It wasn’t until several months into the relationship that Miles confided in me — confessed to me? — disclosed to me his… condition? — his state of being.
Is it selfish to wish that he’d waited longer to tell me? Even though I knew there was something, I liked the comfort of knowing what I didn’t know. Now, after the bomb, I have no idea what I don’t know. I might not know anything at all.
I knew he got transfusions, of course. I wasn’t that oblivious. I occasionally did myself, as a mild hemophiliac. I knew the discomfort and emotional exhaustion of “coming out” to every new partner about my condition, confessing that all was not well with my otherwise fine-looking body. I guess I figured Miles had something similar going on, something he wasn’t quite ready to talk about yet. He’d been slow in talking about his transition too. Maybe it was related. I didn’t know enough to know. Until, of course, he told me. Then I knew.
* * *
I met him in his dressing room after the show. He was a neo-burlesque performer — stripper? — erotic, exotic dancer, I think. Sometimes he took his clothes all the way off, but usually it was more about glamor and seduction than actual nakedness. He oscillated between star-of-the-show and back-up dancer. I could tell he preferred the spotlight, but I preferred him in the back corner, where his performance felt understated and intimate, and I could imagine, if I wished, that it was all for me and me only. Tonight he was on as “Mylie,” his cartoonishly seductive incubus persona that was here for “one week only” before he would fade into back-up land again.
I didn’t come to see the show because I can only deal with one catastrophic thing at a time, and strip shows have a catastrophic air to them, even when everything goes as planned. But Miles had specifically asked for a rendezvous at the club before my weekend away, so here I was. The stage door attendant let me in during the last chorus of the last number. I could hear the slap of bodies against the floor and the tap of high heels. The current finale (it changed every once and a while) was Eyes Wide Shut themed, with masked voyeurs, satin capes, and a cultish aura that critics were apparently raving about even though I found it morally and sexually perplexing. I just didn’t care for the number – It made me squirm in my seat.
I leaned against the fly rail while I waited for him to come backstage. I noticed the tape — gaff tape, was it? No, spike tape — upon which the rail had been labeled so that the stagehands would know which set piece hung from each fly. Moon, said one, and neon sign, and condom piñata. The applause rang out at the end of the finale. The dancers filed offstage and I watched them each toss their masquerade masks into a bin the moment they passed upstage of the curtain. Bright eyes fell dark, loud whispers emerged, and blisters and bruises were called to attention as the ensemble undressed. They were supposed to wait until they reached the ensemble dressing room, but no one followed this guideline; costumes started coming off the moment the curtain closed. Miles explained this to me one night when, after rounding a sharp corner, I came face to face with a pair of tits I hadn’t anticipated.
Miles was the last to come offstage, blowing kisses and shaking ass at the audience until the final inch of the curtain dropped. He milked them for everything they had. He was covered in red glitter and rouge, bright gold highlight dusting his cheeks and collarbone. I was in jeans and a tank top and a moth-eaten cardigan. His smile faltered when he saw me, but he recovered quickly — I wondered if he had made plans with me and plans with someone else and then forgotten about me, and was now bewildered by my arrival, straining to think of a way to let someone or other down easy. Instead he said,“Hey,” in the way that he always said it, sultry but a little held-back. It made me instantly horny, that “hey.” He ushered me into his dressing room, where he sat me down on the loveseat and went about taking his makeup off with little fuss. He could see me behind him in the mirror. The bulbs around it were lit at varying intensities.
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked him.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“I didn’t watch the show. I came in through the back a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks for coming to see me, I mean.”
He plucked a false eyelash, then his false mustache off. He scratched at his eyebrows, thick with mascara and paint. I went to grab a makeup wipe from his carpet bag, but he grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t — Just — I have to say it.”
I let him hold my wrist. This level of urgency was out of the ordinary for him. I was the neurotic one, the stumbler, the stutterer. I raised my eyebrows at him, saying go on, then.
“I’ve got a medical condition—“
“So do I, it’s okay, I understand—“
“Let me talk! I’m a vampire.”
I could only stare at his lips. They were so full – overlined, and ruby red.
“Can we go for a drink and talk about it?” He asked. Now that the words were out, his usual swagger inched back. His fingers interlocked with mine and I said of course, because what do you even say when your boyfriend confesses he’s a — has — is —
…Yeah.
__________________
I tried to be polite and conservative when it came to asking questions, but I had a lot. Miles seemed eager to talk about it after months of not not being “able to,” as he said. The more he told me, the more at ease I felt with the situation. I shouldn’t call it a situation. Vampirism is rare, but not unheard of. It’s medically manageable. He has an implant, he said, which allows him to spend time in the sunlight, though doing so for too long can be uncomfortable and draining. So that was the reason he’d shot down my date ideas regarding the botanical gardens and the marina, insisting that nightlife was sexier, more exciting. He could eat and drink limited portions, and it was not contagious in any traditional way, he assured me. He was not dangerous, did not experience mood swings or violent temptations the way myths and legends led one to assume. Instead, he just drank a lot of blood. Like, a lot.
I thought of his carpet bag in the backseat of the car and how heavy it was, how there always seemed to be fully-loaded shopping bags everywhere, draped over with bath towels. His heavy, opaque water bottle. He ordered a drink at the bar. He sucked on the cherry, and swiveled the glass over to me. I swigged the rest of it.
He went on to explain to me some nuances of his experience that I had so far not been privy to. To avoid feeling betrayed by the lateness of his confession, I tried to make myself instead feel honored that he trusted me enough to divulge such intimate details. He passed out sometimes, he said. Performing was taxing, and the company manager was the only one in the loop. When blood ran short, mutual aid networks came to the rescue. He was lucky, he said, that he’d never had a true emergency. Never been forced to drink “live blood,” as he called it. Blood straight from a person.
He paused after that bit and played with the cherry stem.
“How’s your leg?” he pivoted. I had bumped it on the sharp underside of my kitchen counter last week and the bruise had bloomed huge and blue like a lightning-struck peony.
“Don’t change the subject,” I said, trying to be playful.
“I don’t want to keep talking about me.”
“There’s so much more I want to know.”
“Do you want to dance?”
I did not want to dance. Bless his heart, I never really wanted to dance. I wanted to sit still, safe, holding onto this sweating glass for dear life. Nothing was different than it was before, except there was now one less barrier between us, emotionally. So why did I agree?
“Sure,” I said.
He cheered as I chugged the rest of the drink and followed him to the dance floor. Usher unceremoniously faded into Whitney, and he threw it back like the beautiful incubus that he was, and everyone watched, and I savored him like he wasn’t mine, which he really, truly wasn’t.
What else didn’t I know about him?
* * *
He told me we could text as much as I wanted while I was away for work. I took this as an expectation – I sat on the train to Bellingham trying to concoct a life-update text that didn’t sound boring or pointless. He told me he liked the domestic intensity I brought to his existence. “Nobody makes a cup of coffee the way you make a cup of coffee,” he’d said once, “Like you’re doing some complex art restoration.”
Speed-warped cows blipped past out the train window. It was a golden morning. I had a book in my lap, but I couldn’t bring myself to crack it open. I’d downloaded a bunch of podcast episodes to listen to in the event that this happened, a sudden and unexplainable aversion to looking at words on a page. I took a picture of the cows out the window, but they were blurry and too much of my reflection was visible, looking a little sad or manic. I looked like I should have had a briefcase or a derby hat. I briefly thought about how difficult it would be for Miles if he ever had to go on a business trip. How much would he have to pack? Surely they’d never let him fly commercial. Maybe it would be easier to take a train.
My phone rang – I panicked and reflexively hit “decline call” before noticing that it was Jared. Jared lived in Bellingham, and the two of us had dinner plans, which were also probably poorly-clarified sex plans. Jared was like that; he behaved as if the world could read his mind, and always seemed surprised when his unvoiced expectations went awry. My favorite thing about Jared was that he always wanted me, even when I got too high and sat in the back of his Camry sobbing because the needless urgency of the Burger King drive-thru gave me a panic attack.
Miles and I were in an open relationship. “I want you to have what you need,” is something he said to me a lot. Imagine knowing what you need. Imagine trusting that somebody else will. He was also performing at a burlesque festival all weekend, so I couldn’t imagine that he’d be as quick to text back as he claimed. I guess he hadn’t made any concrete claims – his guarantees were safely non-specific. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to text him at all.
My stomach churned at the thought of him raving, romping, playing in the reclusive after-hours dungeons he was such a favorite at. He would feel so out of place sitting next to me on a train, spurts of light bouncing in off the water and onto his tender skin. I closed my eyes and felt the weight of my jeans against my kneecap, which was almost back to normal after a maddeningly boring cycle of rest, ice, compression, and elevation. I couldn’t get it out of my head – the picture of Miles drinking from my body.
It was easy to imagine because it was purely fantastical – a bleeding event like that could kill me, and I think it’s technically illegal, drinking live blood. But – if I was normal, if it was even possible – what would it be like? My caffeine-pricked brain, throbbing arteries, and pocket search engine propelled me further into the fantasy. I Googled everything he’d been hesitant to tell me, everything I felt uncomfortable asking. Is it sexually gratifying, live drinking? (To some extent, usually.) Is it dangerous? (Yes, very, hence the illegality.) Do people do it anyway? (Probably, yeah.) What does it feel like? (Fucking incredible.)
I squeezed my knee, warm to the touch. I had so many pointless concoctions running through my veins – blood, mainly, and testosterone – that Miles fought tooth and nail every day to get enough of. And the reason I couldn’t share was – why, exactly? Some bent chromosomes and a flimsy law? I wanted to text him. I felt like a freeloader. A bag of coveted blood – too delicate to be put to use, but just aggravatingly present enough to make him crazy. No – I shouldn’t give myself that much credit. I had no proof that he was covetting anything about me.
The train hitched unexpectedly, and my book bounced on my lap – I winced. Jared called again and left a voicemail. I sent Miles a photo – the blurry cows with my Magrittean, faceless outline in the background.
* * *
Like a deeply effeminate Boy Scout troop leader, he seemed ready for glamping when he met me outside his apartment complex wearing rainbow Target board shorts, holding a Trader Joe’s bag full of pink riesling and dark chocolate peanut butter cups, and balancing a bag of ice on his hip like a washerwoman.
“Bitch, you look sad,” were the first words out of Jared’s mouth.
We dragged all the stuff inside. He made caprese salad while I sat on the floor in front of the television, looking through a box of cords to find a USBC-to-HDMI adapter. Nothing inside his apartment had moved an inch since we graduated, not even the solitary ketchup packet stuck way under the TV stand. After I had worked up the courage to text him on the train, I’d panicked and told him right away about Miles. He said that maybe we should watch Twilight, then, and I said that seemed tasteless, like watching Philadelphia, or Me, Earl and the Dying Girl. He insisted it was not even remotely comparable. Miles wasn't dying – he was undead. Sparkly, even.
He brought over flutes of wine, the salad (complete with tiny, long-handled forks), and a tiny glass bowl of Marcona almonds. We pressed play.
"You're allowed to break up with him if you're freaked out," Jared said, a piece of advice that I instantly recognized as bad.
"I'm not freaked out, I'm just feeling…"
"Yeah?" Jared said, fixing the collar of my shirt – his knuckles grazed my jaw.
"...Like I'm never going to be able to fulfill all of his needs." I finished shakily.
"Has he asked you to try?"
"No," I said.
Jared gently grabbed my jaw and tilted my face towards his while Bella’s opening monologue began: “I'd never given much thought to how I would die. But dying in the place of someone I love seems like a good way to go…”
“You are never going to be able to fulfill his needs,” Jared said bluntly.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“Physically,” he continued, gripping my jaw – “Sexually, intellectually, culturally. That’s not why people date each other.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“So don’t let this situation suck the life out of you,” he demanded, finally letting go.
The movie played while Jared ate almonds and I got hard, until all I could do was stare at him longingly, like maybe if he let me fuck him, I could extract some of his wisdom, his certainty.
* * *
I slept in his bed, clutching him like a nervous child clutches their backpack. The following morning, he made us omelets with capers and prosciutto and we sat across from each other on our phones.
"Biiiiiitch," Jared said to no one, in a drawn out tone, before cackling at his phone screen. I scoured Instagram for evidence of Miles' presence at the festival. He wasn't tagged in any photos yet.
"News from the home front?" Jared probed.
"None yet," I said.
"No news is good news," he retorted, opening Tiktok.
"Sure."
Miles and I met on the internet, in the comments of a YouTube video. "Elephant Rifle Annihilates Ballistic Gel." I'm not a violent person, but I derive a certain indescribable comfort from watching cubes of imitation-flesh get punctured by bullets. Miles too, I guess. His comment was completely innocuous, and so was mine. I followed his channel and found his 2 published videos, a pre-transition get-into-drag-with-me video and a choreography reel from senior year of college. He majored in dance – I majored in "interdisciplinary studies." I went through his other liked videos, which were public on his page. Slow-motion or close-up renditions of lightning striking trees, glass shattering, and cars exploding. I went to each video and left an innocuous comment, the 21st century equivalent of checking out books just to leave your name on the borrowing card. By the time he followed me back on Facebook, I already knew I was in love.
* * *
Late that Sunday, while I was driving home from the train station, Miles sent a text asking to meet at the coffeeshop between our houses. I pulled over and read it again, my leg shaking and my spine curling up like a fern. I wanted to eat my own tongue and throw it up. Instead, I whipped out the dental floss from my glovebox and went to town. I wished I was dressed better. As if wearing the exact right shirt could stop an avalanche.
“Something happened,” he said, seated across from me. “At the meet-up.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“I met someone,” he said, testing the waters. “A connection.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“They wanted me to –” he began.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“– to drink live,” he continued.
“Yeah.” I said.
“And I wanted to,” he explained, “So I did.”
He scooted his chair in close, so that one of my feet was resting between his. He put his hand atop my knee. My bruise hummed furiously with each word.
“...And I want to tell you everything about what happened, so that you won’t feel lost or left behind. The person I met is married, so I’m not going to run away with them. Their husband was there too, and he consented and assisted so nobody would be in danger. It was sensual, but we didn’t have any sex. I didn’t drink very much. Just enough to try it out. I got her phone number, but we don’t have any plans to meet again yet – I wanted to talk to you first.”
He stared expectantly at me. His cheeks were full and round, his undereye bags almost unnoticeable. His skin was peachy and there was a lushness to his appearance that couldn’t be denied. But – his voice trembled with fear, desperation, loneliness, and frustration. He spoke of the encounter carefully, like he was treading on a minefield. Was I the minefield? A marble of emotion rolled up and down my throat, on the verge of bursting forth from my lips before I swallowed it back. Vomit, or tears? A scream? I could feel my heart beating in the tissue of my knee, broken-down blood unbreaking, colluding into fresh pain.
Miles waited for me to say something, but I didn’t have anything to say. I don’t know how long I sat there, psyche churning like a cement mixer. Was this bound to happen? Was it inevitable, part of the package? My thoughts were steeped in assumptions. Archetypally, we were completely at odds. But we’re more than archetypes, aren’t we? The minutiae of thought and feeling wouldn’t be enough to pry us apart, would they? But… the minutiae of thought and feeling is what dating is. Dating isn’t some tightrope we have to cling to for dear life. It’s something we do for fun, right? … Was I having fun?
“I’m not having fun,” I squeak out.
He sighed, disappointed in me. Or – no – ashamed of himself?
“Yeah, I gathered.” he said. My leg was shaking. He put his hand on it, but it kept shaking.
“Did I –” I began, before Miles interrupted –
“Nothing I just said has anything to do with you.” he claimed, a sliver of defensiveness present in his voice.
“I think it has a lot to do with me.” I countered.
“It has to do with me and my needs–”
“Which I’m never going to be able to fulfill!” I clapped back. Jared’s words slithered around in my mind – that’s not why people date each other.
Miles looked unamused. I could tell he was frustrated by my response, but there was something else showing on his face, in the way his eyebrow tilted. I think he was afraid. I think he was afraid of me, of what I had to say about him. I think he was trying not to cry. I think that he was prepared to let me go if I couldn’t handle it. If I couldn’t handle him.
“We’re separate entities,” he said.
“I know, I–”
“I am not here to blood-bond with you. I am not here to make you sick, make you hurt, or lock you away. I want you to see the sun, and I want to see it too. I want us to play, and I want us to be happy. We’ve both been in a lot of pain for a long time because we can’t help but break rules that could never, ever make sense for us. We’re not like the rest of the world. We’re fragile, but we’re hearty. I’m not going to let you fear me. And I don’t fear you either, or the lack of you. I don’t want to suddenly be without you, but there’s no assurance in this life. I want you here with me. What do you want?”
I shuddered, became soft, and jolted up from my chair and into his arms. I needed words from him, and he gave them to me. I kissed him, and he kissed me back, and it was a desperate kiss, one that felt like a decision.
Suddenly I could taste copper on my tongue – between my teeth, a self-inflicted open wound, the result of the manic flossing I’d done in the car. My blood hit his tongue, and even though it was only a drop, the taste of my blood and his spit was like biting down on something new, some fresh flesh that could keep us alive in this state of elation, flow, mess, and uncertainty.
We said more words to each other, but none that day, none that night. Words aren’t his thing, they’re mine – which is why I had to write it all down. He is a physical person, with sharp hips, deep, dark eyes, round cheeks, teeming with desires, some of which I understand innately and some of which I may never understand. It’s a good thing we’re full of chemicals that can have entire conversations all on their own. Because what do you even say when your boyfriend confesses he’s a — has — is —
Yeah.
Monty Rozema (they/them) is a queer multidisciplinary artist from Seattle, Washington. They enjoy reading novels and comics, working with youth, and spending time in the public library. Their writing has been published by The Ugly Radio, bestcolleges.com, great weather for MEDIA, F3LL Magazine, Hash Journal, Mag 20/20, and many more. IG: @montyisms.