I Married a Chick Vampire

Women Love Vampire romance stories. Straight dudes kind of like them, but many just tolerate them because we don’t want to look like a jerk to our girlfriends, wannabe girlfriends or the female gender in general.

We will read some Anne Rice and dig it, but in order to Netflix and chill over a binge watch of Twilight, assume that we have ulterior motives.

Your perspective changes when you meet a Real Chick Vampire. I met her in a bar called The Black Veil. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue.

The second clue was when she ordered a Bloody Mary and complained there wasn’t enough Mary.

Vampire stories that women love start out with something like, “I met his gaze from across the room. When I looked into his eyes, I was enthralled.”

Dudes are far more susceptible to chick vampires because we are enthralled when a female looks at us with interest whether she is immortal or not.

We are at a great disadvantage here.

Women in vampire novels spend three hundred pages wrestling with whether they should trust the mysterious immortal stranger.

Men don’t have that luxury.

When the woman in the black leather corset smiled at me from across the bar and said, “Come with me. I have lived since the Crusades” I was halfway to her apartment before remembering I didn’t actually know her last name.

Romance novels make it sound mystical. “He looked into my soul.” That’s not what happened.

She looked at me the same way my Labrador looks at a rotisserie chicken. I mistook hunger for attraction.

Guys do that.

Chick Vampires also have a thing for the femoral artery. I didn’t even know where my femoral artery was until she found it. Apparently it’s located somewhere between “good decision-making” and “well, this seems like a terrible idea.”

This will also be either the last thing you experience or you are going to spend the rest of eternity chasing that monkey.

After you spend a night with a Chick Vampire, going back to living in the clean world is not only a little dull and boring, but there really seems to be no point in it.

I used to think handcuffs were kinky.

Now it's silver glitter. It burns just enough when used sparingly.

I say these things as a cautionary tale. I was one of the dudes.

Then I met a Chick Vampire.

Now I am a freaking vampire.

This was not on my five-year plan and the whole thing has kind of pissed me off. I thought I was just going to have an incredible night with a hot goth-type chick.

Now I’m stuck. Not only does the situation suck, but now I have to as well.

Now I’m immortal.

Frankly, I preferred Tuesdays.

The first thing they hand you isn’t a cape, it’s a list of dietary restrictions. She never mentioned I couldn’t eat garlic bread... and pizza. I really miss pizza.

She neglected to explain sunsets were over.

Nobody tells you you’re going to sleep in what amounts to a decorative plywood box.

Do you know how hard it is to explain to your employer that you can’t work the day shift because you’re undead?

I expected castles. Turns out we’re renting a split-level condo because immortality doesn’t automatically improve your credit score and she lost her social security card about fifty years ago. Apparently lenders get suspicious when you’ve been twenty-nine since the Napoleonic Wars.

I expected centuries of philosophical discussion.

Nope.

Most vampires spend eternity arguing on Reddit, things like, "Who would win in a fight... Blade or Dracula?"

Turns out immortality doesn’t make you mature. It just gives you more time to be wrong on the internet.

Speaking of Dracula, I thought he would be sophisticated.

Nope again.

He’s basically your uncle that forwards conspiracy emails.

TSA keeps asking why I’m traveling with antique furniture.

She keeps insisting we visit Transylvania because “it’s where my parents live.”

If I didn’t have a problem with Vampire romance novels before, I really do now:

Romance Novel:

“He showed me eternity.”

Reality:

She showed me how to file a change-of-status form with the Vampire Council.

Romance Novel:

“Our love transcended time.”

Reality:

We’re going to be arguing over where to spend Christmas for at least 147 years.

Romance Novel:

“His kiss awakened something inside me.”

Reality:

She forgot to mention eternal acid reflux from drinking Type O.

Want to know the funniest thing? I’m still crazy about her. I don’t know if I’m still under her spell or if it’s that whole femoral artery thing.

She’s awful.

She leaves dirty wine glasses full of blood in the sink.

She steals all the blankets.

She doesn’t ask where I want to eat. She’s eaten everywhere. Twice.

She keeps buying antique furniture that weighs eight hundred pounds because she “knew the craftsman.”

Every movie we watch ends with:

“The book was better.”

She should know... she was at the first reading.

She says things like, “The Renaissance was overrated.”

You can’t argue with someone who was actually in attendance.

When she’s pissed she always says, ”Things were different back in 1642.”

Every damn argument.

Last night I had to get out of the house and went down to the bar. In walked a very hot goth chick that I had seen around the usual vampire haunts.

Not wanting to piss the wife off, I had never spoken to her.

When you have to spend eternity with someone, you take particular care on which subjects you don’t ever want brought up in a future argument.

The goth girl smiled at another unsuspecting guy.

I got up, walked over to the guy and put my hand on his shoulder.

“Son.”

The guy looked at me with a questioning look.

“She’s going to ruin your life.”

The guy looked over to goth girl. Then he looked back at me.

He smiled and said, “I know.”

He walked out with her.

I watched them disappear into the night.

I shook my head.

“That’s exactly what I said.”