I think I’ve figured out exactly why it is that I’ve had a hard time with men in relationships. It’s not that the sex isn’t hot. Most of them couldn’t even keep up with me. The last one I sent off to work in the morning walking bowllegged with hemorrhoids from too much straining. It’s not that I’m some closet bitch. I never nag or try to threaten their freedom in an attempt to emasculate in any way. I never try to change who they are at the core of their being. That’s not me. And it's such a mistake that too many women make. I want them to feel free and manly because it turns me on when their behavior exudes that kind of confident readiness. I’m all about building them up not tearing them down. But it’s not wide-eyed naivety to feed their ego. It’s selfish to benefit me in the end because I know if I do, I’ll get what I want.

No, it’s because I am so freaking intense. I Love like a vampire. Feasting on their flesh. When let loose, my love is indestructible and knows no boundaries, it has a life of it’s own, becomes it’s own entity. I would probably drink their blood if they asked me to and would be most happy worshiping each other in dark rooms cloaked in plush red fabric with high vaulted ceilings and ancient fireplaces. I’ve drawn blood giving hickies because I get carried away with their flesh in my mouth.

I don’t really crave blood in a physical sense, but metaphorically. Their lifeblood. When I love and want, my blood lust is eternal and I think it frightens them, it’s overpowering. Too intense, too deep. Most men can’t handle it. Oh sure they like it for a time, in the beginning when its all new but then sure as female vampires can lead a normal life and even marry, eventually they exhaust their husbands. It would take a super strong mortal man to be able to stick it out with me for eternity. Not sure that he even exists in this century.

I am a nocturnal creature and could easily subsist on the blood lust that feeds my unnatural powers: heightened bodily functions and the ability to physically transform. Maybe that’s why I instinctually always go for the neck and am secretly attracted to men with ruddy complexions. Like a bubbling caldron of lust, sprinkled with herbs and magic potions, a witches brew.

When they don’t love me back with the same intensity, it’s disappointing and I become disenchanted. The spell breaks. I know it’s unfair to expect that much passion and desire, not all men (or women for that matter) have it in them. I know that I am a rare breed. And it would be silly to think my dark prince will cross oceans of time to find me like Vlad Dracula found his Elisabetha 4 centuries after the impalings and false word of his death sent her plummeting into the black river. A dark fantasy from too many romanticized horror films I suspect.

But we women love big sweeping grand gestures, don’t we? The Nosferatu are always making these whether transforming themselves into a wolf, showing up at your window floating on air engulfed in a billowing cloud of fog, or brainwashing you just by staring deeply into your eyes. I should be dating a f*cking vampire.

When I was little, I never had the Cinderella or Snow White fantasy. Mine was Dracula, the Dark Prince full of passion and longing for his beloved. The prize he cherished above all others. He would show her by biting her sensually in the neck. Drawing his own blood from his chest inviting her to drink. To become like him, showing his world to her. Making her one of him, immortal. But then only to discover that he couldn’t because he loved her too much to condemn her.

Yeah, I think a little Bram Stocker might be in order tonight. The passion of Dracula, a romantic tale of humanity, love and despair.