I was minding my own beeswax reading a magazine on the subway recently when I noticed all these teenage girls staring at me. They whispered to each other, giggled and pointed. Finally, I caught my reflection in a window and figured out the cause of the hullabaloo.
Robert Pattinson, the vampire dude from Twilight, was on the cover of my Vanity Fair.
What’s the big whoop? Sure, Pattinson is lovely in a James Dean knockoff way. But because of him, legions of adult women and their daughters are fantasizing about waifish boys flying down from the skies to fang them in the craw. Boggles the mind.
Maybe the vampire thing doesn’t do it for me because I have trouble getting turned on by scenarios that could never happen. Or maybe because I actually dated a vampire.
Ivan was a darkly handsome Eastern European I met in Spain. As a doorman at Madrid’s skankiest dive bar, he was first in a long line of dumb romantic choices I made whilst under the Iberian moon. I had no solid proof Ivan was a vampire, though there were tell-tale signs. His hometown was right next to Transylvania. He slept all day in a room with the curtains drawn and only lived his life at night. He liked meat cooked so rare it could’ve sung show tunes before he ate it. He pronounced “I want” like “I vant,” as in “I vant to suck your blood.” Eerie, eh?
But the strongest evidence of Ivan’s vampireness was how possessive he was, how his affections invaded my soul, how determined he became to drain the life out of me and make me his forever. He needed to see me all the time, needed to pick at every seam of my psyche, needed to share all his demons with me.