Last time I saw him he stared at me without blinking for 20 minutes straight. I sat in a low leather chair sipping on an extra dirty martini pretending to not notice him as I read my phone messages.
I’ve seen that before. The last stage before converting to us, the Phorzhicoa. He’s so far gone he wouldn’t have known the difference between the food and the feeders. To most humans he is, in urban vernacular terms, “thirsty,” in need of something other than the usual attention given to men and women who are moderately attractive.
You’ve encountered the type before, the kind who were surrounded by sycophants and fans in their younger days, the popular set of folk who were sharply dressed, well-spoken, and of course never missing out on receiving some really delicious sexual heat from lovers and bedwarmers. But eventually that sort of heat gets cold, and the thirst grows sharper with age. The young, nubile, strong bodies of hopeful fans are replaced by earnest, desperate, and somewhat shrill voices of men and women who hope to taste a bit of an aging star who begins to realize with more than a bit of panic that she or he is no longer being fed and maintained but in fact is being sucked dry.
The makeup is flawless, the haircut is perfect, but the soul is in great need. The hollowed out eyes of one who is ravenous enough to not know that he is staring at a version of himself is unmistakable and indeed, quite irresistible. Truth is I’ve kept myself off the radar of the Queen by refusing to feed for some years now, and it has kept me safe from some of the more aggressive types who look to compel us solitaries into joining families to hunt. And yes, he is desirable, but I do not give chase. I prefer to be chased because the taste of his astonishment is so much more satisfying. It’s a moment of mutual recognition, that we are more alike than different, that I am not prey but a sister hunter like him. But he is still in pre-conversion, not quite Phorzhicoa yet. He may give chase, but I saw him long before he even realized he saw me as a meal to consume.
This fledgling sitting across from me has been semi-stalking me for some months without speaking or even admitting to himself that he hungers, that his body and soul feels the crush and call of the Phorzhicoan way. The sex itself is beyond words, but the energy that floods you is like a tidal wave of ecstasy that floods every cell of your body for what seems to be an eternity. Time ceases as you are filled once again. To be mutually fed by your own is to die and live again in a state of utter joy and relief.
But I don’t chase fledglings, especially not in my own starved state. I feel no motivation to move, much less speak.
Instead, I watch and wait for him to turn.
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