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The Tao of Vampires
In the Third Millenium
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The Tao of Vampires In the Third Millenium
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Zephyrine A
Love Like Blood 11:13
PM Zephyrine was too stoned to care about the commotion across the street. There was a pack of flashing Crown Victoria cruisers in front of the Berkeley Bistro. Lines of yellow tape were distributed across the perimeter of the pueblo replica. She deduced that someone must have died but she was too immersed in the cozy warm sensation of heroin to feel any sympathy for the corpse. She stood in the long line in front of Club Sensorium where she shuddered in the cool summer breeze and drug-induced chills. She scratched her shoulder and gazed down the long and wide University Avenue, in the direction of the East Bay coast. She thought how easy it would be to amble down the avenue, beyond the shops, cafes and videos stores, to the end, where she could venture into the water and submerge forever in silence. She imagined the gratifying numbness of the cold current pulling her under, pulling her down into the deep bay of San Francisco, perhaps draped in seaweed and adorned with crabs. Someone tapped her on the shoulder but she was so deadened that it required a third attempt before she noticed. She looked behind her and fixed her droopy hazel eyes upon a tall, stout woman with bleached hair. Zephyrine suspected, by the prim and proper clothes, that the preppy, wanna-be-Goth girl lived through the tunnel and over the hill. “What.” She scratched herself again. Her black fingernails left red tracks. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “You come here often?” Zephyrine scratched her thigh beneath her black leather skirt her black fingernails left red tracks. “Yeah.” “It’s my first time here. Where are you from?” Zephyrine’s eyelid twitched. “Here. Bezerkeley.” Zephyrine couldn’t remain still anymore. She scratched the back of her head, rubbed her cheek. “I’m from San Ramon, you know, near Walnut Creek. I’ve heard a lot of cool things about this place.” Zephyrine stepped forward. “It’s not bad.” “Dee-jay Midnight is the best. I always listen to his midnight sessions on Live Ninety-Five. There was this one time, I was at a kegger, when he was taking requests from callers and, like, it took the longest time for me to get through, but I did, so I asked him to play One Step Beyond, you know by Madness, and an hour later, he played it. Me and my friends were so stoked. We started to ska in the living room.” An unmarked police car screeched to a halt in front of the bistro. “What’s your name?” “Zephyrine.” “I’m Destiny.” Destiny gave her a three-finger handshake then fixed her eyes on Zephyrine’s forearms. “Whoa. Where did you get those scars from?” “I cut.” “You cut? What do you mean?” “I dig cutting myself.” “Why.” “Because it’s fun.” “Oh…well maybe I’ll try it.” “You’ll be thrilled.” Zephyrine wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, then wiped her hand dry on her burgundy, velvet blouse. “Anyway these are my two friends, Tiffany and Jason.” The mohawked couple smiled and nodded. Tiffany was wearing a Dead Kennedys t-shirt, Jason had Sex Pistols. Destiny kept talking but her voice was nothing more than noise to Zephyrine. “…. Some people think it was a vampire….” A diesel truck roared passed Sensorium and left the fragrance of its fumes. Her curly, red hair swung in the artificial breeze. The toxic fumes reminded her of the suicide attempt in her mother’s garage. She retrieved a vanity mirror from her tiny purse and checked her black lipstick and eyeliner. The line shuffled forward. A familiar thud of the subwoofer, and the guttural vocals that followed, made Zephyrine stomp her boot on the ground. “Shit!” “What’s wrong? You okay? You don’t look to good.” “I’m fine, damn it.” THC’s version of Drugs, by the Talking Heads, was shaking the concrete and she wanted to dance, to shake and sway to the rough and gritty rhythm, to forget. She mumbled the lyrics as a Destiny avoidance tactic. “And all I see is little dots. Some are smeared and some are spots. Feels like a murder but that's all right.” Destiny kept chattering away, with the mohawks, about the most current of events that occurred across the street. “I think it was totally a vampire. Don’t you think, Zephyrine?” Zephyrine ignored her. “Somebody said there's too much light. Pull down the shade and it's all right. It'll be over in a minute or two.” “Zephyrine.” “I’m
charged up…don’t put me down.” “Zephyrine.” “Don’t
feel like talking…don’t mess around….” “Hey, Zephyrine, Zephyrine, Zephy--rine, hear what happened across the street earlier?” “I feel mean----I feel okay----I’m charged up-----electricity.” “Some waiter’s body was found in the dumpster with his blood all sucked out. He had two big holes in his neck. Isn’t that cool?” “That’s so absolutely fantastic, unbelievable and far out.” Zephyrine, annoyed by the bloody news, was compelled to observe the action across the street. Death was something she saw before but the bright red Lamborghini, parked in front of the death and spectacle, was a welcome addition. She snickered, and shook her head, because most of the peace officers were more interested in the exotic car than the homicide. They were grouped around the Italian rocket, some of them crouched and peering through the tinted windows. She cursed the lucky bastard who owned the sleek car and considered taking her keys to it on the way back home—if she was going home. The bay was looking good to her but it would always be there for her like a long lost friend. It was probable she would go the other way, hang out in the all night café until midnight. She would sneak into the Rocky Horror Picture Show, with the help of a lovesick usher, and laugh. Maybe she would run into some old friends she sacrificed for the jealous monster and they would cruise up into the Berkeley hills and party-hearty on Grizzly Peak. “I'm charged up. Don't put me down. Don't feel like talking. Don't mess around. I feel mean...I feel okay. I'm charged up...electricity.” Zephyrine flinched when Destiny placed her hand on her waist. She whispered into her ear. “Can I buy you a drink when we get inside?” “No, for the last time. Get over it.” Zephyrine realized the advance and noticed the bruised expression on the face of Destiny “I don’t feel good. Okay? So just leave it at that.” Jason shouted. “And she’s rejected! Lesbian love denied!” “Shut the hell up, Jason.” Drugs was long gone before Zephyrine could enter Sensorium. MOEV was pumping through the nightclub: So hard to see you--when you're in the room. All that you hate--is but a picture of you. As vague as a screen--under the red and the blue. All that you hate is but a picture--of you. Sensorium was a packed, black sweatbox full of collapsing new people wearing black. It was Goth Central in the East Bay. The interior design was simple: black, black, black with two huge black speakers spouting black music. The exceptions were racks of multi-colored spots and a quartet of strobes above the dance floor. Zephyrine used her looks, and a Mona Lisa smile, to gain a pole position at the bar. She placed her elbows on the black counter top and pulled a twenty from her purse. The bar smelled of old beer, oranges and maraschino cherries. As she waited for service she thought about the calamity of life. She thought how age thirteen was a bad year, and thought life could get no worse, but seventeen was a tragedy. After Kong went away, after the heroine induced the miscarriage, Zephyrine packed her baggage and started her journey down the downward spiral to the play dead playground. There were different kinds of dead and Zephyrine was a want to be dead type. She cut herself when she was home alone, she used an eraser to rub her skin raw at school—when she went to school--she shared her blood with local members of a blood fetish group who met at after parties. She would entertain friends with the details of her latest suicide attempt and express her dissatisfaction of the lack of success. She remembered telling friends, “there’s something about death that turns me on.” “Collapsing!” Clang. “Collapsing!” Clang “Collapsing!” Clang. “Collapsing!” Clang. The music went on, the beat didn’t stop, the lights kept flashing, and the floor packed for Fad Gadget and the national anthem for Goths. Faded--Collapsing new people. Watch them--collapsing. Jaded--collapsing new people. Watch them collapsing. Stay awake all night. But never see the stars. And sleep all day, on a chain link bed of nails. Yes, she was a collapsing new person but that was okay among the like crowd. Fated--collapsing new people. Watch them--collapsing. Dated--collapsing new people. Watch the--collapsing. The images of a chef gutting a salmon, on the Food Channel’s Iron Chef, came to mind every time she thought of the miscarriage. She walked around Berkeley, immersed on some chemical, like a reanimated, gutted salmon. Zephyrine, the gorgeous mongrel, was frequently complimented on her beauty, remarks that she could model, remarks about her red, curly hair, mystic brown eyes, her voluptuous body, her Sicilian skin. No matter how many times she was told, by men and women, she couldn’t find anything inside herself but ugly, ugly gutted fish--repulsiveness and emptiness left by the abrupt destruction of Kong’s child, who she knew would have been so adorable that all scorn for the premarital birth would have been waived. Steer clear of the sun. Pancake, sandpaper skin. They have no reflections. Drink blood but pierce no veins. Zephyrine was a gutless zombie when she met Rick Layne, lead guitarist of the forgettable Rick Layne and the Men of Dread. The relationship was so bad, she made sure a store of ice cubes and zip-lock bags were always available. A relationship so bad that she made sure she was drunk and on the brink of an overdose before Rick got on top of her and grunted and, just before passing out, she imagined he was Kong. Exaggerate the scar tissue. Wounds that never heal. Takes hours of preparation. To get that wasted look…. The bar tender looked at Zephyrine and nodded. She unloaded her fake I.D. and tossed the cash on the glossy black counter. “Liquid Heroine, no ice.” She lifted her chin and gulped down the booze that tasted like mouthwash. It only took moments for her to enjoy the buzz that coalesced with the heroine. She found a vacant seat and watched the cool charade. It took an hour for her to realize that dee-jay Midnight was hitting on all cylinders. His music selection was not so artsy to kill the dance floor, but skilled enough to avoid being trendy. She ordered water and waded out onto the dance floor in an attempt to sweat some of the booze and drugs out of her system. “This is dee-jay Midnight and next set is dedicated to the vampire who had a bite to eat at the bistro across the street!” The crowd cheered as Midnight played a morbid mix that included Bela Lugosi’s Dead, Black Planet and One Hundred Years. Then he went avant-garde by playing Echo and the Bunnymen’s The Killing Moon, but it was a welcome pause after an hour straight of upbeat dark wave. Zephyrine was even astonished. This must be Zephyrine Night, she thought. The songs were fitting her like Cinderella’s glass slipper and Killing Moon was a perfect complement to her state of being. It was a dark and moody song of disastrous love. She marked her anthem. In starlit nights I saw you. So cruelly you kissed me. Your lips a magic world. Your sky all hung with jewels. The killing moon will come too soon. Fate--up against your will. Through the thick and thin. He will wait until. You give yourself to him. Zephyrine meandered about the dance floor, half-dancing, half-not, avoiding Destiny, until she saw him. It was his eighteenth century, black-on-black look that demanded attention. He lacked the pretension of the others and made no effort to feed his ego. There was something behind the appearance that was deeper, so much deeper, yet intangible and impossible to discern. He was dressed like a British aristocrat on the day of a funeral, but what made her stir were the sunglasses, driving gloves and an elaborate gold crucifix around his neck. He had a long, red ponytail. What made her keep staring, what made her fall, was the calm and androgynous face, and a self-assured countenance. Zephyrine finished the bottle of water, bought another bottle, and gulped until the bottle was empty. She tried to come to her senses before the other gawking women could solicit attention. Thereafter, she coached herself by repeating in her mind that it was worth a try, coached herself that she did have guts. She stepped into his line of sight and looked his way. She gave him her best look of love. He smiled back and she was blushing, feeling a heat rise in her chest as he waded through the masses of mortals, to her, moving like an indifferent shark through a herd of seals. There was that moment before the introductions that terrified Zephyrine. Rick convinced her she was nothing but trash, not even worth a drug addicted musician. This was the moment when all she could remember were her mistakes. All she could depend on was her body. She was too ashamed to look him in the eye by the time he was before her. She didn’t want him to see the gutted look in her eyes. “Hello. My name is Apollo.” She made herself look up. “Really? Is that your real name? “Yes, and I’m quite proud of it.” “I’m Zephyrine, but my friends call me Zeffie.” “I’m honored to meet you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “The night seems festive. The music has the right sort of sound. Would you indulge me with a dance?” “Please.” He wrapped his arms around her body and she fell into him. They ignored the music tempo and rocked to their own rhythm. She wept. He caressed her hair. “Sorry. It’s just been so hard.” “Now, now.” The Killing Moon went on. Under blue moon I saw you. So soon you'll take me. Up in your arms, too late to beg you or cancel it, though I know it must be the killing time. Unwillingly mine. Fate—up against your will…. Zephyrine was not cool anymore. She was weeping but curtailed her nervous breakdown to ask a question. “So where are you from? You have an accent but I can’t tell where from.” “I have lived in many countries, Europe mainly, but I presently reside in San Francisco.” “I love The City. Great clubs.” She waited a moment to think about the next words, to make every attempt to sound mature. “So, why are you here, you know, in Berkeley?” “I was leisure driving in the area and decided to dine at the bistro across the street.” “The one where that waiter was killed by a vampire?” “Yes, that very one.” “They said there was blood everywhere.” “So they say.” Apollo kissed her on the forehead. “He was cursed by the fates.” He guided her off the dance floor after The Killing Moon was over, then Dazzle began. The stars that shine and the stars that shrink. In the face of stagnation, the water runs--before your eyes. “You have a significant other?” “No.” “Perchance
could I persuade you to go for a drive?” When
she looked up, he kissed her on the lips “Yes.”
Apollo took hold of her hand and guided her out of Sensorium.
“Where is your car parked?” “Directly across the street. It’s the red motorcar.” “That sports car with the big wing on the back of it?” He looked both directions of University Avenue and guided her across. “Yes. The garish wing, as you call it, is designed to keep the motorcar upright at flight velocities. If there was no logic to the thing I would have it removed.” Am I Cinderella? A tingle whipped down her spine as Apollo lifted the horizontally hinged door of the Countach. “Oh my God.” She was still intoxicated as he guided her into the plush leather seats that she found a bit firm. He slid the door down and secured it. Apollo slid in his seat and closed his door. “Seat belts.” He strapped in. He glanced at her and smiled. “Safety first.” “Oh.” She fumbled with the seatbelt but secured it after several attempts. He pressed the start button and the thunder sound of the engine startled her. “Away we go.” The Countach acceleration pressed her back in the seat as Apollo seemed indifferent to speed laws. He pulled a risky U-turn and had the rocket on wheels on the highway in minutes. Apollo turned the dial of the McIntosh. A radio dee-jay was bantering away. “This is Live Ninety Five! Ground zero for eighties alternative! Coming up, we have MOEV, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Sisters of Mercy and much more coming to you on this full moon night!” Zephyrine glanced at the speedometer: One hundred and twenty-eight miles per hour. They were “rollin’ like it’s stolen” as Kong used to say. She was glad because she was afraid, not of crashing into a guardrail, but of saying something wrong. She didn’t want to blow it. The car…talk about the car. Her brother loved fast cars and always talked about them, until he smashed his Fiat into a dump truck. His rutted corpse didn’t say a damn thing. “What kinda car is this?” “Lamborghini QuattroValvole Countach. It’s an Italian two seat berlinetta.” “It’s nice. I like it.” Don’t say something stupid. “What kind of engine does it have?” “It is a light alloy twelve cylinder engine.” “Is the engine in the front or back?” “Mid engine. Directly behind us.” He smiled. “Very good.” “I know a few things.” Was that stupid? “How much horsepower?” “Four hundred and seventy at seven thousand RPMs.” “How fast does it go?” “Over two hundred and twenty miles. It’s the fastest production car in the world.” They reached the Bay Bridge tollbooth. Apollo paid the cashier and smoked the rear tires. The Countach sped forward. He turned up the volume on the stereo. “This is Ruppert Holmes on Live Ninety Five! Next song goes out to somebody out there, but I’ll be damned if I know who. Must be some MOEV fanatic because this is the third request tonight for those crazy Canadians.” So hard to see you when you’re in the room…. This is Zephyrine night, she thought. The chill down her spine made her sense that there was something other than the ordinary creeping her way. “This car must be expensive.” Apollo smiled. “I enjoy spending money.” “Well it’s worth every penny. It’s a beautiful car.” “Zephyrine, you’re a beautiful woman. The motorcar pales in comparison to you.” Zephyrine’s cheeks went warm as she tried to think of something to say.” What you've been used to. What you've been through. Never known mercy. Have none to show. What you've been used to. What you’ve become. A little short--of what you used to want. “Red is my favorite color. Is it yours?” “Zephyrine.” Apollo placed his hand on her thigh. “Relax. I’m taking you home with me tonight.” Reassured by certainty, Zephyrine let her strained shoulders drop and took comfort in the leather seat. No need to pine or hide anymore. Too late to answer the knock on the door. Her thighs spread; her back arched and she caressed the hand that was caressing her thigh. She sighed and enjoyed the movements of his hand with her eyes closed. No more long days waiting, looking with hope to the sky. No need for reasons…no need for reasons why. Apollo’s penthouse was a palace. The mundane, white wall interior was adorned with statues and paintings of Olympic gods and goddesses. She loved the expensive smell of the aging artifacts and the fresh organic scent of Bengal Bamboo and Bougainvillea draped upon the base of the artwork. “Beautiful.” She negotiated a small cluster of bamboo to touch the white marble of Zeus. “If Greece had a rainforest, it would look like this.” “Wait.” He walked over to a plant and plucked several red and tiny fruits from the branches. “Try these.” She bit into the little apple. “Mmmm. It taste like a big grape.” “It’s called a Watery Rose Apple. They are quite refreshing.” “Here is one more.” “Thank you.” He took her hand and guided to toward the kitchen. Her thoughts, a rushing river, came to one conclusion. This man was filthy rich and now the penthouse was a confirmation. Though seventeen, she knew why she was in his paradise and it was not to play chess. Her fear of regretting the chance, of lost opportunities galvanized action, at the expense of pride and dignity. Who am I fooling? I have no pride or dignity. I’m a gutted salmon. “Here we are. Would you like something to drink?” “Sure.” She followed him toward a wet-bar next to an enormous kitchen. The cabinets and appliances were stainless steel. “I have a decanted Merlot that is something to die for.” He gave her a glass of red wine and she took three large gulps while he sipped. “It’s good.” After two more gulps, the glass was empty. “Zephyrine, let us slow this down.” Apollo poured her another glass of wine. “Hold on now.” He went to the refrigerator and retrieved a plate of Kumomoto oysters and a small bowl champagne mignonette. He guided her to the dining room that matched the same stainless steel theme of the kitchen. He sat on one of the seats and placed the oyster dish on the table. “Come.” He took hold of her hip and guided her. “Sit on my lap.” “Okay.” “Now take hold your glass in the right hand. Hold it by the trunk of the crystal. Swish it gently. Yes, that’s it. Now lift the glass to your nose and inhale through your nose. The scent is full of natural resources. Untainted.” “Smells good.” “Now sip. Well done. Now let us drink the blood of Jesus in respectful silence.” Minutes later, Apollo place his glass, then her glass on the table. “Now let’s turn you around.” Zephyrine hiked her skirt and straddled Apollo’s lap and sat upon his thighs. “Try these. Face to face, Apollo fed Zephyrine oysters. He dipped each oyster in the sauce and guided each fork-full into her mouth. He teased her neck with his lips as she consumed each oyster. “That’s good. I mean that’s really good” “Yes, it is.” Apollo licked his lips. “Fresh, crisp and sweet.” Apollo caressed her thighs as he fed her. They would kiss between the oysters and wine and by the time they were done, she wanted him inside her for a long time. “Thank you. Now, I’ll give you a tour of the place.” He kissed her; he took her hand and guided her throughout the penthouse. They entered a room of white marble walls and benches. There were twelve grooved pillars that supported the etched ceiling of twelve Greek gods circling one another. A marble fountain was in the center. A rotating globe of Earth, spraying a thick mist that resembled clouds, was above the water. Etched in the circle was Greek script. A circular bench surrounded the fountain. “This is the shrine of Olympus. My tribute to those mythical Gods.” “Oh my God. You must be in love with Greek stuff.” “With a passion. It is part of my heritage. I am Greek as well.” “But, like wow, why with so much passion?” “Well…that’s a very long story.” Apollo spoke of the Olympic Gods as though he had intimate knowledge. He spoke with a tone of deep admiration and pride. He spoke of the character and bravery of those mythical beings. “…. Yet, Zeus and his lust may have cost their existence. The story goes that Cadmilus, son of Zeus, who Zeus drove away from Olympus, traveled where he shouldn’t have gone and fell in love with a very, very powerful goddess unknown to the Olympians. She gave birth to an abomination that humbled any god or goddess of the Pantheon. His name was Arvo son of Cadmilus and he was what they called Letalis Incrementum, a deadly offspring. To speak of such a creature was to speak of horror because his only desire, his only occupation was to hunt the gods and goddesses he deemed unworthy of existence. He was a killing machine. No sex. No love. No desire for personal fulfillment. The only thought in his mind was to hunt gods. His kind didn’t love the sensual aspects of life. All the energy of sex became an energy source transformed to increase his powers beyond the comprehension of those who made him. Many powerful gods died to protect Apollo because he possessed what Arvo wanted.” “What did he want?” “He wants…I mean, he wanted the chasms of Apollo’s mind, the deepest of secrets known by an extreme few. Worst off is the fact that the daughters of Zeus, four perfect Incrementums, are, I mean were, at his side. Those four deadly furies were abominations as well and their mettle was just as refined as their male counterpart. It was said, by a dying god, that these creatures moved with preternatural motions that were far beyond the ways of the Pantheon deity. They moved like jungle cats with the scent and bloodlust for the gods. Their ambition was hunting gods like Apollo, nothing else. To find that knowledge.” Apollo made tiny shakes of his head before he continued. “The sadness of it all is their perfect beauty. It was told, by a survivor, that the Letalis Incrementum were the most beautiful all creatures begat by the gods.” Apollo turned to Zephyrine. “But if I were that Apollo, standing before the beauteous Zephyrine, I wouldn’t waste one more word on the past. I would do things that the dauntless god slayers couldn’t do. I would do things to make Zephyrine moan and sigh with pleasure. I would want her to want me to do these things to her, again and again.” “Yes.” She kissed him. “I’d like that.” “It has been a long and wonderful night so far, but let us get better acquainted in the bath.” He guided her into an astonishing contrast. The black marble bathroom was in reality a spa. They held and kissed as the water ran and when the spacious bath was replete, he took her clothes off slow and delicate, pausing to kiss and caress. When the last garment was off, he stared at her body with admiration. “Exquisite. I will do my best to please your temple.” “Please.” ******************************************************************** Zephyrine didn’t know when the bliss would end. She was surrounded by opulence as this foreign gentleman, she was bathing with, was sponging her body. He started with her feet. The sponge cleansed her toes and her ankles. Then he cleansed her calves, her knees, and her thighs. She spread her thighs in lustful anticipation but Apollo teased. He skirted the loneliness between her thighs and cleansed her abdomen and robust breasts. She sighed as the sponge tickled her nipples and he took his time cleansing her breasts to give her maximum pleasure from the simple movement of the sponge. Her kissed her, his tongue tasting her tongue. Then he slid the sponge between her thighs and she couldn’t keep quiet as she pushed against the motions of the sponge. Her hips moved back and forth against the sponge and Apollo was now kissing her lips, neck and breasts. Zephyrine’s dark nipples were hard as her hips moved faster, as senses increased and the sponge responded until she took grip of Apollo’s forearm and she pushed hard against the sponge. She climaxed. Apollo was not done. He kept kissing her as he slid his hands between her thighs. He played with the author of her shame and she was astonished how he knew to work the shame between her thighs, until the shame was suspended, disconnected. He slipped two fingers inside her. His fingers probed her disgrace, the reason she didn’t want to be alive, but tonight she felt an increase in vivacity as he touched the special parts that respond and tingle and quiver. She pressed herself against the fingers, loving the movement of the fingers, until her hips were wreathing slow, but hard and she climaxed again. Apollo’s voice was soft but disturbing, “Now, you are ready.” Apollo then shifted himself above and between her thighs. They kissed and caressed one another. She enjoyed the feel of his hardness rubbing against what was her tender demise, but she was uncertain now. She held her breath as the tip of him teased and as it slid within she exhaled with her eyes closed tight. She gave herself unprotected, vulnerable to everything, knowing nothing of what concoction he would leave inside her. He slid inside her sorrow and she gasped then moaned with satisfaction of a brand new closeness. His prelude was slow and deliberate thrusts. He kissed her lips and groped her breasts, teased her nipples, and he continued work himself inside her. Their hips collided together at first, but the rate increased as they worked in rhythm, then the thrusts increased until their collisions caused water to splash on the black tile floor. Then there was that last crash that made Zephyrine moan so loud she was concerned about the neighbors. She held Apollo tight as she caught her breath and to reclaim her bearings. As Apollo bathed her again, Zephyrine could feel the continuous warmth in the center of her humiliation--diminish her humiliation--its origin now forgotten. There was a dissipation of the warmth and she could sense the beginning of some type of psychoactive effect that felt beyond the regular level of dopamine released during sex. “There’s more. I want you to ride me in the shrine. I want to look up and enjoy the splendor of Zephyrine.” She straddled him and guided him into her reason for remorse. She rode him, face to face, on the couch in the shrine. He lay on his back, on the couch as her hands took grip on his chest and her hips jutting forward, her hips gyrating slow then rapid, faster. Her breasts, nipples hard and erect, bounced as she bounced, as she felt misery take pause, and the power of the dopamine went to work. Zephyrine’s eyes were closed as she felt him grope and caress her breasts and she bent over so he could lick her breasts to her satisfaction. She moaned as she concentrated his movements inside her, pushing him as deep as possible, and now she didn’t give a damn about the neighbors, she was moaning loud enough to startle plant life. Apollo gripped her buttocks and they pressed hard against one another as he climaxed deep inside her, leaving more of the ancient potion inside her and a cozy warm, floating feeling enveloped her. Her euphoria abolished her image of the gutted fish, her euphoria made her feel as though she was making love to the authentic Apollo and her orgasms rippled in a rapid succession. She couldn’t remember any opiate she ever inhaled, ingested or injected that made her to feel so magnificent. Apollo possessed a preternatural amount of stamina and Zephyrine couldn’t recall ever possessing such vitality. The ecstasy was long diminished but it seemed the warmth inside her was another sort of drug. She felt hot and feverish. The beads of sweat were numerous on her body. She sensed something was wrong, but it was the sort of wrong she liked, the rare and pleasurable type of wrong, the wrong she felt when she was in the control of crank, the exact sensation she felt as she snorted high quality, high quantity cocaine, but this was even beyond. For the first time, in a long time, she felt absolute happiness, she felt capable of anything, and she felt all-powerful. I am a goddess. Apollo played the lyre and sang songs in Latin during the sexual respites. Zephyrine realized it was the respites that made the pleasure outstanding. Every minute she lay there, nibbling on grapes, chewing caviar on little crackers, consuming the sweet, crisp oysters made her want him back inside her. Zephyrine spoke with a tone of arrogance after the ancient serenade. “I pity Arvo and those daughters of Zeus. It’s sad they couldn’t feel what I am feeling right now. They must have been lonely creatures. Very, very lonely.” Zephyrine paused and realized. “They were emptier than I am.” She turned and smiled at Apollo. “As I was.” Apollo smiled. “And there’s more love to come. They went to the bathroom and entered the shower and during the time water pulsated against their skin, Apollo entered Zephyrine from behind and gave her more. She was amazed about the extent of her own body. She was vibrant and insatiable. The orgasms were now a cascade against the vicissitudes that plagued her. The more sex she had, the more sex she wanted. She couldn’t imagine what accounted for the desire to have more of what she couldn’t get enough as though the potion, itself, was the catalyst as though the potion was a psychoactive chemical symphony with the sole purpose for eternal pleasure. She was beyond the threshold of any drug she ever snorted, shot or injected and, as an addict aficionado; she enjoyed every moment of the excess. The
constant warmth throughout her body increased.
She was feverish and she knew something more than a simple exchange of
fluids was occurring, but she was on a roller coaster ride, an addict’s
paradise, and she would be damned if she were going to stop.
She was so charged up that she was getting dizzy and seeing stars.
And all I see is little dots. Some
are smeared and some are spots. She
was close to exhaustion but she pressed on with every motion of lust that made
the neurotransmitters spark and glimmer. I’m
charged up. Don’t put me down…. She was fatigued and drenched in sweat and engrossed in a surreal state, burning about the lavish dwelling. “Let’s do it in the dining room.” She guided him into the dining room, and rolled herself onto the white, marble dining room table large enough to entertain fifty guests. He did it to her again and the place that was a tragedy was now filled with burning hot triumph. Addicts never want to stop, but Zephyrine was beyond fatigue. “Zephyrine, you’re about to collapse,” Apollo said. “We must bed down now. We can continue tomorrow.” Zephyrine caught her breath. “Okay.” Apollo carried Zephyrine to the bedroom hand crafted by Yiannis Kazantzidis. The beauty of the room made her pause and stare. The theme of the deep, red, brown, handcrafted wood was complimented by the forest green cushions on the armchair and the matching bed covers on an enormous, rectangular bed that had one hand carved headboard that depicted Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Poseidon, Hades, Demeter and Hestia. The end headboard depicted Ares, Hephaestus, Hebe, Eileithuia, and Persephone. She was beaded with sweat when she lay down on her side in the soft velvet sheets. He lay down behind her. She felt his hardness against her buttocks. “Do me one more time, just one more.” He spooned her as his hands massaged her breasts, until she trembled with afterglow, as she felt him lick the heavy beads of sweat off her quivering back. Apollo released his last discharge of potion. Apollo arose and went to the kitchen and returned with a pitcher of cold water and a tall glass. “You have lost a lot of fluids. Drink.” Zephyrine didn’t hesitate and finished the glass. “Drink some more.” Apollo filled the glass. Zephyrine swallowed most of the water. “That should do it.” Apollo lay beside her and wrapped his arms around her. Zephyrine passed out. ***************************************************************************** Apollo was nowhere to be found the next morning. Zephyrine waited all day until she realized she was played like the lyre. He left the crucifix around her neck and if she knew its worth, she would have been happier and been more patient. Disgraced, discarded, disappointed, like so many times before, she grabbed her things and returned to the cluttered, broken-down Berkeley apartment. The back of her throat felt scratchy so she gargled but to no avail. She grabbed a handful of aspirin for her headache, found pictures of Kong and examined them for an hour. He never knew she carried his child. She cried until she slept. The following morning Zephyrine awakened with a pounding headache. She was wrapped within sweat soaked sheets and a damp pillow. She swallowed six Advil and watched television in the state of a zombie. She felt pain in her throat and underarms by the evening. She felt lethargic and delirious close to midnight, so she decided to swallow ten Advil and fall asleep. The following morning she stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “Oh my God,” she said as she stared at a pale version of herself. Her mouth felt sore and she thought perhaps she bit the inside of her cheek while sleeping. She opened her mouth and noticed a white coating on her tongue that remained regardless how many times she used mouthwash. All I need is rest, she thought and she flopped on the couch and watched television until she had an acute case of diarrhea. She staggered into the bathroom and expelled bloody bowels. She washed her face and looked in the mirror. “No, no, no,” she moaned as she stared at a woman who was one step in an urn for ashes. “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.” She grabbed the kitchen phone and called a friend. “Marie?” “Who is this?” “It’s me. Zephyrine.” “You sound awful.” “I feel awful. Do you have any antibiotics left from your last cold?” “I sure do. You know I hate taking those things. I don’t believe—“ “Can you come over and give them to me?” “Sure.” “Right now?” “Well, I planned to—“ “Please.” “Is your asshole boyfriend there?” “He’s out of town.” “Okay, I’ll be right over.” Marie gasped when Zephyrine opened the apartment door. “Zephyrine, what happened to you? You look horrible.” “I’ll be okay. I just need the antibiotics.” “Well,” Marie dug in her pocket and gave Zephyrine a container. “I don’t know if they’re gonna work, but give it a try.” “Thank you. Would you like to come—“ “I gotta go. Sorry.” “It’s okay. Maybe tomorrow?” “Yea, maybe.” Zephyrine tripled the dosage of the antibiotics and went to bed. She felt sore all over when she awakened. She went to the restroom and stared at the disaster in the mirror. Her eyes were dark and sunken and her lips were blue. The lesions that appeared all over her body hurt when touched. Her hands and feet were numb. I’ll be okay, she thought. I just need some rest. Rick Layne returned from his tour in Los Angeles, observed her state then said, “get the fuck out.” In the pouring rain, she staggered down Telegraph Avenue, soaked but burning, infiltrated by mycobacterium and a plethora of opportunistic viruses. “Oh God, help me!” Her hands were grappling the crucifix as she staggered into a record store. “Help me, somebody!” She grabbed the collar of a customer who pushed her away. She fell to the floor but was helped to her feet by a brave employee who guided her to a stool. “Call 911!” He said. “Hang on, lady, help is on the way.” She waited fifteen minutes before she stood and walked toward the door. “Where are you going?” the employee asked. “I can’t wait any longer. All I need is some rest.” She lost her balance for a moment before walking to the door. “Thank you.” She said to the employee. “You’ve been kind.” Somewhere between hell and the hospital, she collapsed. She cried her ex-lover’s name. “Kong! Kong!” The paramedics wore gloves and masks. “Don’t worry, miss, we’ll get in touch with your mother. Now, can you tell us your name?” “Kong, Kong.” She wept. The city of Berkeley did her the courtesy of sending her to the Alta Vista emergency room where she was carted off to the AIDS division, then to a Level Four bio-containment hospital covertly operated by the University of California Berkeley. When she awakened, an attending nurse, wearing a Chemturion biological environment suit pressed the alert button. Chemturion suited doctors, who Zephyrine thought were spacemen, entered the room and, with tape recorder in hand, and asked questions. “Who were you recently in physical contact with?” She opened her drooping eyes and responded to the spaceman. “Apollo.” The spaceman scratched notes on a clipboard. “How long have you experienced these symptoms?” Her throat hurt as she talked. “A week, a week, maybe.” “Were you wearing protection?” “No.” The spaceman scratched more notes. “Do you know the location of the individual you last had physical contact with?” Zephyrine broke down and cried as one would, knowing death was imminent. “I’m sorry about my persistence. The type of retrovirus that infected you is an unknown variety, but the Centers for Disease Control are on the way and you will be in good hands.” The doctors stepped away from her bed and huddled. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” One doctor said, as he glanced at Zephyrine. He didn’t know she was listening and watching. “I would swear it’s the acute stage of AIDS but if the timetable is correct then it’s impossible. HIV doesn’t work this fast. Not even a worst case scenario could do this.” Another doctor added. “Well, all I can say is there’s a battle being fought inside her and she’s losing.” The CDC representative walked into her room an hour later with a customer service smile. A tailored Armani suit was his protection from the infectious disease. She wondered, why no space suit? “Hello, Zephyrine, my name is Xuthus Smythe. I’m a specialist with the CDC, assigned to your case. It seems good fortune is on your side. All infectious diseases, for the exception of the unknown retrovirus, have somehow disappeared in a matter of days; which leaves us with only one problem to solve. So don’t you worry. We’ll have you fixed-up in a jiffy.” Zephyrine’s last words before falling into a coma were, “What the hell is a retrovirus?” Emaciated, skeletal, she was isolated in the basement where the CDC, in sealed white suits, took samples of her for study. They assessed she had one month to live but the next day they put a tag on her foot and an EXTREME BIOHAZARD sheet over her corpse. With dead eyes open, she stared into the blackness of her morgue compartment, wondering why she couldn’t move, why she wasn’t breathing, if she was dead. She lay there thinking that this couldn’t be happening. She was only seventeen and was planning to return to high school the next semester, because education was important. As she lay dead, she recalled the fairytale of Kong and Zephyrine graduating from the University of California in Berkeley, getting married and saving the world together. She thought about how stupid she was to give herself so easy, to give her unprotected, vulnerable. She realized that she had always done so. It was engendered to be a sacrifice to society, to be victimized by those who victimize, by those who, by force or coercion, established the way of the world for her and, with little regard for herself, she accepted their principle. When playing dead, judgment is the concept that takes the train going south. She kept thinking, thinking, thinking about everything, anything she could because that was all she could do. Her body had a mind of its own; in fact, it was not her body anymore. Through extreme amplification, the virus in control and systematically reconstructing every cell in her body to its own desired specifications. Her revised body was now restored to its previous voluptuous form. She was seventeen forever. When her drawer opened, her ruby red eyes fixed upon smiling Xuthus. “She looks done, my lord. Transformation complete.” Then Apollo appeared. “Done to perfection. My fair Zephyrine, no more playing dead for you. Get up now.” Apollo guided her out of the morgue drawer and clothed her in a white robe. “What happened to me?” “What happened to you? I left you in my bed and when I returned you were gone, silly girl.” Zephyrine looked at her forearms and noticed her scars were gone. She looked at her thighs. The scars were gone. She cried. “You just left me there so I went home and got really sick and now I don’t even know where I am.” “Xuthus, did you leave the note as I instructed?” There was a long and silent pause. “Oh, Xuthus, I don’t know why I keep you around!” Zephyrine looked around and realized she was in a morgue. “What happened to me?” “You died, “Xuthus said. “Get over it.” Zephyrine stood confused then wobbled a few steps forward as the two men walked on. “I’m dead?” “In a matter of speaking.” Apollo came back to her and guided her down the hall. “Come on now. I’ll tell you everything when we get to the motorcar. It’s double-parked and the sun is rising.” |
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