A Taste for Strength
Movies have it wrong, you know. All those sweet fainting virgins and their soft white throats.
We're strong. I mean really fucking strong. Fangs'd go through bone easy. So what's a delicate little pretty to us? Food, that's all. And if you were just prey, I suppose that'd be fine; there's no hawk complains that a rabbit is too easy to tear apart.
But we're human too, part of us, and we're as driven as you by the animal need to mate.
All that ape-stuff, lizard-stuff in our brains still drives us, even though we can't make children anymore, and don't often turn our victims. Most of us don't bother with the sex thing either. But the drive's still there.
And all the instincts say you don't mate with the weak and helpless; you mate with the strong. Unless, of course, you're one of those sorry childfuckers. But by and large, we're not. That sorta crap's for the weak, for scared and vicious losers who are afraid of anything tougher than a child. But we're not weak. We're stronger than all of you.
So sure, get us hungry and we'd take a helpless little thing if we had to. But what makes us hot is strength.
There's nothing like it. Give me a tough battlescarred sergeant with a knife who goes for my gut as I go for his throat, and I'll come so hard you'd think my body would burn like dry pine. Other kinds of strength too; an old hill widow, all scrawny bone and parchment skin and still a dead shot with her old man's shotgun, oh, yes. So fierce and wet--
Had a biker last night, crazy fucker. You could tell from his hands he loved those broken bottles in a fight. Saw him ride right into a neighbor's yard, grab a steak right off their grill and do a wheelie before he gunned his bike down the road, red juice running down his chin as he tore into the meat before it even stopped sizzling. Son of a bitch had to've been in trouble all his life--in trouble, in country, in prison, in any deep shit he could find where only his killer heart and hands could bring him out again.
There was no give in him. No part of him that didn't live for the fight; no part of him that could yield or let go, and he laughed when I tackled him off his bike into the dark. Knotted neck so hot and tight when I bit in, all of him straining against me like the best cunt you ever had. I swear even his blood tried to kill me, he fought so hard.
He came, dying. Not a surrender, no fucking way, just he'd spent his whole hard life looking for someone he could fight this hard who wouldn't break. Crazy fucker loved it, fighting death at last and knowing that while he couldn't win, he'd never give it up.
People don't turn just from how we kill them, you know. It takes our blood and some hard work. But this motherfucker woulda found some way to come back at me somehow.
I put a stake through his heart, all right. I took his head off with an axe, and burned his body with gasoline and a match, and buried those ashes under a crossroads, and I knew he was still grinning at me. I can't help but grin back.
So that body's not coming back. But who knows what else he'll do?
Look, don't get pregnant this year.
Just to be sure.
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A Taste for Strength