Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales Of The Vampire. Michael Thomas Ford

as he slid out of the cab in front of his building on Ursulines.

      “Thanks.” The cabbie, an older white man in his late fifties with his hair greased back, nodded.

      Can this fog have thickened? He shivered as the cab drove off and he dug into his pocket for his keys. He climbed up the five sagging wooden steps, blue paint peeling off in flakes with each footstep. He unlocked the door, stepping into the darkened passageway leading to the courtyard. A cracked birdbath with a naked cherub on its hands and knees stood in the center of the courtyard. Building materials lay in piles around it, the corners piled high with resealed paint cans, blue paint gummily dried down the sides. A wooden staircase stood in one corner, winding around in a squarelike pattern up to the fourth floor. His apartment was a tiny efficiency up on the fourth floor; an oven in the summer, always cold in the winter. He could hear sounds coming from the other apartments as he climbed the sagging wooden steps, one hand on the railing: televisions, stereos, laughter. About the third floor, his legs began to burn a bit, despite hours spent on the stair-climber at the gym. The stairs became rickety the higher he climbed, soft in some places, the railing giving beneath his weight a bit in others. Slightly out of breath when he finally reached the top, he lit a cigarette and stood there for a moment, waiting for the burning feeling in his legs to subside. He walked to the little corridor that led to his apartment. He slid his key into the dead bolt on his door.

      “Hey.”

      “Jesus!” He dropped his cigarette onto the damp floor. “What the fuck, Rachel?”

      Rachel stood in her doorway across the hall from his, her electric-blue hair hanging uncombed to her shoulders. She took a hit on the joint she was holding. She was wearing green camouflage army pants and a tube top that barely contained her large, heavy breasts. Her navel was pierced, as was her right eyebrow, and her nose. A tattoo of a sunburst surrounded her navel. She shrugged. “Sorry, man. Why you so jumpy?” She offered him the joint, and he took it, pushing his door open at the same time.

      The little room was frigid. “Fuck,” he said, turning up the gas heater mounted on the wall between the dormer windows, taking two hits off the joint. His lungs burned a bit, and he fought down a cough, blowing the smoke out. He shrugged. “You startled me.”

      She sat down on a tattered brown beanbag chair he’d bought for five dollars at a thrift store, pinching the joint out between her fingers. “Think I was a ghost or something?” She laughed. “Chill, boy. Where ya been?”

      “Arthur’s.” He shrugged off his jacket. “How was work?” He worked afternoons at the Jazz Café.

      “Slow.” She made a face. “Cold as it is, you’d think everyone would want coffee, but the Quarter’s deserted tonight.”

      “It was slow as fuck all afternoon.” He shook his jacket off, dropping it on the bed. “Thank God Arthur called. I was down to my last five bucks.”

      She pulled a lock of blue hair in front of her eyes, staring at it like she’d never noticed it was blue before. “A weird old man came in, though, and hung out for hours.”

      He walked into the tiny bathroom. A broken tile crackled under his feet. He pulled the clear shower curtain open and turned on the hot water. It took about five minutes for the water to get hot enough. He pulled the curtain closed and stared into the mirror. “What was so weird about him?” he called back. There was a small, hard zit forming on his chin. Eyes a little bloodshot, maybe. He grinned at himself and walked out, sitting down on the corner of his bed, and started unlacing his boots. He grinned at her. “Come on, what creeped you out?”

      “He looked like he was a thousand years old, for one thing.” She let go of the hair, tapping her fingers on her knees. She shrugged. “Good-looking, if you’re into the grandfather type.”

      “Only if they pay.” He took his shirt off, shivering against the cold. He walked over to the wall heater and stood in front of it, letting the warm air blow against his skin. He turned back to her. “So?”

      “Yeah.” She shook her head. She relit the joint and took a long drag. “Anyway, he hung out there for hours, until I practically had to kick him out so I could close up, ya know? He just kept staring at me like I was from another planet, and then—get this—he tips me with a hundred-dollar bill, thank you very much.”

      “Fuck.” He grinned at her. “So what’s the big deal? A lonely old guy hangs out for a few hours, tips a pretty girl way too much. What’s so weird?” He shrugged. “Arthur pays me three hundred bucks to beat off in front of him. At least you didn’t have to get undressed.” He laughed. “Must be doing something wrong—they won’t pay me unless I get naked.”

      She grimaced. “Cute.” She slid her hand into her right pocket and pulled out a business card. “He left this with the tip.”

      He took the card from her. It was a rich cream color, thick. In raised black old-English letters it read “Nigel Witherspoon, Nightwatcher.” Below was a phone number.

      “Nightwatcher? What the hell is that?”

      “Maybe some kind of weird club.”

      He turned the card over. Written in spidery handwriting in red ink were the words “Your friend is in danger. Trust your instincts.” He handed the card back to her. “Did you see this?” He felt a chill and turned the heater up another notch. “That’s kind of weird.” He read the words aloud, slowly, his scalp prickling. “What do you think it means?”

      “Maybe it’s some weird come-on.” She rolled her eyes. “These old pervs’ll try anything to get in a girl’s pants.”

      “You didn’t tell him you’re a dyke?”

      “Why get him all excited?”

      Steam was coming from the bathroom. “Babe, I’m gonna get in the shower.”

      She stood up. “Going out?”

      He nodded. “Wanna come with?”

      She shook her head. “I’m working on a new poem.” He was hardly an expert, but he thought her poetry was good. “See ya in the morning. Happy hunting.” The door shut behind her.

      He peeled off his pants and the jock, tossing them in a basket at the foot of the bed. He stepped into the bathroom, which was now full of steam. Kind of like outside, he thought, pulling the curtain back and stepping into the spray. He stood there for a moment, letting the hot water wash over him and take some of the chill out of his skin. He felt a little dirty, like he had the last few times he’d seen Arthur. I can’t keep doing this; I need to find a better job. He was already, at twenty-four, too old for a longtime client. How long before Arthur started to think the same, saw some pretty young college student jogging shirtless down St. Charles Avenue, and pulled over, offering him what would seem like a fortune, for doing very little—actually, for doing something he would do later back in his dorm room for free? Then the calls would stop coming; the three hundred dollars he could count on every week, to pay his bills and buy his food and drinks and drugs, would be gone. Part of the reason he wanted to go out was to have someone find him attractive without money changing hands, to give himself up to his own pleasure.

      He grabbed a bar of soap and began lathering his torso. There was stubble on his chest—he’d have to shave again soon.

      I wonder if the blond will be out in the bars. His cock began to stiffen slightly, just thinking about him. He slid the bar of soap over it, under his balls, down through his legs and up the crack, then back up and around to his torso, soaping his torso, running it over his hardening nipples. He closed his eyes, thinking about the blond again, imagining his face, his naked body. His cock got harder, and he closed his right hand over it, sliding it back and forth, the soap making it slippery enough. His left hand came up and started pinching his left nipple, pulling and tugging on it, sending an electric current from it to the tip of his cock. He moaned a little as he felt his balls tighten, the dull ache in his lower abs that meant it would be soon, as his hand began moving faster and faster, each muscle in his body stiffening with tension, his breath coming