ARE YOU SAD AND LONELY? IT'S PROBABLY BECAUSE YOU'RE UGLY!

IS THIS YOU? If so, YOU'RE A MESS!

Because it's National Boyfriend Day, I would like to share something with you. Shut up and you might learn something.

People often ask me "Hey Dave, how does someone as mildly astounding as you manage to remain successfully single?"
"Firstly, that's not my name," I say, "and secondly, by choice. Otherwise I'd be overrun."
"I thought as much," people reply. "But what about if you do turn 'it' off and make yourself unavoidable? How can *I* get a boyfriend?"
"It's very easy," I say. "Simply follow my advice and you'll have a boyfriend in no time!"
"No time isn't a quantifiable amount," people reply.
"Shut up and listen," I say. I then tell them the following FACTS:

Message a boy every day. At least once, but lots more if you get the chance. This shows you're keen. Social media is great because it allows you to send elaborate and painfully desperate messages for free, rather than waste your free text allowance on sending truncated missives like 'Ur fit lol', thereby allowing you to send a potentially infinite amount. You may have heard the adage 'treat them mean, keep them keen'. That's rubbish. Treat a boy mean and they'll think you're just being rude. He will then seek solace with someone who isn't rude. To be clear: someone who isn't you.

Show you're dead keen on equal rights, like all women, by not allowing the boy to pay for anything if you go out. And/or always get him the first round. Also, open doors for him. He'll see this role reversal as a ballsy move on your part to establish yourself as the dominant one in the relationship, and we all know that every boy on the planet has mother issues.

Comment on his fashion sense at every available opportunity, and convince him to wear skinny jeans, preferably red or green, so he looks like a Christmas elf squeezed into twin denim icing tubes. This will accentuate his legs and groin, because it will be impossible not to notice these things. Again, it's tantamount to marking your territory, but in a painfully obvious way. Which leads onto the next piece of advice...

Be obvious. All the time. Boys don't like flirting or suggestion. They want to be told "This is how it is." No, it doesn't kill any sense of romance or mystery! It has exactly the opposite effect, and makes a boy wonder what the hell happened to you in the past that made you so domineering. And boys find domineering women sexy, even if they claim otherwise. They love being told what to do.

This advice is literally the tip of the iceberg. If you want your relationship to be the Titanic, sign up for my FREE newsletter ('How To Get Sex For Cheap') or send £39.99 to the usual address for a copy of my instructional VHS tape ('Don't Take No For An Answer'). Follow my lead and you, too, will soon have your very own boyfriend! Guaranteed!*



*not guaranteed.

SEVERAL COATS OF PAINT: SEX AND VIOLENCE

Which of these is the colour of shame?

PART THREE (part one is HERE part two is HERE but if you can't be bothered to go there, here's a quick recap: Natasha Window is an art student. She's fallen in love inexplicably fast with the painter/decorator Chase Brick. He told her a terrible secret. Then we we were treated to a brief story about a sex-mad man called Johnny. Now we're back with Natasha and Chase, in bed...)

"Gasp!" Natasha gasped. Chase's secret was so earth-shatteringly mind-blowing and even boggling that it had caused her to have a flashback to a past life. "I just had a flashback to a past life!"

"I'm sorry I kept such a disturbing truth from you for so long," Chase said, guilt written on his face in metaphorical permanent marker. "Even though we've not been together for very long, really, it felt too long to hide something that shouldn't have been hid for so long."

"I'm glad you shared it," Natasha said. "Even if I now feel the bad kind of dirty. In my brain."

"I can't believe you temporarily regressed to a past life," Chase mused. "I can't say I have had any past life experiences, yet I sometimes feel like I'm living someone else's life."

"I think that's because so many people, especially when they're like us, share such intense experiences," Natasha said in a rare moment of mature self-awareness.

"What do you mean?" Chase asked, because he wasn't quite as intelligent as Natasha.

"We're apparently in love. We're in the giddy state of sharing secrets 'because we don't want there to be secrets between us' even though there will come a time when there are secrets between us. They'll start small, like fibbing about working an extra shift or feeling ill because you don't want to do something, then gradually build into complex and potentially damaging questions of trust and respect."

"Woah," Chase said, holding his hands out like he wanted her to calm down. "That's all a bit heavy. Can't we just enjoy the somewhat ridiculous buzz all young lovers experience when they first get to know each other before their foibles first amuse, then grate, then annoy each other?"

"And chat about our future together?"

"And our kids' names," Chase said with a nod.

"I'd like that," Natasha said, cuddling up to his buff body. He radiated heat like a radiator turned only partially on. "I'm sorry to get so serious, but my friend said a few things to me recently and they really made me think."

"I don't blame you for listening to your friends," Chase said, stroking her hair. "I know you'd put them before me."

"I say that," Natasha agreed, "but I think we both know I'd actually put you before them because you're new and exciting, and I'm currently convinced we're never going to split up despite my slightly negative vibes a few paragraphs ago, no matter what anyone says, or what drugs or liquids you put in your body."

"Plus you can't have sex with your friends," Chase added. "At least I hope you don't."

"Not now I'm with you," Natasha said, kissing him. "I love you. At least, as much as a desperate and horny young woman with low self-esteem can."

"Good enough for me," he said.

They made mad, passionate love. The kind of love that writers describe with words like 'heaving' and 'thrusting' and 'moist'. Afterwards, all their serious and sobering talk about their relationship not being impervious to criticism or time or logic was reduced to sweat on the bedsheets.

"This moment is what matters to me," Natasha decided.

Chase started to say something in return but was cut off by a heavy thud on the bedroom door.

"WHAT?!" Natasha yelled. Then to Chase: "I bet it's my friends complaining about our obnoxious sex noises. Again."

THUD! THUD! THUD!

"Bloody hell, mate," Chase shouted. "We've stopped!"

THUD! THUD! CRASH!

The door burst open and in the ragged doorway stood a hulking figure dressed in rags with a face shrouded in darkness despite the daylight filtering through the room.

"No, it can't be..." Chase gasped, pulling away from Natasha.

The figure raised a gloved hand and pointed at Natasha. "YOU, it said in a voice like gravel.

"Who the shitting bollocks are you?!" she shrieked.

"I AM THE ENEMY OF LOVE," it intoned.

"Fuck off, emo!" she retorted.

Instead, it took a lumbering step forward.

"I was worried this would happen..." Chase sobbed, pulling his trousers on. "We created the perfect conditions and summoned him! Oh god!"

WHAT NEXT?! FIND OUT...AT SOME POINT IN THE FUTURE!

SEVERAL COATS OF PAINT: THE SECOND COAT

PART 2: JONNY THE FOX [part one is here]
Written by Dave Thorpe

Jonny was in the park. It was a nice park, full of swings and goalposts, as parks tended to be back in those days. The goalposts reminded Jonny of his Dad from all those years ago. Jonny liked football, because he loved scoring goals. And the sorts of goals he loved involved penetrating women. Oh yes, Jonny liked to score. And when he couldn’t score with an actual woman, he spent many nights on his own, scoring own goals.

That summer passed quickly; it was all a blur to Jonathan Sebastian Door. He was a young man about town, with a point to prove and a wit as sharp as a blunt object. His father had taught him many things before he had left. Unfortunately, none of it had made sense to Jonny and he tended to flit from one meaningless sexual encounter to the next, living off the hopes, dreams and general income of others. But this was all about to change.

Jonny didn’t have many friends. He had always struggled to make a connection with people socially. That is if it wasn’t in a grubby club toilet or bent over a park bench. He saw himself as a sexual conquistador, and his passport was what he had dangling slightly to the left, between his firm manly thighs. Jonny knew that this was a potent weapon - the feeling he could arouse in a woman, the noise, the sweat, the pleasure. Sometimes it felt like a whirlwind to Jonny, seducing young girls, taking them, making them his, yet he was never really satisfied. They were all just a passing fancy. Jonny strived to further his depravity a little each time, but he would settle for vanilla if chocolate wasn’t on offer.

Jonny wasn’t the most eloquent of people, but in his own internal monologue he always had time for the odd innuendo. Another skill he might have learnt from his father, had he ever been at home. Jonny spent much of his childhood in the care of a nanny. This had probably shaped his view of the world more than he had realised. It also led to him roughly losing his virginity to a particularly young and perky Swedish nanny called Annika at the age of 14. She did things that previously he could only imagine and put things in places that he could never have imagined. This set him on course for a carefree sex-filled lifestyle of gay abandon (well of abandon anyway - he had not yet dabbled in the murky arena of man love).

Jonny knew that one day he would have to change his ways; he just needed something. He didn’t know what yet, but he was soon to find out. Until today Jonny didn’t know what it was. But today that was all about to change. It would be happening, today.

“Hey you, stop!” shouted Jonny as his eyes settled on the big burly man, speeding away from him. Jonny took flight in pursuit, knowing that he had to win this one. The man faltered and slipped, giving Jonny time to catch up, this was it, his moment. He dived forward, clutching at the air and landed in a crumpled heap.
“Oooh fuck aaaargghhh” screamed Jonny as his legs splayed apart and shattered, bone ripping through tendon, tearing through flesh...and the man was gone.

It was dark when Jonny awoke. He tried desperately to move but his body wouldn’t respond as it usually did. His eyes flickered open and he could just make out the bright fluorescent lights, the curtains, the starched white bed linen: yes, he was in his Mum’s spare room.

The pain he felt was dull, just like Jonny. He attempted to speak.
“Mrrph” he managed quietly, his mouth salty and dry. Is this it? thought Jonny. Have I been reduced to a dribbling vegetable? The answer was yet to be determined, but was probably yes. Or maybe it was actually no.

Jonny felt warmth between his legs and as he looked down he could see a head bobbing furiously. He now felt the sensation. Yes, it still worked, his cock standing proud and erect, filling this stranger’s mouth. What the hell was going on? thought Jonny. He could feel the soft, small hand working his man meat up and down, the warmth of the mouth and lips sliding gracefully along the shaft, harder, faster, and deeper. Then “ooh, aaahh, Mrrppph” and he was spent. Like all the other times, yet even less satisfying. The stranger rose, wiping their mouth clean. Jonny was disoriented but began to realise this wasn’t his mother’s spare room at all. Maybe he’d imagined it, maybe he was hallucinating or maybe it wasn’t real. Jonny just knew something wasn’t right. “Who, who, who are you?” he stammered, managing to elicit meaningful words from somewhere deep inside.

The figure took a step back, visibly aghast. Not expecting the young captive to wake just yet. This could pose a problem; the first stage hadn’t even been successfully completed. The figure scurried out of the room, to be replaced with another, larger, looming over him, breathing heavily: a man. Jonny could make out vague features, but couldn’t really focus.
“Hello Jonathan,” said the man. “I expect you’re wondering what all this is about?” Jonny tried to respond, all he managed was “please?” The figure laughed. “It’s okay, I’m here to help you”. Jonny struggled but could just about make out what it said on the man’s name badge: Mr B……..R…………I and then there was darkness and nothing.

TO BE CONTINUED! AGAIN!

If YOU would like to add to the terrible, terrible saga of Several Coats of Paint, get in touch!

SEVERAL COATS OF PAINT: A LOVE STORY

Cue a weak joke about confusing Dulux with Durex.

He was Chase Brick, a 32 year old painter/decorator, and she was Natasha Window, a 23 year old art student. Even though he was introduced first, it is she who forms the focus of this erotic and highly sensual tale. Theirs is a story of love, lust, sex, greed, paint, substance abuse and jumping on the literary bandwagon...and it starts like this:

"Oooo!" Natasha cried in delight. Her room in the halls of residence was actually quite nice, unlike the others in her block which were tired and in desperate need of a new coat of paint. Sometimes Natasha felt like she needed a new coat of paint, which is a clumsy metaphor that won't be adequately explained or justified for several sentences yet. At 23 years of age, Natasha qualified as a mature student, though this only related to her in terms of the UK education system, because as a person she still had a lot to learn about life. Life AND love. Natasha wasn't a virgin, but she often pretended to be in order to get men to take advantage of her, as she harboured deeply explicit rape fantasies that occasionally bubbled over into violent tirades against feminism and the price of toiletries.

Natasha had two great passions in life: sex and art. The first one has just been hinted at, but now the second one in that list of two things gets mentioned in more detail in order to build up a degree of backstory and possible motivation as to why she might feel attracted to the aforementioned Chase Brick, although this is probably obvious. Yes, Natasha loved art. Particularly - wait for it - painting. She studied all the great painters, and hoped one day to gain employment as a restorer at the Tate so that she could legitimately touch  the great works of art with her delicate and sensual fingers. Art art art.

Anyway, the first few months at university passed by in a giddy blur of excitement as Natasha made new friends, got drunk, slept with those friends, made more new friends, discovered it's difficult to get pissed all the time on just a student loan when she still had textbooks and materials to buy, and sunk into a minor malaise as she realised in an unrealistically short space of time that there HAD to be more to life than sex and art.

Enter Chase Brick. He was handsome in a council estate kind of way and as such immediately caught Natasha's eye. Or maybe he caught hers. In any case, when they first saw each other there was a clear and inexplicable exchange of sexual tension that made the other people nearby feel deeply uncomfortable. Chase was repainting the common room on Natasha's floor, as he had landed a contract to repaint every halls of residence in the city Natasha was in, which hasn't been mentioned yet for no reason at all. Due to this substantial contract, Chase was looking at an equally substantial amount of money. Natasha had heard this story, so felt attracted to both Chase's face and his wallet, which bulged in his trouser pocket like a lumpy penis.

"Mind the wall, love," Chase warned her as she entered the room. "It's wet."
"So am I," she replied, with an unnecessary wink.
"Steady on," he said.
"I'm tired of going steady," she replied. "I want to go full throttle."
"I'm only a painter-slash-decorator, love," Chase said, "I'm not smart enough to get what you're hinting at."
"I've noticed you around," she said.
"I'm painting-slash-decorating all the halls of residence in this city," he said.
"I know. I find you very attractive."
"Are you quoting a pop song at me? This all feels very familiar."
"Will you go to bed with me?"
Chase spluttered and spilled some paint. "You're a bit forward," he said. "Luckily for you I find that erotic and not terrifying like some men might."

And that was that. Where Chase Brick was a Jacko from Brush Strokes in the common room, he was a Picasso from real life in the bedroom. Which is to say he had some weird concepts of what sex should be like. He went through Natasha Window like a fist through a hedge, or perhaps a football through a greenhouse. Or even a stone of some sort through something made of glass. He put his penis in her vagina, and other parts of her body, but mostly her vagina because it felt the best in there.

"You're so formidable," Natasha moaned. "My foof is a canvas. Paint it with your cock!"

Chase could last for hours, which was impressive and exciting the first few times, but soon became boring and exhausting. "Sometimes all I want is a good quick dicking," Natasha said, "not to compete in the Sex Olypmics."
"I can't help it," Chase said. "I drink heavily and it makes me last longer, for some reason."
"Wait. You're an alcoholic?" Natasha pulled away from him, unsure what she should make of this new and terrible news.
"At first," Chase replied with shame on his face. "But I only liked the strong stuff. I kept drinking things with a higher and higher percentage value, until I ended up on meths, which is easy to get hold of since I use it clean my paintbrushes."
"So that's why your teeth are remarkably clean, yet your breath smells weird..."
"It is." Chase held her tentatively at arms length. "Can you love a man with such a personality quirk as needing to drinking meths? And occasionally turps."
"I'm not happy about it," Natasha said, "but I'm desperate for the kind of love you show me so I'll put up with it."
"That's the spirit!" Chase said, and they both laughed at his pun.

She filled her halls of residence with loud "Uhs" "Ahs" "Euuooaahhs" and other sounds created by sharp intakes of breath. She filled 95% of every conversation with talk about Chase. She filled the hours she wasn't with him with rude and sexy thoughts about what she'd like to try with him. Soon, it got too much for her new friends.
"Don't get me wrong," said her best friend Valerie. "I'm happy you've found 'true love' with Chase. He seems like a nice guy, even though he's always a bit scruffy and doesn't look like he had a proper college education..."
"But he's well off, in the trouser department." Natasha replied dreamily. "I'm referring the size of his willy and the size of his wallet. Both of which he keeps in his trousers."
"He doesn't keep one of those things in nearly enough from the sounds of it," Valerie commented. "It's getting a bit mental now. I know we're all mad and crazy students who like to party and take drugs, but we also like to sleep a hell of a lot, and that's impossible when you're refusing to bite your pillow."
"I can't help it if I'm enjoying myself. I like to be loud and show my appreciation. Sex is an art form, Valerie, and as you know I have a great appreciation of art."
"It's not just that. It's the constant talk about Chase. I know your work is suffering because of it."
"I get what this is," Natasha said. "It's the conflict that forms the dramatic tension in this particular story."
"What are you talking about?" Valerie spluttered. "This is me being a good friend and telling you to calm down. You and Chase...maybe it'll last past your time at this university, but it might also burn out quickly. The light that burns twice as bright lasts half as long, remember."
"It's sweet that you care, given that we haven't known each other that long," Natasha said, "but I firmly believe that Chase and I have a future together as bright as Dulux's range of summer colours. The only thing I can see stopping it is if he drinks himself to death, has a freak accident involving paint, or his dick drops off."
"So you only love him for his penis?"
"And his charm, wit and money."
Valerie pulled a face that might have been exasperation. "I have to get to class. I strongly urge you to take it easy with Chase. There's still so much you don't know about him."

This conversation stayed with Natasha for a while. What Valerie had said was true, she had to admit it. Chase was always on her mind, if he wasn't always on top of her in bed. Or behind her. Or positioned at an awkward angle. Finally, as they lay together one night in her bed, she asked, "Why can't I stay the night at yours? And you never talk about yourself. Do you have any brothers and sisters? What dreams and aspirations do you have? Do you only like me because I'm hungry for sex and you're happy to act as an all-you-can-eat buffet?"
"Those are some heavy, important and adult questions," Chase replied sagely. "And it pains me to say this, because I really want to ram my engorged meat stick up your fairly tight chuff and what I am about to say might put you off the thought of those two things coming together."
"You've lost me," Natasha said, her eyes roaming his naked body like a backpacker lost on the moors. "I really, really fancy you. The meths thing is a worry, but whatever else you have to tell me, I know we can get over it, the same way I got over my fear of anal."
"Okay..." Chase took a deep breath and stared at Natasha's wonderful tits. "I have a shameful secret. And it is this:"

TO BE CONTINUED!

DAWN OF THE SEXY VAMPIRE [OR IN EUROPE: SEX BLOOD MAGICIANS 2]

The first utterly thrilling instalment is HERE!

PART 2! That is to say, the next bit!

Tarquin Farquar could smell blood on the wind - he was a vampire hunter, and his nose was finely attuned to the smell of vampire trumps, because vampire trumps tended to smell like blood, because they drank a lot of blood, because they were vampires!

"Six years now have I been hunting these diabolical creatures," he mused to himself in a stern and badly-accented voice. Also, his sentence construction was a little weird. "Their rear exhalations make my nose burn, and my anger stir!" he declared in the exact same voice as he'd just used for that previous sentence. "When will it end, God? When will your holy crusade finally come to an end?"

"Not yet," God said. His voice always reminded Tarquin of Barry Manilow. "I made a terrible mistake putting over-sexed demons on the Earth, and I made an even terribler mistake putting those demons in sexy young bodies."

"But in your defence," Tarquin quickly interrupted, "you had no idea that, millions of years after you invented humans, some of them would get all funny in the pants about doing rude things with those sexy demons."

"That's true," God said. Although Tarquin couldn't see Him, he could easily imagine God stroking His beard thoughtfully. "Anyway," God continued, "I thought vampires might be a good way to keep ape men under control, by, you know, eating them. I should have just made more dinosaurs."

"Ape men and dinosaurs didn't exist at the same time, my Lord."

"Oh yes, that's right, they didn't."

"In fact, neither of them existed anyway, because you made Adam and Eve, and skipped right past all that other nonsense about an Ice Age and mammoths and all that."

"Very true. Sometimes I read books about them, and I think "they sound pretty cool; why didn't *I* think of that?'"

"What would your favourite dinosaur be?" Tarquin asked.

"Well, 't-rex' is the obvious answer, but in all honesty, I probably would have to say MechaGodzilla. All dinosaurs should be able to fire rockets."

"I wish I could fire rockets," Tarquin grumbled. "Anti-vampire rockets. From my fists."

"Patience, my friend," God intoned. "Your test comes from dealing with vampires with the gifts I gave you. That is, a finely-tuned nose and a deep, seething hatred towards ethnic minorities. Like most Christians."

Tarquin and God shared a chuckle at this obvious joke, although deep down they both knew they were laughing to cover the pain of miserable childhoods.

"I enjoy our talks, my Lord," Tarquin said, "but verily I must away, to do battle with the one they call 'Chris'."

"Oh yes, you've been hunting him for some time now, haven't you?"

"Ever since he exploded my niece, Sheila, I have been hunting him for some time now. Ever since he exploded her, in fact. That's how long I've been hunting him."

A beam of pure light shone over Tarquin, and God's dulcet tones said: "Good luck, Tarquin! I'm wishing you luck, and not in any kind of foreboding, ominous way, but because I genuinely like you and wish you luck in defeating the vampire called Chris, and maybe other vampires too, who knows? Not me! I don't know anything! Not really, anyway. I'm so out of touch with the world nowadays. I don't even know what an 'app' is, or why traffic wardens don't carry guns. Life is full of mysteries, and I, perhaps, am the greatest one. I sometimes wonder 'Who created me?' and then I start thinking back to my childhood, which wasn't very happy. And then I think, 'how could I have had a childhood if I don't have parents?' but maybe I was my own parents? So I must have had sex with myself, and that's a very disturbing thought. Oh golly, listen to me, this all a bit heavy for a pre-hunt pep talk. I'm sorry Tarquin. Tarquin?"

But Tarquin Farquar had already left on his perilous adventure. By the way, it was nighttime.

The moon was bright and plump, like a smart, fat girl at a school dance who's hopeful the star of the school football team will finally notice her. It's hard not to notice a fat girl, though, especially when she's squeezed into a corset and made to look like a fat girl's idea of a vixen. But much like the fat girl, the moon wouldn't stick around for long because it had a date with the horizon, whereas the fat girl didn't have a date with the horizon, but a noose in her grandparents' attic. She had no intention of hanging herself; she had a sick fixation on knots and liked to touch rope in dirty places, and the dirtiest place she knew was her grandparents' attic.

In any case, Tarquin knew he didn't have much time left to find Chris - every time he neared his quarry, his quarry didn't near him - he moved further away! His quarry, that is! Because his quarry was Chris, and Chris was...a vampire! But tonight...tonight he'd get him! "I'll get him, tonight!" Tarquin thought aloud (or: said). It was time to put his plan into action!

Tarquin opened his bumbag and withdrew a tightly-rolled tube of paper. He unfurled it to reveal an erotic poster of his niece, Sheila. Since her mother - Tarquin's sister - was a hopeless drunk, she had to earn money to pay bills, etc, and the easiest way was to pose for rude pictures, which then got blown up to A1 size so horny teenagers could put her on their wall. "I wish Chris hadn't blown you up," Tarquin sighed. His tears were held at bay by the sight of his niece's tits. If she'd not died, he could have stolen her away to his home country, where it was legal (and in fact, built in to the local law) for men to marry and sex up their nieces. Somewhere deep inside Tarquin, he knew this was his way of perpetuating the cycle of despair relevant to his family and bloodline, and that he was also technically an ethnic minority, so had God been laughing at him earlier...?

"TARQUIN FARQUAR!!!"

The vampire hunter started from his reverie - Chris had appeared, and even now floated in mid-air as if suspended by invisible wires or perhaps Hollywood CGI trickery. But this wasn't Hollywood, this was real life! The vampire wore a Terrorvision t-shirt, and appeared to have put on weight. But Tarquin had to secretly admit the monster looked good in a cloak.

"Vampire!" Tarquin shouted. "You have fallen into my trap!"

"I have't fallen anywhere," Chris said. "I'm flying, you idiot. And I didn't realise this was a poster, because my night-vision only picks up tits, whatever medium they may happen to be in."

"So you admit you were fooled by my decepticon!"

"Deception?"

"That as well!"

"Maybe. Also, I've secretly been following you because I heard you were trying to kill me, and wanted to see how dangerous you are. You've killed quite a few vampires, haven't you? And werewolves. And Creatures From The Black Lagoons."

"I'm working my way through the types of classic movie monsters, so that I am more relevant in this crazy world of high-tech pop culture references and gimmicks. No one wants to hear the exploits of a bog-standard vampire hunter. They want to know that he can also deal with other monsters!"

"Are you basing this assumption of a particular movie or book or something?" Chris asked, cautiously.

"Probably. Whatever, the time has come for you to say goodnight to the night, foul sexy demon! You have had sex with, and drank blood from, your last desperate housewife and/or emo teenager and/or fake goth!"

"I did just work my way through an entire college campus, followed by a book club. The ladies were reading Interview With a Vampire, which might have been funny if we were in 1995 or something, and people gave a shit about that sort of thing any more."

"Silence!" Tarquin roared, yet managed to modulate his voice so that he didn't say it in capital letters. "Eat stake, demon!"

"Would you believe I'm a vegetarian?" Chris said, and they both shared a final, jovial laugh. But the laughter only served to hide the fact that they'd both had miserable childhoods, and in fact grew up together, and in another fact, this revealed that what Chris had said in the previous instalment about being 317 years old, was in fact, a lie! He was only a bit older than Tarquin!

Tarquin, unaware of all of this, levelled his crossbow at Chris. "Let's see if you're faster than a speeding bullet!"

"That makes absolutely no sense in this context," Chris said.

POW! the crossbow said, in a voice like thunder!

Chris might have been able to fly away from the bolt by himself, but as it happens, he had help evading it - from GOD!

A beam of light sliced through the night sky and held the crossbow bolt in mid-air. "My Lord!" Tarquin shouted. "What are you playing at?!"

"I'm sorry for this decepticon," God said. "But I have to admit I was using you all along to find Chris. You see, I can't see vampires, and certain other demons like chatshow hosts, because the Devil has put his mark upon them. So, even though you didn't hear me wishing you luck earlier, I was being a little bit ironic, because I knew this twist was coming from the outset."

"I don't understand any of this," Tarquin and Chris said in eerie unison.

"The sun is on its way," God explained. "But I have no desire to destroy Chris. Instead, I figured out that if I bathe a vampire in holy light the moment the sun's rays hit one, they get converted into a good guy. Well, maybe not entirely good, but they'll be more liable to work for me to help me destroy the rest of the sexy monsters loose upon the world."

"But...but that's what *I* do!" Tarquin cried.

"Chris will keep all his vampire powers, so make a more effective hunter," God said. "You know, you two could work together. I bet that'd be pretty cool. And I might even be able to sell the rights to a television network."

"Never!" Tarquin screamed. "He killed my niece with sex! He is my enemy! And now, you, God, are my enemy, for forsaking me!"

"Don't be daft, Tarquin. You two grew up in the same town, anyway. So you're almost like brothers, in a way. My plan makes more sense than anything else you might have witnessed before."

"I will not listen to this madness!" Tarquin roared.

"Your niece raped me, Tarquin," Chris said. "If you'd read my exploits online you'd know that."

"I don't know how to use the internet!" Tarquin sobbed. "And reminding me of that particular inadequacy makes this officially the worst day ever!"

"That's right, it IS daytime! Or rather, dawn." God bathed Chris in holy light before the vampire could burst into flames, or whatever it is he's supposed to do. "Now you are my holy vampire warrior!" God declared.

"I feel great!" Chris said. "But I could really go for a pint...of real ale!"

God and Chris laughed. "You thought I was going to say 'blood', didn't you, God?"

"Yeah, I did!"

"Well I didn't!"

"I hate you both!" Tarquin flung himself melodramatically from the rooftop. "I would rather die than live in a  world ruled by a God as ridiculous as you!" is what he planned to say, but his fear of heights kicked in as he plummeted towards the ground, and all he could say was "AAAIIIEEE!" even though, technically, the closer he got to the ground the less his fear of heights should have bothered him.

Both God and Chris flinched as Tarquin Farquar hit the pavement with a meaty splat. "Hmmm," God mused. "Tarquin always liked the theatre, and *I* always said one day he'd make an impact on Broadway."

"That would be pretty funny if we were in New York, rather than wherever-this-is," Chris said.

Both sighed at the thought of what might have been, and rode off into the sunrise, towards new and sexciting adventures.

Meanwhile, Tarquin woke up in Hell. "SATAN!" he shouted.

"What?" The Devil appeared in a purple and green dressing gown. "I was getting ready for bed. Who're you?"

"Tarquin Farquar. I used to be a monster hunter, but just now God double-crossed me, sort of, and I'm mad at him. So I committed suicide to meet you and make you a deal."

"I'm listening."

Tarquin marvelled at how Satan's voice sounded like Dick Van Dyke from Mary Poppins, but he didn't comment. Instead, he said, "Give me the powers of all the monsters I've killed and send me back up to Earth."

"Why should I do that?"

"God can't see any of the sexy demons up there, so if you give me their powers he won't be able to see me. Then, I can sneak up on him and KILL HIM!"

"Kill God?!" The Devil spluttered, spraying coffee everywhere. Oh yeah, when he first appeared he was also drinking coffee. Yeah, before bedtime!

"Do we have a deal?" Tarquin held a hand out.

"Why not?" Satan said, and shook Tarquin's hand. "This ought to be good for a giggle, cor blimey lord love a duck!"

THE END?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!???!?!?!?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????????????????????????????

UNLIKELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Dedicated to the memories of Colin Hall-Williams, Sarah Hall-Williams, and Chris Heald. They're not dead, I just like thinking about them.

NIGHT OF THE SEXY VAMPIRE

Patient: I keep seeing vampires with fangs dripping blood.

Doctor: Have you seen a psychiatrist?

Patient: No, just vampires.

Sheila looked mournfully out of her bedroom window at the full moon. It was night time. The sky was very dark, apart from the moon, which was full and in it (the sky). And quite bright. Because it was the moon. Somewhere, Sheila didn’t know where because she wasn’t very good at geography, a dog howled, possibly at the moon. A soft breeze flowed sensuously and not a little sexily through her open window and caressed her seventeen-year-old breasts. They were large for her age. Sheila wasn’t wearing a bra, or indeed a blouse, because she was waiting for a visitor…a nocturnal visitor! And having her magnificent tits out was the best way to get his attention, like an erotic Bat Signal.

And then…there! Up in the sky! Blasting through the dark clouds like a human-shaped Red Arrow came her…vampire lover! He could fly because he was a vampire! And had magical sexy powers powered by blood and sex! Sheila thought he was the most magical, sexiest man she had ever known, and she had known many men in the last year. Intimately, that is, because she liked to have sex. As her mother often told her: “You’re a young woman now, Sheila, not a girl, and life is going to open its doors for you the moment you learn to open your legs.”

Sheila’s mother was a broken woman, whose former career as an underwear model had hit the skids the moment she got pregnant. Now, she lived vicariously through her daughter, which was amusing in its own way as Sheila’s mother had found religion, or more accurately: God. At the bottom of a bottle. She was a drunk, and Sheila hated her for it. But, if it meant her mother was too toasted to realise she was now erotically linked with a man three hundred times her age, then that was okay.

“Oh!” she sighed mournfully, as Chris, the sexy vampire, levitated down from the Heavens. He wore a classy black cloak and fashionably ripped jeans. Sheila found his beard and Alestorm t-shirt highly arousing as she secretly liked beards and pirate metal bands.

“I have answered your siren call,” Chris intoned. His eyes were like Malteasers, painted black and stuck in his eyeballs.

“Oh Chris,” she sighed. “I want you to take me.”

Chris held a pale hand to his rugged face and turned everso-slightly away from Sheila. “You know that I cannot violate your flesh, without the risk of either killing you or making you as I am…a vampire!”

“Make me like you,” she begged. “When I kiss you it’s like fireworks go off in my knickers. Only you can put that flame out!”

“I would not be able to live with myself were I to turn you, Sheila.” He turned away a little bit more as he artfully hid a lone tear that stealthily crawled its way from the corner of his left eye. He was having a memory. A memory flashback! His last girlfriend, Amelia, had been younger than Sheila, but no less voluptuous. He had turned her into what he was…a vampire! She had survived the transformation, and they even had a baby together, but she died in childbirth, and the baby had a genetic disorder common to babies born of mixed parents – it had the body of a bat and the head of a baby, but both were the proportions they should be, making it too heavy to fly, since the baby head part was pretty big, and the bat body was pretty small. In fact, when it tried to move it ended up pushing its forehead along the floor as it dragged itself forwards by its puny wings. It was a terrible, sorry, and terrible sight, and Chris had been only too happy to kill it. But now he felt sad whenever he thought about killing it, because it might have grown up to be a viable financial commodity that he could have toured as a sideshow freak. Chris wasn’t good with money, and it was this memory of his financial shortcomings that caused the aforementioned tear to ooze gothily from his eye.

“We do this same old song and dance almost every night!” she cried, but softly. Her breasts heaved, and Chris ogled them with his vampire eyes. Yes! He was a vampire! “And at school you ignore me!”

“If anyone were to know we are inexplicably linked soulmates, my enemies would use you against me. I have to go to school because I get education benefits from the council, and I need that money to afford cool stuff like this cloak. Plus it gives me a good cover story for not being a vampire. All I have to do is avoid direct sunlight, otherwise you know the effect reveals that I am…a vampire!”

“Yes, I remember. Your hair stands on end and you turn bright pink.”

“No. I explode.”

“Oh yes that’s right.”

“Luckily, England has terrible weather so I can walk freely during the day. I just made a joke about this country’s weather, Sheila.”

She laughed, and her breasts heaved. Chris ogled them even more with his eyes, which were still the eyes of a vampire, because he was still a vampire!

“Invite me in if you wish,” he said. “But I can only kiss you and touch you up.”

“Works for me,” she said. She moved from the window sill so Chris could float elegantly into her room.

He grimaced at the posters of Fallout Boy and Panic At The Disco that adorned her walls. “Music of my youth was far superior to this,” he said. “I wish you would consider listening to some.”

“You’re three hundred times my age,” she said. “All the music from your youth is boring and like really old-fashioned.”

“Sheila. I’m 317 years old. That’s not three hundred times your age.”

She pulled a confused face, which Chris found deeply sexy because he secretly liked stupid girls.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked. “When my mum passes out I bleed her a bit.”

“So that’s why the blood you give me makes me feel tipsy. Yeah, I’ll have some of that.”

Sheila pulled a special tankard from beneath her bed, followed by a bottle of dark liquid. It was blood! She poured the dark liquid, which was her mother’s blood, into the tankard, and handed it to Chris. He greedily knocked it back.

“Tastes like the good stuff I get in Whitby!” he exclaimed.

She poured him another drink, and another. Soon, he was feeling woozy. More woozy than the alcohol-laced blood usually made him feel.

“I feel woozy,” he said. “More woozy than the alcohol-laced blood usually makes me feel.”

“Rest your head,” she said, gently helping him down onto her bed.

“I feel woozy,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed, gently taking his clothes off. “I put Rohypnol in the blood.”

“But it shouldn’t affect me this quickly,” he said. “I used it on a girl once and had to wait 30 minutes until it kicked in.”

“I added some of my mum’s sleeping pills to the mix too,” Sheila said.

“Ah,” Chris nodded. Slowly, his eyes closed. Soon, he was asleep.

“Now it’s time for the good stuff,” Sheila said, doing something rude to his junk. She began to touch his willy, is what she did. She vigorously worked her own brand of sexy magic until Chris’s vampire willy was ready for her.

She put his willy in her, and started to have sex with his sleeping body. It was wonderful, and better than any sex she had ever had. It felt like someone had rammed a stick of dynamite up her chuff and lit the fuse in her brain. The flame was burning its way down and through her teenage body. She started to say erotic things like “Oh yes” and “More, more” and “That feels nice, Chris, oh yeah that’s nice”. She didn’t swear though, because she felt there was no need for that sort of thing.

A good amount of time later, let’s say five minutes later, Sheila felt Chris climax his vampire goodness into her, and she exploded with joy. Literally exploded with joy. Chris had not been lying because he was really a frigid vampire. He had been telling the truth! Unprotected sex with a vampire when you’re not a vampire can kill you! Or at the very least give you a bad disease! Unfortunately, Sheila was not alive to learn this valuable lesson, because she was exploded and dead, all over her Fallout Boy posters, and all over Chris.

He woke up a bit later to find Sheila’s groin resting on his lap, and the rest of her spraypainted on the walls. It was a good thing he was a vampire and not nauseated by the sight of blood, because he might have felt like being sick, or even…fainted! Resisting the temptation to lick her up, he put his clothes on and flew out the window. His keen vampire vision picked out Deidre at number 45 flashing her tits to signal him and he swooped down towards her open bedroom window.

THE END! OR IS IT?

Dedicated to Colin Hall-Williams, who dared me to write terrible teen vampire fiction, and Chris Heald, for following my dare of writing 'I HEART RAPISTS' in a Twitter post. Salut, mon amis!