Vampires Aren't Sexy

Vampires Aren’t Sexy

You already know the story.

It is a dark and fateful night, blanketed in ominous fog. Denizens of an unassuming town are all aslumber, oblivious to the lurking dread. A flitting shadow passes overhead, told only by the amber quiver of gaslit street lamps. Forth, a shadow quests on silent wings.

A gale swirls up the drive of an old Victorian, most ill-fortuned home, assailing its ornately adorned walls. The mists deepen and wing beat settles.

In a gust, the second-story window gives way. Curtains trace the air in graceful liquid curls. The wind abates; they fall still. In their place, He stands. Not a sound do his boots make as he sidles toward her resting place.

The night breeze caresses her still form. She does not wake, does not stir but for a deepening frown as his shadow draws near. Her body shifts beneath her lace gown, pale neck curved and bared. A soft moan escapes her lips. She is enraptured in a dream. An old one she has had many times.

He is always there. Watching her. Coveting her. His presence dominates and terrifies. She should fear his sinful nature. So why does she yearn for him instead? Each night his specter whispers promises of delicious release. Each morning she wakes, still wanting. Despite her shame, she can't help but seek him further, though never is he found.

Until tonight.

Something electric passes through her, rousing her, exciting her. Hips shift and quake with anticipation. Could it be? Is it He? Yes, she can feel him! His fingertips trace her lips, her neck, her soft, peaked mounds... She dares not open her eyes lest she break the spell.

The bed creaks. A weight draws down upon her, ever so gently. She shudders and tenses beneath his proud and noble frame. The air over her thickens where he hovers, teasing her mouth with his. Her ache worsens, her hunger deepens. Not a word is uttered. Eternity trickles by, all the while she lies taught and wanting. Just when she is near to breaking, when she thinks she can wait no longer, a tidal wave falls upon her!

With ragged breaths and naked want, her garments are torn asunder. She whimpers like a frightened little mouse, but he is too thirsty to care. His fingers curl in her locks and hoist her up. Exposed, powerless, the moment is nigh. With a thrill she finds herself upon the precipice. Wait, stop!

With a gasp and a rushing blow, he penetrates her. Her back arches, and the world spins behind her closed lids. Quavering in impossible ecstasy, she surrenders to his dark, merciless ravishment. She jostles too and fro, her delicate limbs falling limp, her jaw gone slack as she builds toward the bliss He has promised her for so long...

... Steamy, right?

Forbidden lust, a dash of ambiance, and a dark shadow daddy ready to bring the tantalizingly delayed heat. No wonder romantisy readers get so enthralled!

Um... You ok? You look a bit—off. Ahhhh, I see... Alright, go on. Take your cold shower; I can wait.

(One Icey shower later.)

All better? Great! Let's continue.

The Vampire of modern myth is the archetype of embraced lust and desire. He is unbridled hunger and impulse unbound. It's a sexy good time, and why not? After all, why shouldn’t we embrace the embodiment of our sexual desires?

Welp, I have some bad news for you, bub. It's all a lie. That little bit of smut above, along with a whole host of modern-day vamp-loving literature, has got it all wrong. Vampires aren’t sexy. They never have been. Quite the contrary, in fact, and I can prove it.

It should come as no surprise that all of this begins with a myth. Several, actually. There are many folktales across the world of the undead rising to feast on the living. The Italian Strigori, the Chinese Jiangshi, or the Greek Vrykolakas, for example. But the one we know best today derives from the Slavic “Upyr”. A reanimated, bloated corpse of one who dies a dark death, only to rise again to feed on the blood of their kin.

In the 1700’s these stories traveled through greater Europe, introducing the West broadly to the terrifying “Vampire”. From there we fast forward to the 19th century, where written works such as Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla, John Polidori’s The Vampyre, and of course Bram Stoker's classic, Dracula, shaped the aristocratic and seductive predators of Victorian literature that we know today. However, while the contemporary vampire had forgone its visage of a bloated corpse, and was elevated to positions in high society, it retained a core element of its archetype.

The Hunger.

In all these tales, from their origin in rugged folklore to their refinement in Gothic literature, the Vampire was never a wounded soul, opining for its lost love and redemption. It has always been an inhuman demonic entity of insatiable gluttony. Its thirst is so great that it can only be slaked with the very blood of life itself. Seduction was never the point. Lust was mere bait in the trap.

Furthermore, the vampire myth is not some mere campfire story. Quite the contrary. It endures in culture and excites the psyche for a reason. As an archetype, it touches a dark truth about us all, revealing a pattern of the human experience across time and culture that cannot be denied. We hunger. We lust. We thirst.  And so the tale of the vampire arises to ask a very simple question.

What happens to one who becomes their thirst?

There it is. The appeal. The desire. Imagine your most primal want. That ache in the pit of your gut that can only be appeased with carnal delight. What if you gave in? How would it feel to drink your fill? Exquisite? Delicious? Au contraire, chérie...

“Why should I care!” You might ask as you fondle the latest book, covered with a bare-chested and fanged Fabio. Fair question. Maybe because, despite popular opinion, fiction isn’t meaningless entertainment. Maybe, like the fairytales of old, these stories have always had something important to say. You see, as any psychologist worth their salt will tell you, what consumes your thoughts controls your life. And if a metaphorical corpse consuming your lust has your full attention, well... Maybe that's worth having a quick chin-wag about.

The want for unbridled pleasure is, by its very nature, tied to novelty. The thrill of the unknown, the exciting, the new. Which is a problem. New things eventually aren't new anymore. As any alcoholic or addict can tell you, the more you imbibe your desire, the more familiar your chosen elixir becomes. In so doing, it loses the very novelty its potency requires. Each sip slakes you less and less until eventually you invert. What you consume begins to consume you. Don't believe me? Not to fret, I brought receipts.

What ranks among the top literary genres in book sales today? Would it surprise you to learn dark sexualized romantasy sits near the top? Or that that obsession-abusive material might have a negative mental impact?

A 2014 study titled “Fiction or not? Fifty Shades is associated with health risks in adolescent and young adult females” found a strong correlation between women's frequent consumption of abuse fetish material (A common thread in vampire stories) and increased normalization of such behavior. Maybe you can imagine how a severe increase of idealized abusive male partners could blur the lines between fantasy and reality? The bad boy gets the girl, indeed...

In short, fetishizing obsessive, abusive lust may be good for a thrill, but is that really where you want your attractions to dwell? And do you have to deny sexuality to avoid the abuse? Or is there more to the story?

Holistically, sexuality isn't only a physical thrill. It is a deeply personal and vulnerable thing. A truly sacred part of the human experience. When paired with the right partner, it's not only arousing; it's a beautiful bonding of souls so powerful it literally creates life itself! You and your sexuality are not meant for cheap consumption. It is sacred. YOU are sacred. Not an irreverent amusement.

The vampire is a perversion of a loving relationship. You are not a whole person to him; you are a consumable thing to be used and discarded. Nothing sexy about that.

Alright, I know, I know. I'm being a buzz kill. Peace, sister, I’m not here to rip away your happy-time books. I’m merely advocating a pause.  Offering a well-intended reminder of a very real human need.

All things in balance.

I get it! Dracula is entertaining. He is evocative and mysterious. The deeper “why” behind it doesn't lessen that fact, and we often don't want to think about it! So too can be said of any modern indie book exploring bondage and knotting (not judging, just sayin’...). But moderation is key, ma chère. This genre suffers from a strikingly similar trend to visual pornography. It's seductive. Addictive. Offering escape and release into extreme novelties that capture us like no other and does not readily let us go. Tread lightly.

So yes, enjoy what you will; I’ll not condemn you. But in your readings,  just bear in mind what this archetype truly is, and the timeless cautionary tale the vampiric myth convey. The ravenous, obsessed creature in the dark is many things, but one thing it is absolutely not:  

Vampires Aren't Sexy.