Harold Jaffe's fiction

by Harold Jaffe

cover image of Sex for the Milleniumfrom Sex for the Millennium
(Black Ice Books, 1999)

It's an obsession and it's draining me.

Heck, if you're sucking strange fruit you might as well enjoy it.

I enjoy it when I'm doing it. It's afterwards, when I find blood on the hem of my gown.

What do you have in mind?

Stopping. Cold turkey.

What about those commands from the underworld?

Are they actually commands? Or is it in my head? You don't hear anything.

Well, I don't hear what you hear. If that's what you mean. But I'm not undead either. You're a hundred and twenty-six years-old, hon.

Hundred and twenty-eight.

Look, if you stop sucking strange fruit, what will you do?

Professionally, you mean?

All right. Professionally.

I saw this Microsoft ad. They want women who can sound aristocratic online.

Right up your alley.

I just need to conquer this obsession. What time is it?

Eight-nineteen. There's a full-moon tonight. If we can see it through the smog.

Did you hear that?


That beagle that moved in across the street. Barking.


What I heard was baying. Beagles don't bay, hon.

You've said you love me. I'm going to ask you to prove it.


When the obsession kicks in, I want you to bind me to the bed.

That's what you usually do to me.

I want you to undress me.

Love to, but why?

If I'm naked I won't go out. No matter how I feel.

Upper-class vampire protocol, eh?

There's something else. That strange fruit you referred to isn't strange. I said I enjoyed it. I don't. Not really. It's stale, insipid.

I gather you still enter through the jugular? Two incisively elegant pinpricks on the throat?

I enter where I can. Sometimes jugular, sometimes down below.


As I said, too much of it is stale, dry, hardened.

I think what you're saying, hon, is: people are ugly and juiceless. You've been around a long time. Is it shittier now than before?

Well, the turn of the last century sucked: Pious robber barons. Industrial miseries. The Thirties sucked: Hitler's charisma. Hamstrung Capital. The Forties sucked: Gulags and crematoria. Worldwide fascism. The Fifties sucked: Rooting out the Reds. Complacency fastened to imbecility. I could go on. But this, now, sucks in a new way, resisting definition. Biting into one of them is like swallowing gas: foul, recirculated.

If things are so fucked over now why do you want to get with the program? Link digits with Microsoft?

Probably I exaggerate my potential influence, but I'm an idealist. I've been around a long while. At Microsoft I can, perhaps, infiltrate. Make an impact.

What sort of impact?

Who was it that said that the United States has proceeded from barbarism to decadence without the intervening stage of civilization? I would like to be a civilizing influence.

I'm impressed. What happens if it doesn't work? You're dismissed as just another do-gooder vampire?

I've prepared for that possibility. That wooden stake in my closet . . .

Is that what it is? I thought it was another of your sex toys. I have a feeling who the designated stake-driver is.

Yes. It will satisfy your passive-aggressiveness. And put an end to this svelte, glossy-haired vampire with her intimidatingly sexy contralto voice for all time.

Real time, you mean. You'll still glow and suck in our countless representations of you on TV, the Net and in our collective imagination-diskettes.



Am I really passive-aggressive? I thought I was a pussy cat.

Can you please suspend thinking about yourself for one minute? I'm the subject of this discourse. Or am I mistaken?

Sorry about that. You're front and center. It's your fifteen minutes, hon. I'll do exactly as you instruct me. I'll remove your burgundy, silken, floor-length, Coco Chanel gown. Is it Chanel or Yves Saint Laurent?


I'll remove your underthings. Are you wearing underthings?


Um. I'll bind you to the bed. Anything else?

Turn the TV to one of those religious channels.

I get you. Jesus on the cross mediated by televangelists in diamond pinky rings. You're making a warding-off gesture with your burgundy cape. I guess I shouldn't have said the name Jesus.

Silence, scumbag.

[Tenderly]: You haven't called me scumbag in a while.

Never mind.

Here comes the moon.

Strip me, bind me. Hurry, fool.

Well, there you are, naked and bound to the custom fourposter kingsize waterbed. What do you think of these restraints? I just bought them.


Orvis. You like them?

Cowhide and velcro?


Ahh. I feel it. The moon. [Intoning]: In the name of the Goddess Diana and her sharp-toothed daughters online and off . . .

[long pause]

You tugged at your ostrich and velcro binds. You hissed. You produced sounds from deep in your throat. But you made it, hon. The moon is out of sight. I'm proud of you. You know something else. You looked real sexy with those canines flashing.

I'm too well-bred to show the range of emotions I experienced. Ulysses lashed to his mast hearing the sirens couldn't have felt a sharper pang. The question is how many more times do I have to do this before the obsession is conquered.

Good question, hon.

All right. Release me.

No way.

What do you mean? Undo these binds.

Not until you answer some questions. Who was better hung: Count Dracula or the Wolf Man?

What? [pause] Dracula's was longer, the Wolf Man's was thicker.


Dracula's was sleek as a stainless steel dildo. Brancusi's bird in flight. The Wolf Man's was a length of hangman's rope, thickly braided with pulsing veins.

Pulsing veins?

Yes. Undo these binds.

What about Dr. Frankenstein?

Frankenstein was underdeveloped. The size of my little finger. Why do you think he created the monster? Now will you release me?

The bride of Frankenstein? With her electrified hair.

Oh. She was wet. Always wet. She'd fornicate her brains out with the monster. Then when he was spent and snoring she'd turn to the Wolf Man. She loved his thickly-corded penis. All that blood pulsing. Please release me.

Not just yet. You and your canines are naked and bound to the four-poster. Describing those monster genitals has got me hot and bothered. You remember what fellatio means? Blow-job in plain English. I've done you a bunch but I've never been able to get you to do me. Now you have no choice. I want you to open your aristocratic mouth. Wide, like you're at the dentist. Make sure to suck but not bite. You bite and I become undead like you. I don't want to hang around this fucked-over planet. I just want to spray some jizz on your fine-boned face. You bite me, hon, and you stay bound in Orvis-brand ostrich leather and velcro forever. I'm talking real time.

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