Naomi's diary

I am afraid of my true desire.

My heart's desire.

My blood's desire.

I want to be a vampire.

My parents raised me in wealth and comfort.

They gave me everything a girl could want.

Everything but eternity.

It's eerie how much I love Damien Stark.

Why do I love him? Let me Count the ways. (ha ha)

Some of the other girls -- Gretchen especially, the c*** -- insist that Damien Stark writes so beautifully about vampires, and so resembles the Hollywood version of a vampire (the shockingly black hair, ghost white skin, ancient scar, and green eyes) that he must *be* a vampire.

That b**** should just shut her mouth.

I know she wants Professor Damien Stark.

But he's mine.

And I don't do sharing.

I love the man.

I love the writer.

If he turns out to be a vampire, I'll love the bloodsucker.

(I so despise all emojicons, but here's what Gretchen would text if she happened to be reading this diary right now :))

As I was saying, my parents raised me in wealth and comfort.

I've lingered in Paris. I've been groped on a bus in Rome. I've snapped photos of the Bridge of Sighs with my cell phone. I've shopped in Hong Kong and Tokyo. I've skied Pontresino and Aspen.

I didn't know what I really loved, what I truly wanted with all my heart, until I read Vampire Blood by Damien Stark.

What a novel. So intense. So vivid to the mind and senses, so blazingly colorful.

It makes you feel like you're right there with the vampire protagonist, in 15th century Venice. You smell the wafting woodsmoke, the stink of sewage in the canals, the cold and briny wind from the Adriatic. You see the fishmongers' stalls, the gondolas decked out in silk, the great palazzos.

And the crooked little stone streets where vampires feed in the black of night.

For my money, Damien Stark is better than Anne Rice. And Interview with a Vampire is just about the best novel I've ever read. But Vampire Blood is even better.

Damien Stark made me want to write. I wrote my own vampire story.

And when I got to college the first thing I did was to enroll in his Creative Writing seminar.

My father had to pull some serious puppet strings, okay, that's a fact. He's an alumni, he's loaded, and when it comes to contributions to his alma mater he spends like a drunken sailor. So, yes, he can wring a favor or two out of the President if he wants.

He'd like me to study Law. But he doesn't mind if I dabble in Creative Writing. He knows I like stories.

"All that swashbuckling," he jokes. "All that derring-do. Castles, moors, highwaymen. Narrow escapes. Duels."

"Daddy," I say, laughing at his stupid ideas. "You know it's just the vampires I like."

No, not like. Adore.

Late in the night, I go online to chat about Vampire Blood. I'm a regular on all the bloodsucking sites. My handle is vampirelover69. I'm still trembling from the evening out with Professor Stark. My tongue still hurts, but it isn't bleeding anymore. I put some antiseptic on it. Tasted awful. Yuck!

I think I'm still a little drunk from the Cahors.

I drank that black wine when I was in Paris. I feel so sophisticated ordering it.

Damien watches me drink, smiling. He pretends to drink but he doesn't even swallow a sip. I know he pours out his glass when I'm in the restroom.

Too bad for that feathery parlor palm that half-screens us from the rest of the bar. It'll die soon of all the alcohol. No more searing furtive kisses.

At Tosca we can get away with claiming I'm 21. Damien knows the distinguished old bartender. He orders for both of us. The Cahors comes, he pours it out with a soft laugh. He likes me drunk. I'm so amusing. So alluring. I know I'm a beautiful girl. But I'm a wretched girl too. I want to be a vampire.

Online, on these bloodsucker boards I frequent, everybody and her little brother wants to be a vampire.

It's not shocking. Who wouldn't want to live an eternal life?

You could see Mars colonized. You could look back 1,000 years from now and laugh at how frantic and obtuse you were.

It's true there are always the trolls. Some get a little scary.

Like tonight I've got a message from an "oyomibloodmoon" saying: "how well do u know professor damien?"

My skin crawls at the sheer presumption. the total insolence.

Unbelievable, the way people behave in chat rooms today.

I know I've dropped some clues, but I've never invited this kind of probing into my personal life.

My face goes hot.

Suddenly I want to kill this oyomibloodmoon c***.

Instead, I tap out: "put a stake in it, c***" and hit Send.

I'll bet "oyomibloodmoon" is Gretchen, or somebody just as childish.

Gretchen likes all that hello kitty crap. She might pose as japanese, I really think so.

Who else would know I'm seeing the prof. outside class?

Then I sit back cracking up wildly. I bite my hand to stop. Don't want to wake my parents.

I'm still pretty drunk. And if anybody knew about our affair du coeur, Damien would lose his job.

That can't happen. He's told me he's writing his next book about us.

That thought makes me shiver all over. Oh I'm crazy. What is this? What am I doing?

I love him so much I'm getting deranged. I want him so bad.

Sh*t, my tongue's bleeding again. Tastes sharp like metal. Kind of a horrible and sickening taste, blood.

If I ever became a vampire, I'd have to like it. It would become my Cahors. And I'd never want to drink anything else.

"Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!"

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