Change of Heart

TW: Allusion to abuse, some profanity

“Today’s…the day…I change!”

Just like that, inspiration cracks open the silence.

“Repeat after me. Today’s the day I change! Good! Again!” The second time, the guru punctuates each sentence with a clap, stomping across the stage, leaning down into the frenetic arms of the screaming audience, his auburn hair and dazzling smile gleaming in the stage’s spotlight.

“Today’s!” CLAP! “The day!” CLAP! “I change!” CLAP!

The words are said to singsong rhythm. The audience begins to pick up the beat, heads bobbing, the stamping and clapping interspersed with sobs and laughter. Emotion bursts melodramatic in the crowded theater. I could practically see the thought bubbles exploding into rainbows of inspiration sparkles and New Year’s resolutions. I watched as every word from the speaker’s mouth rained thought glitter into the layers of hairspray gluing hair piled high on the heads in the crowd.

I sing along, absently, mindlessly sharing in the hopeful delusions. The New Year’s, New You Conference used to inspire me. Not so much anymore.

Now, it honestly makes me want to puke.

“So, what do you think of this guy?” asks my coworker Bob, a forty-something married father of four while he hands me a cup of stale coffee with too much sugar and not enough cream. I watch him through the corner of my eye and gesture a “thanks” with the cup. I like Bob. He is a decent enough human. He looks good, I realize. His wife is making him healthier after learning he is pre-diabetic. Like a dutiful husband, he no longer orders burgers on nights out but chooses salads. No more donuts in the morning, just chewy green swamp sludge he calls a “green smoothie.” It is hard to deny that weight loss and the addition of gym-enhanced muscle is making a difference. His uniform no longer looks like a stereotypical “rent-a-cop” and is instead more “professional rent -a-cop.” Me and Bob had worked together for three years in personal security for the guru.

It feels like it’s been forever, but three years is just a blip in the chromosphere of my existence.

It's been a thousand bloody years.

And I am no closer to my goal.

Each year it’s the same thing. Vow to change. Promise myself to find the spark again. Create a new me. A better me. A more…me…me.

Always, it’s the same thing.

Nothing. Just the endless, empty, existential angst of eternity.

I turn back to the conversation with a sigh.

“I think self-help gurus do for women what porn does for men. Gets them excited and sets unrealistic expectations.”

Bob spits his light and sweet all over the front of his uniform and shakes his head.

“Tell me how you really feel,” he mutters.

Together, we scan the crowd and listen to the rest of the keynote’s speech. We search the crowd for any evidence of fanatics passing as fans and any zealots passing as fanatics. I shake my head and yawn in boredom. No matter how many years of this, it is always the same. Human gurus and soothsayers collecting nesting dolls of crazy. This guru seems to attract more than most.

Must be on account of those dimples, I think. Or maybe it’s the perfectly coiffed auburn hair, chiseled jaw, and blue eyes. That was supposed to be attractive, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what human women want? Or was it less about the package and more about the message?

Whatever.

“Hey,” Bob says. “After the show, some of the boys and I are going over to Moon’s for a bite and a beer to ring in the New Year. You in?”

“I’ll join you for the beer, but pass on the bite,” I say, smiling to soften the semi-rejection.

Bob shakes his balding head, his joe-average brown eyes are warm with concern masquerading as acceptance.

“Geeze, girl, aren’t you ever hungry? What are you, vegan?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those breatharian nutters.”

I snort despite myself. “I assure you I live on more than air.”

“Then what do you eat because I’ve never seen you so much as snag a cookie from the hotel tea tray.”

I smile and give him a saucy wink over the edge of the paper cup.

“The souls of wayward men.”

Bob rolls his eyes and the rest of the night tarries on. The guru’s program is standard. Change. Become your higher self. Buy lots of shit. Find bliss. Buy more shit. Then sell it to all your friends and their friends until they decide they aren’t your friends anymore. Or until they decide to go sell the same shit.

After work, I decide to join the “boys” at the local bar where the mahogany is polished nightly, and the crackle of ice smothered in good vodka serenades the lonely. The security boys are a ragtag group consisting of do-gooder Bob, former military and bored-as-fuck Joe, and young sandy-haired Kacey who’s useless as tits on a boar and still lives at home in his mother’s basement. We take the usual table in the corner. The boys share a pitcher of lager, and I drink whiskey on the rocks. A jazz singer performs while cloaked in midnight silk. She alternates with a regular stream of amateur karaoke singers, including Joe. Most nights, it’s hard to tell who is better. Tonight, she leads everyone in a sappy version of “Auld Lane Syne” while the patrons discuss their resolutions and flip the bird at the previous year.

All in all, a totally average holiday working for the guru on security detail.

There is only one problem.

Bob is wrong.

I do eat.

And I am hungry.

I am always hungry.

And, I know, with the learned wisdom of a hundred thousand condemned souls vibrating in my borrowed flesh, there is only one thing to satiate that hunger.

The guru.

*

Three weeks later I am standing in front of a closet in a room between dimensions. It’s not fancy, just a bed, a couple of tables, a sacrificial altar, and some odds and ends for soul consumption. Like any good succubus, the feasting happens after the sexing, but I always find it handier to have your workroom all in order. Sure, some succubae would argue that eating where you worked was tacky, but as far as I could tell from human life, having a breakroom at work where you eat your lunch is standard in the job description. Mine just comes with silk sheets and lingerie.

I stare into the closet for inspiration.

Lucky for me, I’m in-between jobs for the guru.

Again.

I gaze at the skins on the hangers in my closet. More than a walk-in, the closet spreads out over the size of a ballroom. Over the millennia, I’ve collected a lot of skins. I have skins of every size and color, skins of every texture and vice. I have skins older than most countries and some so young they still smell fresh from the factory. I never tire of the smell of fresh flesh. In a skin, I could be a grandmother or a nanny or an MLM queen (#bossbitch) and it doesn’t matter. Skins are lures for the guppies of humankind, fish traps that keep me fed.

The problem is being tired of guppies.

I’ve been chasing the guru for six years now. First, as a groupie that followed him on a twenty-six-city tour across the country. That got me arrested for stalking because apparently humans should have “boundaries” or something. On the other hand, it also got me a light snack of two cops and a schmuck of an attorney who gave me heartburn for a week. Of course, the cops inspired the next skin. The security detail was fun. I still miss Bob, but the closest I ever got to the divine guru was a side-eye of disdain and coffee down my shirt. Too low for the guru, he stayed out of my reach.

This is my third try and I desperately, desperately want to get it right.

It’s been at least a thousand years since I felt any joy in consumption. Generations of lackluster men barely squelch my appetite these days. I’m twitchy and tired and my flesh is, well, borrowed and saggy at the moment. The skin of the security guard no longer fits, peeling away from the blackened flesh of my demon bones. I don’t even bother looking in the mirror. I know my scarlet eyes are dulled to copper and my lips are dry and thinned over receding gums and rotting teeth. I groan. There’s nothing so tragic as a succubus past her prime. I refuse to believe that’s me. No, there was a time when I took down whole dynasties with a wink and strategically placed hand under the buffet table. Ptolemy. Nero. I sigh. Those were the days. Now, all I have been able to find is desperate loners on free dating apps or high school teachers who really shouldn’t be teaching. Worse, it is all so boring after all this time. It’s enough to make even the proudest succubus stomp her foot and pout.

That’s what makes the guru so essential. I need a change. I need to enjoy my work again. I need to feel alive! Well, alive-ish.

I sigh. Pull out a skin. Put it back. I slide a few more over on the rack, listening to the flapping of the flesh as they bobbed heavily against each other. I pull another out. Pause.

“Oh ho,” I mutter. “I forgot about you.”

I turn to the mirror I swore off just a few seconds ago and put the new skin against my tattered one, ignoring the way the quickly rotting flesh dangles precariously off the bones and sinew of my natural form. I sniff the skin and love the smell of tropical coconut and lily wafting from the smooth desiccated shell. It’s a beautiful bronze skin, dressed in a killer red stunner of a dress that could be naughty or nice, depending on the lipstick. And gods, the shoes! I practically melt. How did I forget this skin? Running my claw gently over the human suit, I find what I haven’t found in at least a thousand years- a genuine smile.

“Oh yes,” I say and head over to the fire pit to complete the merging. “This will do nicely.”

*

The first time I am introduced to the guru, I suddenly understand what human women find so entrancing about him. Azure eyes and a boyish grin and smelling like Gucci covered sin. I introduce myself as his new assistant, Amanda or Carly or something. He gives me the eye and I smile. He touches my hand, and I pretend that I’m not instantly grossed out by its softness. He barely gives me a handshake. His palm is sweaty and limp, but I tell myself that a man like him probably doesn’t have a lot of time to hit the gym or earn hardened callouses on his palms.

“Welcome, Carly,” he says. Ah, so it was Carly. That fits. “This is Amanda, my manager.” I internally snort at the irony.

“Yes, welcome,” Amanda says, and I can tell she’s about as excited as a dentist with a meth addict. “Let me show you around.”

“Amanda will take good care of you,” the guru says. He touches my shoulders as he walks away, and I am amazed that I feel…something…at his touch. I smile and see his pupils dilate.

There’s a good sign. I make sure to wiggle and sway the hips as I walk away.

I follow Amanda around where she explains the process of assisting the guru. Mainly, I am to make sure he has an endless supply of tea with two sugars and oat milk and facilitate any meetings he may have during the day. I inwardly try not to groan.

Boooorrriiinnnngg.

But, I tell myself, at least now, I can get close to the guru. I can seduce him, learn his secrets, and become my better self. That’s what he sells. That’s what he says.

After a thousand years of disappointment, I have no choice but to believe him.

* * *

Close, but no tiger, as they say. Or is it cigar? Whatever. Human idioms. Two months into this skin and I am fed up with making tea and bringing trays of biscotti up to the guru. I’m no closer to him than I was as a security guard. Meanwhile, Amanda is practically up his ass. She’s the only one that seems to work among the team, managing all the phone calls, negotiating all the fees. The guru hides out in his room, ostensibly working on “the book,” the one that will become an instant bestseller and an Oprah interview within its first year of publication. Amanda’s job was to make sure he had the “peace of mind” to get it done.

Isn’t that the way of it? Ignore the man behind the green curtain; it’s really a woman running the machine.

We’re in Texas getting ready for the biggest conference of the year, the “New Year, New You” Conference. I have yet another cup of tea in my hand, this one laced with whiskey, per request, and am on my way up to the guru’s office. Amanda is leaving just as I step out of the elevator, and she breezes past me. I don’t even think she sees me. I’m wearing a skintight skirt barely street legal and a blazer that’s more of a suggestion than business attire, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I’m both flattered and annoyed. I haven’t looked this hot in a thousand years and this middle aged mousey-haired broad just saunters passed me?

Annoyance adds determination to my step.

I walk into the hotel room doubling as an office without knocking and stop short at the sight in the room.

Holy. Shit.

The teenage girl, all lanky limbs, dark hair, and big blue eyes gasps loudly and quickly reassembles the clothes the guru thoughtfully removed for her. The cup of tea grows hot in my hands, but no one seems to notice the unnatural steam. The girl flees passed me, the door closing loudly. The guru looks at me. His face darkens with anger.

To paraphrase the great Clark Gable, frankly, I don’t give a shit.

Damnation! I think to myself and grit my teeth, fangs elongating despite my efforts to remain human-ish.

In a thousand years, it was always the same. I am disappointed, angry, betrayed, and, honestly, embarrassed. He was supposed to be different! Instead, he’s like all the rest. I’ve met thousands like him. It was always the same trite story. These big brave men, these heroes and gurus, they were all liars, thieves, pedophiles, and charlatans.

I shake my head. Otherwise, I laugh ruefully to myself, I guess they’d never consider one like me. That’s the succubus curse, isn’t it? Seduce. Consume. It’s always the human vermin who reveal themselves in the end.

And then, like proverbial lightning, it hits me.

Maybe it’s not about my taste in men at all. Maybe I’m doing a service to humankind. Cleaning up the muck. A kind of invisible, hypersexualized janitor or something.

And then I think of the teenage girl who just ran out of the room after being seduced by this slick son-of-bitch standing half-naked in a hotel room yelling at me for ruining his pre-game.

I turn my attention to the guru. Rage, white hot, whips through my bones. I feel my skin start to glow. My eyes start to burn, and that familiar hellfire rises inside my gut. I feel my body and sex coil in anticipation. The guru’s eyes widen as he stares at me. The horror on his face is priceless. I glide towards him, letting all my preternatural glory show in my slip slide across the floor.

He’s the last disappointment I am willing to accept.

I walk towards him, intent on consuming his soul with or without the damned sex when suddenly, I stop. The guru freezes, his breath sawing in and out of his surprisingly chiseled chest and perfectly formed lips. I know he’s thinking I might change my mind about killing him, but he’s not that lucky and let’s be real, he really needs to die.

But there, like a blessed gift on New Year’s Eve, I suddenly see the change I’ve been waiting for all these years.

It’s not the food, I realize. It’s the skin.

I turn to the guru. And smile.

* * *

One hour later the countdown begins to the new start everyone is waiting for. I can hear the crowd growing restless as my New Year’s Eve retreat is officially kicked off with a thousand nubile attendees just waiting for me to arrive. The smell of hairspray, too much perfume, and body odor mingle up from the crowd and my stomach growls.

I fix my tie in the mirror. I run my hands over the immaculately tailored suit, the light of the chandelier causing a ruby ring to twinkle on my pinky finger. Over in the corner, there’s a pile of ash where an old skin once stood. I stare at the face of the guru looking back at me in the mirror.

But really, I ask no one, what else was a poor…incubus...to do?

I blow a kiss to the reflection and singsong back to myself in my new baritone.

“Today’s. The day. I change.”