A note from our sponsors.

Tarin and Steve already read this. I forgot I'd written it. But here you are, a fun-for-the-whole-family VRN special feature.

The following passages are VRN written in the styles of Stephen King, Anne Rice and Ernest Hemingway. I thought about adding a section in the style of Twilight, but then I realized I might have to read part of a Twilight novel to pull it off.

And don't forget to tell me how you scored on the Cosmo Naughty Vampire Sex Quiz!


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1
Steve walked up to the withered door of the house on Pine Street, smoking a Winston and guiding Tarin’s slender, shivering form with a callused hand. The hand was callused because he worked with his hands, but then, everyone did back in his hometown of Braintree. Except the fagboys.
“Steve,” whispered Tarin, looking up at him with large, wet eyes, “it’s going to be okay, right?”
Steve looked down at her with calm, flinty, masculine eyes. The rain had stained her cheeks and coat and Steve felt the weight of responsibility on his broad, working-class shoulders. It was a comfortable weight. He wasn’t afraid of it; it felt right, somehow, that he protect this soft, vulnerable woman. “Yeah. It’ll be alright. You can trust me. I’m working-class.”
Doubt crept into Tarin’s upturned face. “But you speak Latin.”
Steve smiled at her feeble attempts to understand his stoic mind, toughened by hard knocks. But then, everyone was stoic in Braintree. You had to be. “Don’t worry. I learned it in a coal mine.”
Tarin smiled, the smile of a woman who knows she has found a man she can trust. “Okay. I’ll knock then.”
And she knocked the large, pretentious brass knocker on Roquefort’s door.
Steve heard footsteps. His intestines twisted and his spleen moved slightly to the left. He remembered what his father had told him, in the coal mine one day: “Son, there’s only two kinds of people who have brass knockers. Brass women and puffed-up fagboys. You don’t want to be fuckin’ with either.”
The door opened. Steve had been expecting a butler, but instead Roquefort himself answered. Opera music, Verdi, played in the background. Steve remembered something his father had said about opera: “Son, only Italians and fagboys like opera. And you don’t want to be fuckin with either. Except sometimes Italians, the young ones. The women. They’re okay.” He had said this after his wife had been run over by a train. There were some things no man could save a woman from.
“Come in, please. I can’t say I was surprised you two turned up,” Roquefort said. “I’m already entertaining a couple of guests; they’d be happy to see you both.”
Entering the parlour, Steve and Tarin saw Lucretius and Voluptua sipping drinks on effeminate couches.
“Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise!” purred Voluptua. “Weren’t we just discussing these two, Lucy?”
“Indeed we were, my dear,” said Lucretius. Steve knew two things about the assembled company: They were European, and they had all been well-educated. You couldn’t trust people like that. Also, they sucked the blood of the living.
“Fr. Stephen, perhaps you could come this way. I’d like to speak to you alone; that would be more pleasant for everyone,” Roquefort said, smiling in a particularly European way.
Steve felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His father had warned him about men who used semicolons. You couldn’t trust anybody who used semicolons. They might be interested in other kinds of colons.
“Anything you want to tell me, you can tell me plainly in the open,” Steve said. He strongly suspected that Roquefort wanted to anally rape him. It was a constant threat these days.
“Don’t be a Yankee yobo,” said Roquefort. “I’m not going to rape you, if that’s what your thinking. Come on.”
Tarin tried to assume the burden of third-person omniscient narration, but realized that her personality was tepid and badly portrayed. “Fuck,” she said, sweetly, “Someone forgot to write in a believable personality for me. I guess I’ll just go menstruate somewhere until a man comes and impregnates me.”
Her balls tightened.

2
The architecture of the drawing room was richly furnished in satin and velvet, with silk, pearls, and bunches of grapes scattered around the room, in manner of fin-de-siecle Paris. Tarin knew one thing about the assembled company: They were all European, and they were all well-educated. As such, they were much more attractive, interesting, sexy and dangerous people. Also, they sucked the blood of the living.
Voluptua moved toward Tarin erotically. Her throat was a silken white column and her breasts moved beneath her white silk gown like dolphins beneath a turquoise sea.
“Tarin, put aside your trifling scruples, your scrupling trifles of mortality. Embrace the true pleasure of immortality, the pleasure it takes centuries to learn and moments to communicate,” Voluptua whispered through red, parted, moist lips.
Tarin’s heart leapt to her throat and thoughts about the nature of mortality, feminity, masculinity, pleasure, life, death and the French arose conflictedly in her mind.
Lucretius also moved toward Tarin. His throat was like a column of alabaster in a Grecian temple. “Open yourself to a world of experiential and existential bliss and meaninglessness. Drink of my blood, Tarin, and live forever. I’m making a parallel to Roman Catholicism. A parallel exceeded in its obviousness only by its eroticness.”
“Eroticism?” corrected Tarin.
“Shhh. Don’t speak,” Roquefort murmured and pressed a pearly finger to her lips.
“Wow,” Tarin thought, “mortality, life, pleasure, pseudo-Frenchery are heavy shit, man.”

3

Roquefort in chair across from Stephen. Stephen was also sitting in a chair. They were drinking scotch in glasses and smoking.
“The rain is falling,” said Roquefort.
“Yes,” said Stephen.
They sat in silence a few moments.
“She wants to kill me,” said Roquefort.
“Yes,” said Steve.
“A man should fight death.”
Steve took a mouthful of scotch. It burned. “Sometimes.”
“Yes.”
The rain fell.
Roquefort said, “Love is not protection from death.”
Stephen said, “No.”
“I loved a woman.”
“I loved a woman once, too.”
Roquefort glanced at the candle on his desk. It was shorter than the last time he looked at it. “I thought about destroying myself. But then I realized that life is a better punishment than death.”
Steve nodded. That was hard to argue with.
“I sometimes wish,” he said, “that I could use a semi-colon.”




Cosmo's Naughty Vampire Sex Quiz!!!
How much do you know about naughty vampire sex???

1.) Which of these is not an erogenous zone?
a.) The M-Zone.
b.) The G-Spot.
c.) Dakota Fanning.

2.) When you plan on hooking up with a vampire, what do you wear?
a.) A sexy LBG!
b.) What the hell is an LBG?
c.) It’s a Little Black Dress, you moron.

3.) Uh-oh! There’s garlic all over the food at the restaurant. How do you cope with this date spoiler?
a.) Penis.
b.) Pop a Tic-Tac!
c.) The Penis-Zone.

4.) Penis?
a.) Yes please!
b.) But now there’s garlic all over it.
c.) You find it by inserting your finger and beckoning in a “come here” motion while doing Kegels and looking diagonally to your left and thinking of a beach in the south of Germany. Remember to turn the light on so you don’t get his mouth by accident. Whoops!

5.) Do you let him drink your blood on the first date?
a.) Only if I’m having my period- WINK!!!!!
b.) Wait, southern Germany borders Switzerland and Austria.
c.) helphelphelp I am trappd in trunk car tappng in morse code not sexy vampire creepr mlster send help


Results:

Mostly A’s: Wow, you are a degenerate slut! You probably have the herp. Get tested.

Mostly B’s: You are a savvy vampire sex queen. You can probably find the Penis Zone even with the lights out, and really, that’s all a girl needs.

Mostly’s C’s: What do you do, read maps for fun? You are the girl whom we shunned in high school. Try not to be so lame and consider sucking mad cock like the rest of us.