Confessions of a Vampire-Book Slut

 I am Leslie Ormandy, and I confess I am a vampire-book slut.

My first vampire-book relationship was with Bill Compton. He was handsome, gentlemanly, mysterious, and took his time courting me. I enjoyed every minute I spent with him in my arms with his hard-back clasped firmly between my hands. Yes, I knew about his relationships with other women. I knew that even while he was in bed with me, a part of him was enjoying a relationship with someone else. He was indiscriminate and would never be solely mine. Eventually the last page of our relationship was reached, and I had to move on. I had needs. I hated going to bed without someone to entertain me.

My next vampire-book relationship was with Jean Claude. He was masterful, powerful, in control. And the sex was hot, steamy, overpowering. Our liaison lasted longer than the relationship with Bill. But again I had to share him. Gradually I heard other women talking about him. Saw his name mentioned in Blogs, on Facebook, on Twitter. I had to listen to other women talk about the pleasure he gave them, and they many – odd – places they took him to: beaches, Dr’s offices, even the DMV. But even then I remained faithful, unwilling to give up the bliss he provided. Then one day the last page of our relationship was reached, and I knew I needed to turn over a new leaf.

I then began a series of short serial relationships. One book stands you would term them. Oh, I crawled into bed with them whenever they appeared on my doorstep, and they gratified my need for romance, sex, blood, and vicarious adventure, but often my favorites would appear only every other year; then several would appear at the same time, and I would have to chose which one to buy first. Yes, by then I was willing to shell out my hard-earned cash, the product of my labor, in order to take one of my favorites to bed. Even; occasionally, I would take a new vampire to bed to enjoy when I tired of my favorites.  I was becoming a vampire-book slut.

Yes, I know this is a support group for vampire-book sluts and all, and if there ever was a vampire-book slut it is me. I know that I am not alone in the world. I know that I can not possibly be the only person with this dreadful addiction. I am certain that I am not alone in answering the call when it is whispered in the night, in an immortal whisper: “let me… entertain you!”

byline L Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)

The UnNatural Enquirer

Vampire Paparazzi entry 3

Sometimes a photographer just can't catch a break.

Image design Sandra Ormandy 2012

I waited outside this crypt for days after drilling a small hidden hidey-hole to shoot the picture through. I made certain that there would be no moonlight or starlight bleeding though to alert the vampire to my presence. I stood for hours as twilight approached so that no movement on my part would alert the rising vampire to my presence. Everything was perfect, or as perfect as a human can make it. But I forgot one thing, vampires are faster than the split second it takes my finger to depress the "shoot" button on my camera.

She was really beautiful. You'll just have to take my word for it. Because after all my preparation for this shoot, this is the vampire that got away.

byline L. Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)
The UnNatural Enquirer

Vampire Paparazzi entry. 2

This is not an area even an ardent vampire hunter like myself would venture after dark. No number of garlic wreaths, crosses, or stakes would make it worthwhile.I like my blood just fine where it is: inside my own skin. Daytime; however. I decided to remind those readers who think the undead life of the vampire nothing but drink, drink, drink that -- as with the living -- that sort of life is reserved for the top 2%.

The poor crypt at right is shared by an unknown number of tenants (and nope, I'm not knocking on that door! even in daylight). It is hidden in the sort of rough neighborhood respectable paparazzi avoid since the Edward Cullen's of the world don't live here. And certainly regular journalists don't knock on this door either since few Pulitzer prizes are given to breaking news about "real" vampires. Even my own newspaper, the "UnNatural Enquirer"  no longer caters to the sort of audience interested in reading of the sad tales of the previously-living. They pay for the tales of the upscale, the well-dressed, the politically powerful, and the beautiful creatures of the night.

This paparazzi would liken this to a beyond death plight. Even the dead have to rest somewhere.

 25 May 2014

byline L. Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)
The UnNatural Enquirer

Vampire Paparazzi entry 1

 The life of a vampire paparazzi is a dangerous one. What you read here is the first of an occasional series of entries discussing my experiences as a vampire hunter; one armed not with stakes and holy-items, but with a camera. I am not quite certain which my target would prefer, being permanently ended, or being outed to the whole world.

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Sometimes I just can't catch a break. Standing in the cold on a dark night in a lonely cemetery when I could be sitting in the pub tossing a few back with mates, is time I'll never get back. The only thing it does is keep my boss off my neck while I risk my own.

Yes, I knew, or so I thought, what I was getting into when I hired onto this gig. It looked like wine, women, and song -- easy money. I figured what with vampires all over the media they must also be all over the place. I figured all I'd have to do was park outside the blood-bank to catch one making a withdrawal. A point and click moment.

Instead, I spend my nights standing in the doorways of crumbing low-rent crypts waiting to catch a break, and praying to see sunrise.

16 May 2014

byline: L. Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)
The UnNatural Enquirer

Vampire Hunter pt. 2

Lone Star Pioneer Cemetery, Portland, Oregon.

Part one is the last post:

It was seriously eerie, and I could almost hear the shrouded ghosts tittering as I stood with a bull’s-eye on my chest, heart dead center of it waiting to be tapped.

Then I realized that the sounds I had heard could possibly be caused by the breeze rustling the overhanging leaves and branches against the windows of the more economically up-scale mausoleums. Or perhaps the noise was simply a neighborhood cat chasing its prey through the bushes lining the pathway. It did not have to be caused by the stealthy opening of the metal gates by the vampire said to sleep in the nearby crypt.

I wished I was elsewhere with a reasonable job, but how many positions could an English major minoring in photography fill? And I wished I was outside a nightclub in a well lit area trying for a picture of one of the sparkling, vegetarian sort. Damn vampire, as metaphor, boss anyway. He had it in for me, and this assignment really showed it. “It would serve him right if I got bit and came back as a vampire,” I muttered under my breath, sotto-voice, not wanting to make too much noise, but wanting something recognizably human to break up the silence.

“Five more minutes, and I’m out of here,” I muttered a bit more loudly, then cringed as a crow perched among the moss nearby spoke to me. I would swear it murmured “nevermore,” but that was probably my overly active imagination.

My cell phone found its way into my hand, path beaten from long use, and I checked my Twitter account hoping for an update. But it was all promo by the big biz who saw Twitter as a purely marketing tool.

I was by now really uncomfortable, sincerely regretting the double shot venti latte I’d had since there were no public restrooms in the cemetery, even had I been willing to leave my post to find one.

Then I saw something emerging from the crypt across the aisle from me. There were two; no one had mentioned that there would be two! And boy-oh-boy they weren’t sparkly. They barely looked human. They weren’t the sort my boss would plaster across the front page; too creepy.

And then I realized they were looking at me…

I had only the presence of mind to snap one quick photo as I fled, hoping they would not give chase, hoping I could run faster than them. Hoping to see one more dawn. To live.

copyright Leslie Ormandy, all rights reserved.