The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

Sitting in an outdoor cafe in the Quarter with her bicycle leaning against the vine-covered brick beside her, Mona took a hot swallow of black coffee and frowned at the letter in her hand. It had been nearly ten years since she had kissed Minerva goodbye at JFK. They were never in love, only best friends and occasional, playful lovers. The night Mona fled the nightmare break-up of her live-in relationship with Victorine, Minerva had let her crash, had stayed up till dawn listening to scratchy old Kiss albums and the long and sordid tale of woe. Three days later, Minerva drove her to the airport with a single suitcase and a five hundred dollar loan. She picked New Orleans at random because it sounded exotic and romantic and she left her old life behind with visions of red-hot blues and chicory coffee and black-eyed Creole boys. She left everything, but most of all, she left Diva Demona.

Diva Demona, her long-lost alter ego. An apparition of ragged lace and torn velvet. Of leather and silver and dead-white flesh, of kabuki make-up and fang teeth and long black nails. She had wild black-briar hair streaked with lurid purple and a stage presence that was all blood and power, lust wrapped in razor-wire. Sometimes she wore latex, sleek and glossy like a futuristic wet dream, insectoid sexy and somehow more than human. Sometimes she wore silk, tattered gowns and vicious corsets, like a ghost from a lost age. Men paid to watch her pose and sing, paid to feel the bite of her lash and the humiliating sting of her cruel tongue. She was a goddess and she knew it, young and arrogant and doomed. She was a burning construct with the half-life of plutonium, too volatile to live past twenty-one. So when Mona turned twenty-two, she left Diva Demona behind. The boundaries of that version of herself had become restrictive and she found she could not maintain that level of angst and theatrical rebellion without losing herself in the role. Her life had been reduced to shtick and she needed something new, something totally unexpected, to make her feel alive again. So the idea of resurrecting that old persona was strange and even a little unpleasant, like lying down in your old crib. But even though Mona had been devoting all her time to writing over the past ten years, she hadn't lost her voice, and there was no reason why she should not go back home to see some old friends and sing some old songs. Diva Demona was dead and buried, but moderately successful writer Mona Merino was alive and well and looking for adventure. A vacation might do her good, wash the last traces of Daniel out of her system. So would a fling with a strong, beautiful woman like Minerva, simple and sweet with no strings attached. She remembered Minerva's long, lanky body and the way her bleached and dreadlocked hair fell over her kohl-smudged eyes. She remembered long nights of conversation, of cheap red wine and Mr Bubble baths, rock candy and stolen cigarettes. She wondered if her friend had changed as much as she had, if she still wore that smoky sandalwood perfume. Draining the rest of her coffee, Mona decided that she would go.

6/13/90

Victorine, my most exquisite slave,

I am at the dungeon, awaiting yet another repressed yuppie with a diaper fetish. Why must I endure these clowns with their desperate little pricks and their pedestrian masochism? Well, we all have to pay the bills and I'd rather be a mistress/mommy to my lame clients than slave/secretary to some misogynistic creep in the so called "real world".

But you, my love

Your delicious submission is the only thing that keeps me going on days like this. I miss you terribly, the pale, luscious curve of your upthrust ass beneath my lash, the trust in your bright eyes as I slide my last finger up inside you and curl my hand into a fist. I count the long hours until I can taste you again, the hot tang of your blood on my tongue.

Yours in Eternal Darkness,

Mistress Diva Demona

Victorine pressed the yellowed letter to her lips, fingers tracing the pale scars that criss-crossed her bare chest. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the bite of her mistress's straight razor, the heat of that hungry mouth on her burning breasts. If she opened her eyes, she could see her mistress replicated a thousand times all around her. The stark, black and white photos that were her living and her art crowded the walls with images of Diva Demona. Diva Demona on stage, sweat like diamonds in her glossy hair, black lips peeled back from acrylic fang teeth. Diva Demona poised in leather, all spike heels and attitude. Diva Demona naked and haughty, her dark bush gleaming between pale thighs. Victorine still worked shooting hopeful bands in ill-lit clubs, but her best work was of her mistress.