she might not be scary and she might be small, but big had definitely been the right word for Billy. Big Billy.
David
Kristina Lloyd
It’s hot today. I have a problem with the heat because I sweat and my sweat is pink. Pink sweat attracts notice, forcing me to flee to another town to preserve my secret. But damn it, I like this place and I want to stay.
When I was mortal over forty years ago, I was a woman who lived for parties, sunshine and attention. I would dance barefoot on beaches on warm summer evenings, and late at night I’d still be there, laughing around a campfire with my beautiful friends, hippies in beads hoping to save the world through sex, love, peace and hashish. I look at my generation now and wonder if we couldn’t have tried a little harder.
But no matter. They’re not my generation anymore.
My sweat is pink and it’s a problem.
A passerby tosses a coin onto the cloth at my feet. Quite a pile I’m getting today. It’s the sun, you see. It brings people out, makes them loose with their cash. And this loose cash is making me feel loose with my morals.
I stare blankly ahead. I’m coated in white body paint and wreathed in a toga, my hair coiled high and dyed a bright chemical pink. My arms are held in an elegant curve, chin angled to the left. I am a busker, a living statue, and I’m very good at my job. Crowds gather. They stare and smile. A few will move tentatively closer. “It’s like she isn’t even breathing,” they’ll whisper.
And of course, I’m not. I am dead.
My hairline starts to prickle. If it weren’t for my pink sweat, I’d still adore the sun, though I realize that makes me atypical. The heat clings like memories, taking me back to those sticky nights of tangled sheets when my cunt would throb with lust for another. Oh, to be vital again! To be fucking someone for the sake of fuck alone, not fucking them with thoughts of their blood in my throat. Or, best of all, to have someone fucking me, to have them holding me down, fearless, brutal and strong.
Because, to my shame, that’s what I crave: a man to overpower me. Once when I was alive, I asked a boyfriend to act as my kidnapper. “Tie me up and gag me,” I explained. “Use me as your plaything. Take no notice of my screams.” But he said he couldn’t do that because sexual expression through violence contravened his pacifism and he viewed our lovemaking as a cosmic union of souls and in this I was his sister. Sister? If you ask me, that’s far worse than what I was suggesting.
A bead of sweat trickles down my back. That’s fine. They can’t see under my robes. To my right, I hear the soft click of a camera. More money clinks into the collection. Two hundred seconds later (Christ, it’s boring being on a pedestal), I twist my shoulders and turn my head several degrees. A murmur of delight ripples across the crowd.
He’s mesmerized as if my stillness is infectious. He’s big, beautiful and rough looking, an arrogant young bruiser with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s no businessman. His tie is askew and he clearly doesn’t care about preserving any neat lines of tailoring. He watches, fascinated, contempt curling his lip as if he’s thinking of all the sordid things he could do to me, irrespective of my wishes.
I cast him a glance, wondering if I can snare him. Unfortunately, I attract the wrong sort of guy. Maybe that’s inevitable. I know my place in popular culture and the assumption goes because I’m a monster, I must also be an aggressor and a sadist. But the truth is, I’m a sexually submissive vampire and, if you’ll forgive the pun, that sucks.
It sucks because I feel I’m letting the team down. My kind are predators and they tend to be on the toppy side. But it’s not as if I was ever going to fit in anyway. Ever since my sweat turned pink, I’ve been shunned by my peers. I was once an ordinary monster, happy to get along, but then something went wrong inside me. When I feed, I can’t use all the blood. It seeps out through my pores, making me a liability, a freak in danger of exposing the community. I’ve no choice but to be itinerant, keeping my head low, because there are many who would rather see me dead. Truly dead, not undeaddead.
But being submissive sucks mainly because I’m just not getting any. I guess I come across as scary, and I’m aware my inability to form lasting relationships has engendered a certain aloofness. Maybe that’s why I’m often propositioned by men who offer money to call me Mistress. Or maybe it’s because I earn my living from being bored on a pedestal. Perhaps they see their proposal as promotion.
But being on top leaves me cold. I want a man who’ll bring me down, do terrible things to me and take away my power. I want him to debase me, bind me, fuck my face and force me into sex, perhaps with a little help from his friends. And if this ever happened and I were to kill them all afterward, I can honestly say, hand on my unbeating heart, it would be done in a spirit of regret not revenge.
Because I can’t help who I am. I need blood to survive. Perhaps there’s a murderous streak sparkling in my eyes. Whatever the reason, I don’t get the right guys and for too many years, my submission has lain dormant, existing purely in my own warped fantasies. It’s not enough. I want to play passive. I want a man who’ll bring my dark desires to life again.
I lay a hand below my throat in an attitude of piety or mild shock. He’s still watching me, that rapt and cunning expression on his face. Gazing beyond my audience, I focus on a faux-Victorian lamppost in the shopping plaza. A droplet of sweat dribbles past my ear. No one will see that, I’m sure. But it’s only a matter of time and before long, I feel moisture stippling my painted face. I’m corpse-white already, so the paint is merely for texture and sunblock. It can’t hide perspiration. A single bead of sweat slides down my forehead and, horrified, I picture it as an enormous globule of shimmering liquid, pink as a strawberry milk shake. They’re all staring. Seconds later, the droplet spills and splashes from the ledge of a white-coated eyebrow.
Nothing happens. There’s no muttering or shifting among my audience. I reckon I’ve got away with it. But then a second droplet emerges from my hairline, a third and fourth. I don’t like to come alive when the crowds are large. I prefer to let the numbers dwindle, but it’s too hot today. This isn’t going to work. My secret isn’t safe.
“Oi!” calls a voice. “Yer wig’s melting!”
Their laughter is nasty. Sweat is running freely down my face now. A patch of uncertain applause lifts and dies and coins clatter brightly at my feet.
“How does she do it?”
“Ugh, that’s well creepy.”
“My God, she looks rotten. She was so pretty before.”
Droplets trickle toward my eyes, making me weep pale red tears. I stand like a parodic Jesus Christ, my candy-pink hair my crown of thorns, my face streaked with sweat that has the taint of death.
Money tumbles and cameras click. Carefully, I step down from my pedestal. I keep my head low, my movements soft. I bend and crouch then I lie on my money, curling into a ball. The money smells bitter. Some people walk away. All I want to do is stay here till it’s pitch-black, the shops have shut and everyone’s gone home. Moments later, a shadow falls across my face. He squats and clasps me by the wrist, making my arm twist awkwardly. Jewelry glints on his hand.
“I’ll look after you,” he says, and his voice is laced with threat.
His hair is shorn, his eyes are hard and a small graze on a cheekbone hints at ruby-red blood. He has the corrupted beauty of a handsome man who’s too fond of danger. I wonder if he’s a dealer or a pimp. He jerks my arm, urging me to stand.
“Thank you,” I reply, and I know I have him: my victim, my prince.
I leave my pedestal and cash in a locker at the train station and, as the light fades, we walk through town. I pat my sweat dry but don’t bother changing. I’ve loosened my hair and it tumbles past my shoulders in crazy pink tails. I hook the drapes of my toga over one arm and walk barefoot. My soles are as tough as old boots, a legacy from my hippie