Randy, Vampire
By Saylor
I don’t think anybody’s ever guessed my secret. I’ve been extremely discreet and I’ve kept all my business behind closed doors. It’s a whole other life than I lived before, one with more vivid colors, more energy, less pain and fewer fuck-ups. I love this life and I cherish the one who gave it to me.
I’m talking about Jericho, of course, the lovely vampire who brought me over. I owe him for that, and I can’t wait to see him again. I’m no longer bound to him, though. I’m free to do whatever and fuck whomever I want. It’s a sweet existence.
It’s great being ‘undead’, as some fans have called us. It’s not exactly like that, but I accept that term. Technically, I never died, so I guess ‘undead’ is a fair assessment of my condition.
My skin doesn’t sparkle in the sunlight like the Twilight vamps, but it does have a subtle iridescent, preternatural glow. That tells me that Stephenie Meyer did some real research when writing her characters. Unlike the popular consensus of vamp-fiction, I won’t wither away in the sun, and I certainly won’t burst into flames. I might turn a little pink with prolonged exposure, but I’ll get over it. I’m resilient, like all vampires, which means I heal really fucking fast.
I keep my blood lust to myself – well, except for my buddy Juan, sworn to secrecy, who works at the slaughter house in St. Louis. I visit him twice a week. He lets me in the back door after hours, then leaves me alone while I devour the great quantities of cow blood he saved from that day’s kills. I hate that the poor cows had to die, but it wasn’t me who killed them. I’m just scavenging the blood that would’ve gone down the drain, anyhow. For me, it’s sustenance. I survive because animals died. I can’t dwell on it. It’s just the way things have to be.
I never killed a human. In fact, I never even fed from a human. I’ve drunk so much cow blood that nothing else would taste right. I’d have to mix hot sauce in it or something. I still count myself as a human, so I have to try to blend in.
Friday night, we had a special house show for New Orleans. Vampire City, USA. According to Jericho, more vampires reside in New Orleans than any other US town, the largest population reportedly in Paris, France. Anne Rice had that shit right. She had quite a few things right about our kind. My theory? Anne’s a vampire. But don’t quote me on that. I’ve been wrong before. I’ll know if I ever get to meet her in person.
We do recognize each other. Vamp-dar is real, but I rarely connect with any of my kindred because I have so little in common with them. Most of them look upon me the way meat-eaters look on vegetable enthusiasts. Because of my unwillingness to drink human blood, I’m an oddity to vamps. I truly empathize with vegans, but I don’t have as much trouble seeking out stores that sell quinoa or bulgar.
My life is basically simple, and as time passes, I’m liking it more and more. When I first became a vampire back in 2006, I was cocky, brash and full of myself. My transformation was humbling at first, but it also empowered me. My mind, my senses, my body and all other aspects of me were suddenly sharper. I gained strength, speed, agility and clarity. In time, I became a super being with abilities I’d only dreamed of before. I was no longer the ‘Legend Killer’. As my new enhanced persona emerged, I became ‘The Viper’, and I flourished. In a short time, I was the best-known wrestler in the world. Life got intensely more interesting.
I didn’t let my success or my popularity go to my head. I saw that happen too many times, and it’s always a mistake. When I’m among fans, friends and co-workers, I’m just plain ol’ Randy, Cowboy Bob Orton’s boy.
I prowl, but not for blood. I prowl for sex, specifically for men, because, at the risk of grossing out those prone to queasiness, a little snack of hot, protein-rich sperm tides me over until my next visit to the slaughter house. Yep. I woulda yucked, too, in my pre-vampire days.
In the New Orleans arena, my hunger was more vivid than usual. I didn’t know if it was because of our location, where other ‘undead’ were very close, maybe even in attendance, or if I’d worked a little harder than normal and just needed a boost. Whatever it was, I was hungry, and a little lonely.
I started out on my prowl backstage. It was never difficult to find a guy who’d sit still for a blowjob, but I was particular. If a guy was a whore, I wanted nothing to do with him. Funny, since I feel pretty whorish myself sometimes.
My match was last, so I had time. I found CM Punk taping up his wrists, and watched him in silence for a few minutes before I approached. He was preoccupied, absorbed in his own private thoughts. At that point, I really wished I had Twilight vampire Edward’s mind-reading power so I could tell what was on Punk’s mind. Unfortunately, when I wanted to know what a person was thinking, I had to ask them, and then take their word for it. If they lied, I couldn’t tell. And that was probably for the best.
I stepped out from my hiding place, a ready smile on my face. Punk smiled back. “Hey, what’s up?” I asked casually.
“Alberto del Rio,” he answered, indicating the path to the ring.
“Right now?” I hoped not.
He glanced at the clock. “About thirty minutes,” he said.
“So you have a couple of minutes?”
“Sure.” He hoisted his narrow ass up on a stack of crates that made him have to look down at me, but I had his full attention. “What’s going on?”
I moved closer, cupped his knees and pushed them slightly apart. “Want a blowjob?” I asked.
He laughed shortly, then sobered. “You serious?”
“Hell, yeah, I’m serious,” I said, trying to make myself look deadly serious.
He looked nervous. “Um, well…” His eyes shot past me at our surroundings. “Somebody could walk right…”
“We could go into one of the dressing rooms, lock the door,” I suggested.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay, yeah.” He hopped down from the crates and followed me down the hallway to an empty dressing room.
When we were inside and the door was locked, I pushed his back against the door, fell to my knees in front of him and yanked his trunks down to his thighs. Without a pause, I took his already burgeoning dick in my mouth and began sucking him. His knees went weak, but I held him up.
“Oh, shit, Randy,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck!”
I continued to suck, pumping the base of his cock with my right hand, my left hand massaging his butt cheek. My fingers dipped into his crack and ran the length of it. I found his asshole and gently prodded the tip of my index finger in.
I wanted him to come. I wanted him to explode in my mouth, give me all he had, fast.
Seconds later, he came with a guttural groan, and I deep-throated him, keeping him deep until he was done. When he collapsed a little, I took my mouth off him, carefully wiped him clean and pulled his trunks back into place. Then I stood, took him in my arms and held him for a few minutes, let him rest on me until he was strong enough to stand on his own again.
He was trembling. “Shit, Randy,” he said.
“You said that already,” I said, chuckling.
“Can I return the favor?” he offered.
I drew back and stared at him. “You want to? Really?”
“Well, yeah. Of course,” he said.
I nodded. Very interesting. Punk had a reputation for being mouthy, but he was hot. It’d be nice to have a steady guy and not have to go prowling for a while. I smiled at him, and when I did, he put both arms around my neck and kissed me right on the lips.
The kiss took me off guard, but I liked it. It gave me hope, caused a strange sensation of happiness in my chest. I kissed him back.
When he looked down my body toward my cock, I shook my head. “Later,” I said. “After the show.”
He kissed me again. “Share a room tonight?”
“Yes, definitely,” I agreed hastily.
What had I just lucked into? A good friendship, a sweet romance, a steady lover, maybe even a life-partner? The future looked good.
When he kissed me again, I gave him a long, deep kiss and held him tight until his match was called.
