I prepare for each night out in a routine way. I rise from my coffin just as the last rays of sun are disappearing from the sky. I have never used any kind of an alarm clock, because I have always had an internal alarm that naturally awakens me when nightfall comes. I wash my hair with a richly scented shampoo and conditioner and braid it into one long, thick braid that hangs down to the small of my back. I tie that braid tightly with a crimson velvet ribbon.

Then I dress, first in my corset and then putting on layers of clothing over that. I like to dress in a very gothic style, in many layers, lace, velvet, and above all, black. They enjoy seeing me dressed this way. It adds to their fantasy experience. Usually I wear a long velvet dress with lace trim, and some sort of a lace veil to hide the pallor of my face and my blood-tinged eyes, which can be frightening to some unsuspecting soul. I like to warn them ahead of time before shocking them with my ghostly appearance. I always remember to put a small maroon tie at the neckline of my dress, intermingling with the layers of lace but clearly visible. Last, I gather my small handbag, in which I carry my tools – mostly small, extremely sharp blades made from various metals. I have learned over the years that a small blade will slice so much more effectively than one’s fangs, which work well if they are sharp enough but will leave a messy cut.

I leave my apartment no later than 11 pm, and walk down the city streets. Sometimes I hail a cab, if the weather is unfavorable, but usually I enjoy starting my evening by walking alone. I enjoy the sights, the sounds, and the smells of the city and the people in it at night. Some of the people rushing by me on the sidewalks are in a hurry to go home and to bed, and others, like me, are just beginning their routine.

I usually go to any one of the sado-masochism dungeons this city has to offer. Tonight I am planning to visit The Tomb, a club well known for its bondage and discipline scenes.

As I round the corner to The Tomb, I can smell them thickly in the air. Amidst the metallic odors of chains and blades and the warm, rich aroma of leather, I notice the sweet scent of young blood, topped off with a hint of saltiness from the sweat escaping their pores. I am also aware of the faint smell of rubbing alcohol and other disinfectants, which they use to sanitize their tools before and after using them on a partner.

There are hundreds of them in the building, scattered throughout the many dimly lit rooms. Many of them are the center of attention as they engage in sado-masochism scenes, but many more of them are simply milling about. They all keep to themselves so nicely, I think to myself. Each of them is simply doing his or her own thing, with no trouble from anybody else.

I walk around two women negotiating a scene they are planning to engage in. The woman who is obviously going to be playing the dominant role is listening attentively to the submissive one as she lays out her limits for the scene. The submissive is handing the dominant partner a whip, presumably to use during the scene. Several feet away from them, a woman dressed in stiletto heels and a leather corset ties a man’s hands together behind his back with a silk rope while another man naked from the waist up puts a blindfold around his eyes. The man he is blindfolding is also naked from the waist up, with rolls of fat on his midsection and thick hair on his chest. A film of sweat is developing around his neck, and a drop of it trickles down his chest and gets lost in the hair. That trio silently goes about their business, oblivious to what is happening around them. All around me I can hear the buzz of scene partners negotiating, the snapping of whips and floggers, and the rattle of chains. The scent of blood, sweat, and leather hangs heavy in the air, so much that I almost feel I could take one of the blades out of my bag and cut the air with it.

Some come to these dungeons with a group of people, therefore with no reason to alert others to their motivations or desires. However, others come intending to pick up or be picked up by a scene partner, and due to the variety of people who attend, and therefore the variety of interests, must somehow alert a potential partner of what they are expecting. The maroon necktie, which I tie onto my neckline every night, commonly means in S&M circles that I am seeking a role as the dominant player in a cutting scene. I come to these clubs seeking someone standing alone, wearing a white ribbon in the same place that I apply my maroon. The white ribbon indicates their desire to play a submissive role in the same scene. Most of my nights begin this way, with me walking through an S&M dungeon, keeping my eyes open for that sign, the invitation that a potential partner will offer.

At length, I spot her. She is a healthy and vibrant young thing, standing alone off in a corner of one of the rooms. Her skin is exquisitely smooth and clear, and there is a slight flush in her cheeks. She is clad in black trousers, held up by a pair of black suspenders, and a white button-down blouse. Her thick black hair hangs to her chin, cut in a jagged style that makes me think of a Japanese animation character. As I approach her and she lifts her eyelids to shift her gaze to me, the awesome beauty of her magnificent eyes strikes me and I slow my pace as I look into them. They are a shade of bright green that I have never been witness to in all my years of existence. The closest comparison I can possibly make is to a superbly cut and beautifully polished piece of jade jewelry. Slowly she blinks her eyes, and I feel drawn in to her aura as though we are magnets. Never have I been caught as off-guard by a potential partner as I am at this very moment.

I realize that while mesmerized by the hypnotic beauty standing before me, my feet have ceased to move forward. Suddenly she steps toward me, and slowly but deliberately moves her lips close to my ear while softly touching my arm. I feel intoxicated with desire for her, and when she whispers into my ear, I am all too eager to follow her anywhere.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispers in a voice that is low and clear. “Why don’t we go someplace less… crowded?”

With that being the only spoken communication between us, we move together toward the back entrance, her hand lightly touching my back as she guides me. However, we do not exit into the alley behind the club; rather she leads me up a stairway and down a hall lit by only one bare bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling. The air smells of dust and decay. She opens a door that is unmarked and bare, as are the several other doors in this dim hallway.

“In here,” she whispers. She stays in the hallway and waits for me to enter the room first.

The room is just as dimly lit as the hallway, except that instead of being lit by a bulb hanging from the ceiling, the light is coming through the window from the neon signs across the street. In the alley below, I can hear traffic stopping and starting, and occasionally a single loud voice that rises incomprehensibly over the otherwise soft buzz of people running up and down the street. The room is almost completely empty, with a bare mattress on a bed frame in one corner being the only furniture. There are no curtains on the window, and there is no carpeting on the floor.

“Do you live here?” I ask. I am surprised to hear my own voice as I realize these are the first words I have spoken to this mysterious stranger. She smiles a queer half-smile on the corner of her lips.

“No,” she replies, her voice husky and mesmerizing. “This is just a room that I use for my… purposes.” She stepped into the room after me and closed the door behind her.

She is even more beautiful and mysterious in the dim light reflecting in off the street. Suddenly she moves toward me, yet as slowly and deliberately as all of her previous movements, and uses her left hand to lift the veil from my face. She looks upon me, with something almost seeming to be kindness flashing across her face and through her green eyes. She touches my cheek softly with the tops of her fingers, which startle me with their coldness despite the rosy glow in her cheeks.

“You are so beautiful,” she says. “And such amazing eyes.”

I had been born with albinism, and nobody in my entire life had ever called me beautiful. People had certainly stared, and children had stopped on the street to gape and ask their mothers “What’s wrong with her?” as the embarrassed parents fumbled for their child’s hand and avoided looking me in the eyes – scorning the child for having the naivety to speak out loud what everyone else silently wondered. However, here I am, standing in this dark empty room with a stranger who is lightly touching my face and telling me that I am beautiful.

I try to pull myself out of the stupor I have slipped into, and reach for my handbag, hoping to begin negotiating the scene. Since I always play the dominant role in my scenes, I do not know how to react to the feelings I have in response to this woman. Never have I felt the desire to surrender to someone, yet I feel that I would yield to any of her wishes. She notices me reaching for my handbag, and gently pushes my hand away. My fingers go limp and I drop the bag to the floor, with a slight clank coming from it as the blades knock against each other. She touches the corner of my mouth with her fingertip, and smiles when her finger feels the sharp of my incisors, sharpened into fangs. In response, I open my mouth slightly, making them visible to her. She shakes her head as one would to a small child asking a silly question, with a slight smile still dancing on the corner of her mouth.

“I knew that there was something unusual about you the moment I saw you, child,” she says to me. “Maybe nobody else has been able to see through your façade so far, but I will be the first to say that I am different.”

Nothing anybody has ever said to me cut so deeply as the words she is speaking right now. You see, in an effort to find a place where I belonged in society, I had taken up the lifestyle of a vampire. This life works to my advantage, since the lack of pigment in my skin causes me to burn very easily in the sunlight, therefore making a nocturnal life optimal for me. In addition, I will not say that I do not enjoy the taste of blood; I enjoy it very much. However, I am by no means an undead creature as we are accustomed to from contemporary vampire stories, even though I sleep in a coffin, prowl nightclubs late at night, and have had my incisors sharpened into fangs. It is simply that the lifestyle of a vampire offers the people I encounter a reason for my strange appearance, and the S&M dungeons offer me a place in society where I will not be scorned for looking the way I do and having the lifestyle that I choose. However, until this moment, nobody has ever seen through my story.

I pick up my victims much the same way I intended to pick up this woman tonight, in a dungeon such as The Tomb. I lead them to a secluded place, where I seduce them, make a cut in their skin using one of my blades, and drink their blood. I drain them until they become unconscious, and then I take my leave. They have no reason not to believe that an immortal creature fed upon them, and in a strange way, that adds a thrill to their otherwise boring lives. Why shouldn’t I feed into their fantasies? After all, I never deliberately say to them that I am a vampire, I simply let them believe what they choose to believe.

Suddenly a different look flashes across the face of the woman standing before me. Without a word, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me. With a sense of urgency, we press our bodies together. Her hands are inside the back of my dress, and suddenly I am standing wrapped in her arms wearing only my corset as my dress and the layers of lace from my neckline gather on the floor at my feet. My breath catches in my throat when I realize her intentions, and suddenly I feel the prick of her fangs piercing my neck. I feel no pain, but rather a pleasurable throbbing intensity and I moan in response to it. She also makes a sound as the first drops of my blood encounter her tongue.

As she drains me, I am aware of her cold hands warming against my skin. This feeling is amazing and I wish it would last forever. However, all too soon I begin to feel lightheaded. As my knees begin to collapse under me, she lays me down on the mattress, never once removing her mouth from my neck.

Only once before I close my eyes does she stop drinking from me. She wordlessly gazes into my eyes and once again strokes my cheek, this time her skin feeling as hot as a person with a fever. My eyes struggle to remain open, and her face swims before me as if we are underwater. The whole time, however, I am aware of her piercing emerald eyes gazing at me. After a moment, she feeds from me again. As my eyes close, I know they will never open again. How ironic, I think to myself as I notice my heart rate slowing, that my last breath should be at the hands of someone who used my own routine against me.