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Boys of the Bite : A Gay Vampire Anthology
"Overall I would rate Boys of the Bite well worth the price of entry, and a nice sampler of gay erotic romance stories that put a twist in the old tropes but never escapes or subverts them." --Emily Veinglory, "The Fleam Vampire Book Reviews" (4 out of 5) "I would not be surprised if you read this book and the result is spontaneous combustion. If you like graphic sex scenes with creatures of the night, this book is for you." --Readaholic "Each [story] has its own alluring taste of blood and flesh but with a sexy side that is sure to appease any vampire fan." --Night Owl Romance (4.75 stars) Vampires are ever young, ever beautiful, and ruled by the cravings of the flesh. In Boys of the Bite, the gay male side of the vampire's legend is explored in every erotic possibility. From historical settings where vampires move through high society to modern vamps you find at the all-night laundromat, these lusty men know how to hunt, whether for love or just a midnight snack. Mixing stories by gay male authors like R. R. Angell and Ken Panadero with some of Ravenous Romance's stars of m/m romance like Keta Diablo and Ryan Field, Boys of the Bite gives every reader plenty to get his or her blood pumping.
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August 03, 2009
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Excerpt from Boys of the Bite by Cecilia Tan
Another Saturday night and all I want is to get out of the office and dance until dawn. Well, close to it, anyway. Maybe find another Rugger. Ah, Rugger. More on him later. I want to be all over him right now, but duty calls; the job dictates. I've got patients for Dr. Lowell queued in exam rooms One and Three, and another sitting in the waiting room. Dr. Lowell hasn't shown up yet. We've been open since ten at night and it's already ten fifteen. So where is he? I'm drumming my fingers on the desk. What? Me nervous? I run a sanguinarian clinic located in Bethesda, Maryland, only one of three in the country. The other two are in Cincinnati and San Francisco. Our clinic covers the East Coast, but we get people from all over. Dr. Lowell is good, a true pioneer, and he's got connections with the National Institutes of Health, just up Wisconsin Avenue. He's amazing that way. Not that the NIH is researching our problems, or even knows about them. "Doctor Lowell's office, Dillon speaking," I answer the phone. "How may I help you?" "Hi, Dillon, it's Frederico Apollitano. I called a couple of days ago? From Ibiza? I'm back in the States and I need to see Dr. Lowell as soon as possible." "Remind me again who you are, okay?" You can never be too careful. We've seen this guy before, but I like hearing his dark, Mediterranean voice. "I was at trance night at Playa de Talamanca and I," he says, hesitating. "I drank something that I think had ecstasy in it." "Really?" I say, noticing that Dr. Lowell's private line is in use. It's about time. He must have breezed in the back entrance. At least the doctor is in. "Okay, fine," Frederico says. He's clued in that I like his accent. Good boy. "There was this group of women from Boston, and the blond finance babe and I hooked up in the bar and danced for a couple of hours. We started making out, and I couldn't help myself, I drained her right there in the crowd. She wasn't the only one on the floor. People just dance around the bodies, you know?" I don't get it. They say you can taste ecstasy in their blood, but he sucked her dry anyway. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. "Any symptoms?" I ask. The woman in the waiting room glances up from her magazine. "Symptoms?" Frederico is slow on the uptake. "I got a few. I woke up the next night itching like crazy, and I've got a strange stomachache. My chest and upper arms are as sore as a sinner's rosary beads." I bet they are. "How long ago was this? Was that the last time you ate, and did you have a full meal?" I look at my nails. The patient from exam room one puts his diagnosis form and a prescription request on my window ledge. Dr. Lowell is starting to crank them out. Finally. I hate summertime. Late sunsets and early sunrises mean very short office hours. We're open 10 p.m. to 3 a.m., Monday through Friday, from May through August, and add Saturdays from ten to midnight. It's our busiest time of year. Guess it's all that exposed skin. Who can resist? "Three days ago, and that was the last time I ate," Frederico says. "It was a full meal. I drained the bitch." Frederico is getting a little too gold-chained for me. "Excuse me?" says the guy at the window. "I'll be with you in a sec, hon." I glare at him. He's a newvee, and going to be a pain in the ass. Works for some nonprofit downtown in their IT department as a network something or other. Impatient shit. Guess he wants to make the clubs before they close. Wouldn't that be nice? I hold a finger up. No, not that one. "Frederico? I have an opening in about forty-five minutes. Are you in town?" "Dupont Circle." "Great, that's just six stops away on the Red Line." I give him directions to our fourth-floor office in the Howl Building, and add his name to the queue. If he's on time, we'll get out of here by witching hour and maybe I can go dancing. I turn to the newvee in the window. "Yes?" "My paperwork?" he says, pushing the prescription and the diagnosis sheet through the window. Not the way to my good side. I look at the paperwork an extra-long moment, then separate the pages and hand him his pink copy. He tries to hand me his prescription for Warfarin. "First time, huh?" I say. He nods. "Take it to any pharmacy, it's a legit prescription. They'll take your plan information." "But aren't things..." He pauses, and I enjoy the moment. "Aren't we different now?" He wants to be special. Get over it, honey. I have to take the next patient back pronto, or Dr. Lowell will fall behind. "You have a digestive disorder due to your condition," I explain. "You have to thin the blood so it won't clot so much until you metabolize it. That's what the Warfarin will do. The pharmacy isn't going to write Take before each meal on it, but you do that, and it will do the trick. Okay?" He nods. "Thanks," he says, and leaves. I hate insurance forms. I really hate them. Newvees always have to have their little jobs until they can save enough money that will generate cash in perpetuity and that takes at least forty-five or fifty years of constant saving. That is, if they have a financial planner. We partner with Merrill Parker and Company to provide financial consulting services to all our newvee patients. That way we get paid. Eventually. "Ms. Adler? Doctor Lowell will see you now." I usher her into the examination room, and pull a fresh paper cover over the examination table, tossing the old one. I see she is looking a little tanned. It's either the makeup, or she's got the Congo flu. She coughs. "Please remove your outer clothing, and hop up on the table," I say. I lay out the vacuutainers for the blood work Dr. Lowell is going to want. Too bad. I'll have to stay an extra hour and process them, which means I won't get to the clubs until about 1:30. "You may leave your underwear and bra on. There's a hook on the back of the door for your clothes." Back out front, Dr. Lowell's 10:45 is writing his name on the pad. It's for a follow-up exam, so I'll have to pull his chart. Fortunately he's vintage, so there won't be any insurance forms. He's also cute. I come back from the file room and patient two is done and standing there. Frederico should be here any time. It's one hell of a Saturday night. My thoughts turn back to Rugger, and last night's little snack. He's on instant replay in my head, and I can't seem to stop the loop. Ah, Rugger. * * * * Friday night. I barely made last call at Club Noir, a gay dive down an alley off of P Street in D.C., the crowd already pairing off for the night. I lean against the gray-carpeted wall, watching slick skin flash and pulse under the lights. Lloyd would not approve, but all that blood pumping is making me hungry. What I do isn't Lloyd's concern anymore. I smell him first. Sweat from dancing. Clean. No drugs. Traces of too much cologne. Obsession, I think. A hint of cinnamon. A beer drinker. "Buy you a drink?" he says, leaning in. I look him over in the shifting light. Forty-ish, about six-foot-one, close-cropped hair. The muscles in his neck are well defined and overlaid with veins, as is his hairy forearm and the hand that clutches his beer bottle. He looks Croatian: black hair, olive skin, a squared head and broad nose. Not from around here. I'd definitely have noticed him. He sighs and looks away. Takes a drink. I know that look. He's thinking he'll go back to his hotel room alone tonight. "I'm Rugger," he says, turning back to me. Hot name. "Dillon," I say. "Where does Rugger come from?" "It's short for Ruggero," he says looking me over. I'm thin, a couple of inches shorter than he is. Very non-threatening. "I'm in town on business," he says. He's staying at the hotel on P Street. Not far. Hotel lobbies suck, all glitter and mirrors. In this particular hotel there's a mirror right inside the entrance, another one above the fireplace, then there are the elevator doors. Yikes. It might be better to grab a bite on the way home instead. He's hot, though. And I like older men. Relatively speaking, of course. "Rugger," I say, shifting to his left and getting his attention as we walk through the automatic doors. I stroke his face and turn us left toward the big room. One down. "Look at these flowers!" I push him toward the credenza, away from the fireplace, and sniff the giant arrangement. Two down. The elevators are around the corner. Last hurdle. He gets impatient and goes to call an elevator. From experience I know there are three elevators: two on one side and the third directly across from the second one against the wall. That's the tricky one. Of course, that's the one I hear open. "Dillon?" He's a little drunk, but I take no chances. I grab the giant flower arrangement and swing it in front of me. The splash of color fills the mirrored doors. I step into the elevator, crowding him and blocking his view. "You can't do that," he says, taking the arrangement from me like someone correcting a child. Heck, I was twenty-four when I was made, sixty-three years ago, and I looked young then, but he's managed to make me feel sufficiently chastised. Where'd that come from? I press myself against the wall by the control panel, out of view of the mirrored doors across the hall. I push the OPEN button while he puts the arrangement back. I smile, a bad boy, and he laughs and kisses me as the doors close. Phew. I hesitate in the hallway outside his door. He's already inside. "Second thoughts?" he says, and cocks his head. There's something mysterious and dangerous about him, not the usual lonely resignation. I shake my head. "Please come in, then," he says. The invitation is all I need. The room is large with an office area and sofa opposite the king-sized bed. Nice bathroom, and I notice I look great. Rugger is closing his laptop as I approach him. "Hungry?" he says. "Actually, no." I'd eaten a few days ago and wouldn't need to again for several days, but a little nip would be nice. I'm just horny and it begins to show. Rugger notices, too. Everyone thinks we don't have beating hearts and coursing blood of our own, so we couldn't possibly get erections. Then how come everyone agrees there is spurting blood when we get staked? It's all drama, drama, drama. We are very sensual beings. Especially when we're feeding. The only difference is that we don't produce viable seed except when we're in season. We can have orgasms anytime, but it's only once every few years we can actually Make. Being in season has its own set of problems, and I am just entering the cycle. Bummer for me. I'm not ready to fall in hormone-driven love right now. Ready or not, as they say. He leans into me, and tastes my lip, slips his thick arm around me, pulls me to him. I put my hand in his hair, stroke his back and he tries to explore my mouth with his tongue. "I'm not into that," I say. "But there are so many other things we can do." I push him toward the bed. Ah, Rugger.