Photo by Wyxina Tresse on Unsplash
A friend on FaceBook posted: “I have given myself permission to write vampire smut tonight.” and I asked if I could play too. The following wrote itself. If you live in the South, you understand.
It was a hot sultry summer night. You know, those nights when even after the sun sets, you drip sweat. I knew what Jameus was. Hell, I was there when we put him in the ground the first time, but he kept to his types and I kept to mine. They tell you that vampires are cold. Scientists think vampires are room temperature; they don’t produce heat. But truth to tell, they are the cold of the grave. Their personal grave. Soil six foot down, which is a dang slight less heated than the dry brown blades of grass he was passing through on the way to my house. I didn’t invite him in. I’m not stupid. But you bet I did the horizontal tango on the porch with that iceberg body. Better than an AC blowing on the bed.
(words 140; first published 1/30/2025)