How Not to Vampire - Season 2

11. The Dark Midnight of the Soul

Protip for Vampires #143: self-control is overrated, until it isn't.

Behold! The vampire (me) lurked in the middle of the den of lust and sin that is the Porn Emporium and admired the magnificent 3-foot tower of flourescent coloured dildos that someone who-shall-remain-unnamed (me again) had built at the end of aisle three. This was what my life had become: a literal tower of dicks.

"Normal is fucking boring," I sighed to myself, then glanced around the store to make sure nobody had managed to sneak in while I was distracted during tower construction. Besides my dildo masterpiece, there was nothing much to see except for the neatly organized aisles of Blu-Rays and DVDs. Why anyone bought these when porn was readily available on the internet whenever the, uh, mood struck, was beyond me. A collection of specialty boxed items balanced on the tops of the shelves, and believe it or not, those were hotter sellers than you would expect.

I kinda-sorta missed Sammy's incessant questions, but this was only after she was gone. I had pretended to work, but eventually I had gotten into the flow of things and had actually started working. Strange thing to hear about, I know, but it was stranger to be the one doing it. It was like something had clicked inside and I started seeing how much more orderly everything could be. "Banging Stifler's Mom XXIV" clearly did not belong in the Barely 18 section, and someone had mixed up all of the BBC & Bondage Babes, 1 through 86 collection. I packed shelves, moved boxes, and added labels to unpriced items. And then I built my magnum opus—Dildo Tower.

The best thing about it was that until this moment, three hours had passed without a single thought about vampires, vampirism, bloodlust, or the imminent arrival of my mentor/nemesis, Beatrice. I had embraced the normal... and had found it to be way too normal. Confusing, right?

The music on the store speakers changed from the hip-hop mix Sammy preferred, to the opening guitar strums of a very familiar Foo Fighters song. It was a song that brought a lump to my throat and made my heart ache, but that didn't matter. It was our song.

Of course I sang along. I might have even danced a little when the chorus came on. I found the remote and cranked the volume and headbanged a little as I wondered 'if everything would ever be this real forever...'

It's that time again folks where my life becomes a ridiculous version of a low-budget rom-com. This is the one where the lovable protagonist sings his heart out into something inappropriate that's definitely-not-a-purple-leopard-print-dildo ($19.89 now on SALE!), and then opens his eyes to see the object of his affection standing and watching his performance while laughing her ass off. Yeah, we just reached that part.

I fumbled the definitely-not-a-dildo and it spun out of my hands before bouncing on the floor. The remote for the sound system got stuck in my pocket, because of course it did, but after an embarrassing moment that seemed to take forever, I managed to finally turn the volume down to acceptable store-levels. I smiled nervously at Jaime, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment at being caught and the degree to which my heart was thumping in my chest at the sight of her.

Jaime wiped at her eyes, getting her laughter under control. "I always liked that song," she slurred and smiled as if she didn't hate me at all. She swayed and then staggered a little, and I smelled the rich, fumes of moderately-priced whiskey.

"Well, I always thought it was our song..." I replied and then watched Jaime's smile darken and fall into a scowl. Whoa, that went downhill fast.

"Sebastien never liked the song," Jaime confided. "That motherfucker."

"Anyone who doesn't like that song is definitely a motherfucker," I agreed. My eyes went to the brown paper bag in her hand. The L.C.B.O. logo on the side confirmed that Jaime was at this point in time, completely fucking drunk off her ass. The Liquor Control Board of Ontario had some strict opinions that their bags were only to be used for the transport of alcohol from their stores to your home. Jaime, like many other residents of Ontario, had given that law the middle finger and was using said bag to partially hide an open bottle of scotch (her liquor of choice) she was drinking.