscling out the sleeves of their uniforms, showing off their shiny boots.
No, it's the personal touch that thrills, thriving on someone else's life-force. Bram Stoker, "Bramps" to the family, had been a civil servant whose sole literary effort was the Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland. You get the symbolism - civil service, bloodletting.
Then he became sycophant to a tall, sardonic actor with long hair named Henry Irving, the first British actor to be knighted. Newspapers of the late 1890s lauded Irving's talent and intimidating presence, with only one line about "his long-serving manager, Bram Stoker."
Bramps wrote Dracula in his off hours. So he knew about giving blood. He was a universal donor.

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