Congratulations Dracula Wannabe!

Some children dream of being doctors and lawyers. Gay children sometimes dream of becoming Olympic swimmers or construction workers. But it takes a rare, very efite brand of child to pursue the path you’ve been walking for the past decade and a half: that of a professional Dracula impersonator.

Some Dracula impersonators try to be ladies men and play up Drac’s rep for seducing chicks. These Johnny-Come-Latelys don’t seem to realize that Drac only seduced chicks so he could murder them and feed upon their life energy, and they don’t last long. The Dracula impersonators who make it are the ones who recognize the relationships he had that were really important: the ones he formed with his various deformed, ubiquitous manservants who carried out his every whim without compulsion.

There was something going on there and the people who can tap into it are Dracula impersonating gold. But you’ve had trouble doing so yourself. You spent so long in the closet and so much time impersonating a monster that you never really had time to date. It also left you with few interests outside of your profession, so you’re painfully dull to be around.

But you’ve never given up hope, even though literally everyone in your life has told you to do so. Tomorrow night it’s all going to pay off.

Tomorrow night you’re going to be hanging out in your favorite Montreal bar, that one built underground filled with freaky looking fat chicks and moderately queer dudes dressed in black. It’s one of the few places you fit into easily, and everyone there is so strung out on E that they don’t give a shit how weird you are.

Normally the spread there is pretty bland, but tonight you’ll catch sight of a hunky one eyed dreamboat sitting at the bar. You’ll spend fifteen minutes nursing your vodka tonic trying to work up the courage to talk to him before you catch sight of him twirling a ring around the fourth finger of his right hand.

Your heart will drop right out of your chest and you’ll start to walk away when Big Annie, a goth who wishes she was a vampire, pushes you back in.

“Where are you going, bitch?”

“Home. To my coffin,” you’ll say, eyes downcast. Annie will look you up and down and snort.

“Fucking right you are, daywalker.”

Annie will shove you again back towards the bar, right into cute one-eyed man flesh. You’ll turn bright red the moment your cloak brushes up against him but he won’t notice. He’ll be staring at Annie, lips pursed and white as he clenches his fists.

“Do we have a problem?” he’ll ask, eyeing her up and down. She’ll snort at him too.

“You better hope we don’t,” she’ll say, reaching over him and picking up his beer for a sip.

He’ll grin a little, then hop up with surprising agility and shove two of his fingers into her eye. She’ll start screaming and flailing around, spurting blood everywhere while she calls for help. You’ll be left there standing dumbstruck, smiling a little despite yourself. You’ll stand there a whole thirty seconds before the cute guy with one eye shakes you back to the world around you.

“We have to go,” he’ll say, eying the crowd to see if anyone’s going to follow the two of you.

He’ll lead you throughout the streets of Montreal, past catcalling hookers on St. Catherine’s and tweens hanging out as late as they can in the malls. He’ll lead you up and down roads you’ve never seen before in a lifetime in this city until you reach a nondescript basement apartment a ways away from the bar. He’ll unlock the door and usher you in.

Once you’re inside he’ll pour you a drink, a vodka tonic just like the one you had at the bar. The whole interior will be lush, far too lush for a married man with mahogany furniture and lots of leatherbound books everywhere. After a few seconds of quiet drinking he’ll speak up.

“So what’s up with the cloak?”

You’ll sigh and explain it to him: your ten year plan, your love of the undead and the nightlife and your unique problem in being truly happy in what you do. He’ll listen with a thoughtful grin until you finish. Then he’ll cup his hand over yours, his smile growing so that you can see teeth.

“So you really want to be a vampire?” he’ll say, turning the last word up so it sounds vaguely like he’s Romanian. You’ll put your hand over his in response.

“Let’s talk about it a little while longer,” you’ll say, your eyes locked on his remaining baby blue.

After another few hours discussing European industrial metal and what the Da Vinci was really like you’ll be totally sold and you’ll have the life partner you’ve so desperately sought for so long.

Congratulations Dracula Wannabe!