Blood Stirred

I didn’t think she’d be likely to bite. So, when I felt the dancer slip next to me, I spoke up even though I wasn’t much for talking to women since my wife left. A dark overcoat was slung over her shoulders like a cape and her black hair framed a power-white face. Through the coat I could feel the warmth of her blood stirred from dancing.

It stirred me up, if you want to know the truth. I’d been feeling dead, dead since my wife went way. The closest I ever felt to being alive was to watch these women dance and take off their clothes.

“What do you do when you’re not dancing?” I asked. It’s not like I wanted to know. I just thought I should be showing an interest in something about the girls at the titty bar besides their titties.

She took a long sip from a narrow straw while looking into my eyes. She finished and licked her lips before saying, “Not a thing. Each night I die when the bar closes. When it opens, I’m born again.”

I smiled, happy to play along. “Maybe you could tell me what happens after you die. I’ve always wanted to know, but I’ve never been in a hurry to find out for myself.”

“Death is incredibly sensual; like taking off shoes that you’ve worn all day.”

She leaned on me and whispered in my ear, her breasts flattened on my chest, and continued. “You find yourself. Your outer shell, the persona that you build around you to protect you, gets shed. You go back to who you really are, what’s in your core.”

She had a view of the afterlife only a stripper could have.

“That’s interesting,” I said. “I knew there was more to you as soon as I saw you.”

“You’re wrong. There’s nothing to me. I’m as simple as can be. I wasn’t born yesterday, I was born today.”

The set was done, the music stopped, and the dancer on stage was gathered dollar bills. The next dancer was with the DJ, picking out her songs.

“All right,” I said. “Now that you’ve told me what it’s like to die, tell me what it’s like to be born. I don’t remember.”

“You come to life and the people around you see you there naked. They rush around getting clothes on you. People never let things be just simple. You’ve got to die again just to get you back.”

The music started and the new dancer began with an acrobatic spin on the pole. She hung upside down like a bat and untied her long hair so that it spilled out onto the stage.

“I would never do that. I’d never put clothes on you if I saw you naked; unless you were cold.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman,” she purred. “You know, I like you and I’d like to do something for you.”

She finished her drink and pulled me by the hand to a small room, pushed me down on an easy chair, straddled me, and placed my head between her breasts. They were taut and smelled of baby powder. She ran her breath up and down my neck, the edge of her teeth grazing my skin.

She only comes out at night. She dies at the break of day. She would suck me dry. With a great heave, I threw her off me and stood to leave.

“You’re a vampire,” I said.

“Who’s calling who a vampire?”

Keith R Wilson is a mental health counselor in private practice and the author of three self-help books, two novels, and innumerable articles. A third novel, Who Killed the Lisping Barista of the Epiphany Café? is currently being published one chapter at a time in Medium.