Enchanted Affairs

“Count Stroker”

by Jack Bristow

 

Dear Reader:

 

The thing a lot of people don’t understand about us undead is this: We do an

awful lot of masturbating. Think about it, dear reader. We spend most of our

nights alone in our castles, waiting. Waiting for the next victim. Waiting for the

next hapless man or woman to stumble into our dwellings either because they

are lost or because those terrible, cross-brandishing peasants haven’t gotten to

them yet and ruined a good blood-feast for us. I mean, shit. I have gone

months, sometimes even years, without human contact. And that just leaves

me around the castle, listening to old Mozart and reading books on ancient

Transylvanian history. How many nights could you, dear reader, do that?

How long could you endure before you had to slink shamefully into the

bathroom and spank your undead monkey repeatedly?

 

This problem has been more than troublesome for me; it has become down-

right debilitating. No longer do I while away my hours evilly plotting my next

blood-meal, my next encounter with victims. Instead, I mope around my every-

waking hour, thinking of inventive ways to pleasure myself. And believe me,

Dear Reader, I have tried them all. The cooked watermelon. The Vaseline Bottle.

The blow-up dolls and even the canned baloney. But I have yet to find anything

to satisfy my urges. I am still in an earnest search for the most pleasurable ways

to entertain myself, and I fear that it is consuming my entire life. Alas, dear

reader, I have no HBO here. No pretty chicks from True Blood to get my freak

on to. The rocky precipice that surrounds my castle unfortunately negates any

chances for a decent Internet connection. But I do have access to American TV,

thanks wholly to my Direct TV satellite which astonishingly works. That’s when

I first noticed your TV program, dear reader. You were helping a Mr. Tigers,

a Mr. Jesse James and a Mr John Edwards treat their sexual addictions…

 

I hope I am not crossing the line, dear reader, but I was hoping for you to write

back and tell me it is okay for me to fly over to America immediately and seek

therapy on your spectacular Reality TV show. I am more than willing to go there

and learn from you so long as you are willing to make one minor concession for

me — film my group sessions on the show during the night. The sunlight, as you

may already know, dear reader, has a nasty, some doctors may even say potentially

fatal effect on my health and well-being. If I am exposed to it for long periods of

time, I might surely die.

 

Aside from my daytime hours dilemma, I feel I would be a perfect addition to your

show. I trust you understand that, on account of my addiction, I am no longer

actively pursuing the human blood and I need this to subsist. The last time I have

dined on any was exactly one month ago today. Consequently, I have noticed by

looking at myself in my old, Victorian mirror that my face is even paler than it is

usually and I am becoming abnormally skinny. I have no muscles unless, of course,

you are counting the massive bit of definition around my wrists and palms…

 

In conclusion: This filthy addiction is killing me, Dr Drew.  I feel you are the only

person on the planet smart and kind enough to cure me. The cravings I get just come

out of the blue, out of nowhere, and I am absolutely powerless against them. It’s like —

it’s like I will just look down at my hand and it will urge me to join it. “Come on, Fangs,”

it tells me. “Pretend I belong to Elvira and I will so make it worth your while.” Horrible!

Terribleness!  And then it is like the hand makes a pass for me, and I have nothing to do

with it. Sometimes the hand will try to smooth-talk me; it will treat me very nicely and

gentlemanly by saying it just wants to be friends and then after I am comfortable enough

and my guard is down it will then commence to lewdly take advantage of me.

 

Horrible, horrible!

 

I hope this letter finds you in health far better than my current condition. Alas, I have

to stop writing now because the urges have come back to me full throttle and I am

now feeling extremely weak and vulnerable.

 

Now, I must slip inside my cloak and then venture with my stagecoach into the city,

where I shall mail this missive off ASAP. Then, after I return to my castle, I believe I

will drink a cup of saltpeter and then have a cold shower.

 

 

Faithfully Yours,

Count Stroker

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