Conversations With Lestat 20
Gairid

30 novembre, 2000

(The question put to Lestat: Are you ERECT all the time? And if SO, how does it FEEL?”)

When I asked the question he smiled…and then laughter overtook him, reverberating in the room.

“Ahh…that prurient interest again.” He says, when he has finally stopped laughing.

“To answer the question. Yes. Always erect.” He nods as if to emphasize his words. “There, are, however, degrees. There is no flaccid state as with mortals, but there are times when we are less…rigid. Particularly immediately after climaxing.”

He’s sitting, his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He looks relaxed, and he’s in a good mood. Louis, I have been informed, is sleeping. From the look of Lestat’s throat, and what I can see of his chest, I would they have had a fine night of their particular brand of lovemaking.

“As to how it *feels*…well, it feels normal to me now. Why would it not? If I am aroused…and please….no comments, cherie,”

He raises his hand in a stopping gesture, and I close my mouth against the comment that was ready to tumble forth.

“If I am aroused, the feeling is similar to how it felt when I was mortal…similar, but *enhanced*, as are all the senses of a vampire. It really is difficult to explain. For one thing, you’re not a male….and you’re not a vampire either, so the frame of reference is not there, is it?” He says, smiling.

“No, it’s not. But tell me anyway. “ I answer. “What about when you *aren’t* aroused. If that ever really *happens.*” I say, unable to resist.

Lestat chuckles, unoffended.

“I suppose it does appear that way.” He says agreeably.

He leans forward, a conspiratorial look in his eyes.

“I freely admit to being a slave to my passions. But there *are *those occasional times when I otherwise occupied. As I said before, it’s always hard, but when not aroused, it’s somewhat flexible. I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I have also noticed if Louis had drawn a particularly large amount of blood from me, or I from him, it will be less erect for a little while. In the swoon, though, it’s hard. Very hard.”

He pats his crotch absently, and leaves his hand there.

“It’s not uncomfortable most of the time. Of course when Louis is pursuing his more creative whims, well, that’s an altogether different situation… and then any discomfort is always enormously overshadowed by the inevitable outcome.”

Lestat turns his head slowly to look at the doorway. Louis is standing there, smiling sleepily at him, a blanket draped carelessly over his shoulders.

“You’d better come to bed, Lestat, before your explanations progress to *showing* each precise degree of arousal.” He says, smiling at his lover. “Bon nuit, cherie.”

He says in his polite tone…that’s the one that he usually uses. His politeness is his way of masking his disinterest in anything that is not Lestat. Lestat has risen to his feet, giving me a little nod, as he leaves.


~~~Next Evening~~~


“You are still curious?” Lestat asks, amused.

“It’s the idea of *degrees*. How different is it? You mentioned that in the swoon, you are …ummm…very hard. Do you mean when you are drinking from Louis…or does that happen…well, you know…when…”

“When I feed?” He says, with an evil grin. I nod.

“It happens then, yes. Drinking blood is not just an assuagement of hunger. It’s a whole *experience*. Intense, and erotic. There may have been certain…*omissions* in the ‘novels’, but any descriptions of blood drinking either by myself or by Louis are as true as we were able to describe them.”

He is gazing at me in a particularly fixed way. It’s not exactly the most comfortable thing in the world to be stared at by a vampire.

“Now, then. Drinking from one’s lover is that same erotic intensity, only magnified. This is particularly true between Maker and Fledgling, to whom the experience of the mind touch is denied.”

He smiles, his eyes softening, going slightly glazed.

“I believe that Louis *can* read me, though. Fledgling or no, he has an uncanny way of knowing much of my mind. When we drink, one from the other, it’s as though there are layers upon layers of sensation, and emotion, and if we are sexually joined, the feelings are heightened still further. Either way, the experience is profound, and as much a part of our sexuality as our physical coupling. To address the original question…. when I drink from Louis, when I am caught in the swoon, it’s then that my cock is both at it’s …shall I say *peak* erection, and also sensation is at it’s highest, because I can also feel what Louis is feeling.”

“Also with our intimacy there is an overwhelming sense of love. I am speaking now of myself, for I do not know…or care much…how other vampires may or may not feel. I am grateful that this is true between us, however, for in the old days, it was the one way where I was able to let Louis know I did indeed love him, in spite of all appearances. The same can be said of more recent events, as well, I suppose. There is a terrible freedom to having your thoughts bared for another. I don’t hold much back from him anymore…what would be the point of that?”

“You seem to be contradicting yourself.” I say. “How can you hold back? Would he not be aware of whatever he wished to see?” I ask

I’m trying to understand something that makes no sense to beings with closed minds.

“Even in such circumstances, you can shield from another anything you want to. And sometimes it’s quite involuntary. It’s not like hearing a conversation when you are entwined thus, not like you were talking on the phone you know!”

He smiles a little, his fine brows drawn together as he thinks harder about what he is saying.

“Even when I read a mortals mind, it comes through in images more than words, and it’s often unclear what the images might mean. When I say we are open to one another in the mind touch, that does not mean that everything Louis has ever thought or felt is immediately clear and available to me. That would be difficult. Think. Louis has lived several mortal lifetimes. That’s an extreme amount of information. Generally, it’s more immediate.”

He smiles suddenly at me.

“I know what you thought just then. Close enough anyway. I can feel your impatience, although you are too….polite to voice it. I have once again gone off-topic, haven’t I? You would like an illustration perhaps? Another of my graphic little tales?”

“Well, “ I say dryly, “Obviously you can tell what I am thinking. And, Lestat…you are talking like a doctor or something. Very clinical, you know. A departure from your usual style?”

“A little, yes.” He agrees, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Very well. Shall I launch once again into my rather florid language? Something from our first days together, perhaps… or something more recent? And which degree would you like to hear about?”

His grin is large and…may I say it? Shit-eating. He’s much too pleased with himself.

“Never mind. Aside from the swoon, there are the other times of unbearable hardness. And I do mean unbearable. The gritting-your-teeth, moaning-and-whimpering, jesus-christ-but-you-give-the-best-head-EVER kind of unbearable. Louis does this with admirable regularity in assorted and imaginative places. He’s relieved this degree of hardness in every single car that we have had since we’ve been together, while I was driving…and one memorable time, while he was driving. Parked, in places where anyone and everyone walking past could and did see us. Coffeehouses, restaurants, bars, The French Market, the St. Charles streetcar, St Louis Cathedral, movie theaters concerts, operas. Shall I go international? Top of the Eiffel Tower, the north clockface of Big Ben, on one of those touristy boats that rides the Danube in Germany…and on that one there were actually fireworks going off above us, and people moving away from us in fright, embarrassment or good-natured “let them have their privacy” calmness. In all of these places, that degree of hardness was satisfyingly and knee-wobblingly brought down to what could be considered one of the least erect degrees.”

“Let me add here that I have reciprocated this favor to him in my own way, and in many of the same places, as well as others….it *might* be thought that we have a sort of friendly competitiveness when it comes to the where-can-we-do-this-next game. I’m not saying there *is* a competition you understated…but I can see where it might be *thought* that there is.”

Lestat gets up from his chair and prowls restlessly about the room. He’d come in immediately after sunset. Louis had left the flat, with no explanation to Lestat other than he would not be long. *This* might explain his restiveness…but not necessarily. Lestat is restless by nature, his body often in graceful motion, extravagant at times, subtle at others.

“I have also noticed a particular *tense* sort of hardness when I am inside of Louis, and I have my hand upon him. That rigidity that precedes a particularly powerful orgasm. One of the ones where you momentarily have no voice, you lose consciousness…le petite morte, as it is called. The only death we suffer at all. Although suffer is not the word that I would use.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a constant hardness, so far Lestat.”

He shrugs, making yet another circuit of the room, stopping to open the doors to the balcony.
He surveys the street below briefly and comes back inside.

“It *feels* slightly different. And after a climax there is a definite difference. More…malleability, if you will. It’s the same also if I am concentrating on something. A film. Or a book.”

I can’t help it, but I laugh, trying to stifle it behind my hand. He cocks his head, looking curiously at me.

“I’ve seen you *read*. It doesn’t take you very long. Entire novels in a few minutes.” I manage to say.

“I can read that quickly, but I don’t *always*. He says.

I don’t make any further comment, but it seems to me that his times of* malleability* must be brief. Although he *can* be induced to sit still for a film if it manages to capture his attention.

“It’s also less erect if I am angered. Anytime that I have thought to *notice* the state, anyway. That might just be *me*, though. I shall have to ask Louis. And in case you think otherwise, it’s not *always* entirely stiffened when Louis is with me.”

Somehow I believe this. I’d seen them one evening, sitting side by side on the balcony speaking animatedly in *their* French to one another. They had been engaged in some sort of friendly debate, hands clasped loosely. There is always a heat about them, to be sure, but at that moment, they were quite involved in their conversation. I expect that was what he meant.

“What about when you wake up?” I ask. I am, of course, finding this fascinating.

“Hard. You should have figured *that* out, cherie. How many tales have you heard beginning with our making love the minute one of us cracks an eye open?” He grins. “Or picking up where we’d left off when we fell asleep. I’ve been trying for *years* to figure out a way around the deathsleep, you know. It’s so inconvenient.”

“I’ve always thought that. You’d think you could negotiate with that blood demon of yours or something, wouldn’t you?” I say.

“I am not entirely sure I believe *that* little story. Sounds like the creation fairy tale to me. But then, I’ve been wrong before. Amel. Yes. Well, he’s never said a word * me* Still, I suppose there’s something demonic about being a blood drinking creature of the night.”

He says all this quite off-handedly, as though he has thought about it often. Maybe he has. What must it be like to have time beyond counting before you?

“And from a purely Christian point of view, I expect such lewd behavior and rampant sexuality *must* be demonic. “

He snorts derisively, smirking.

“In my mortal life…my Catholic life, I never experienced such love as I have received from Louis. And if this is the life given to me, who am I to dispute its validity? Especially since it suits me so well. All this talk of erections and hardness has given me quite an appetite for him.” Lestat mutters, moving once again out onto the balcony.

Dressed tonight in dark red sweats, his feet in socks, I can see that the cool air that’s descended over New Orleans is not particularly to his liking. Still, he will have the doors open, and he will stand and watch for Louis, and he will survey his beloved Royal St. It’s curious to observe this rather human behavior of wanting a place to call home, of needing a place to set roots. This is their place. The very rooms whisper their names. I see him raise a hand top someone passing below. Do they know who he is? Most likely not. It’s probably a friendly gesture from the passerby to an exceptionally beautiful young man. Or perhaps one of the neighbors, to whom Lestat is always cordial, if not downright charming, passing by on the way home. The old lady who lives a few doors down often brings baked good to the *young gentlemen*, both of whom are always unfailingly gracious to her. Lestat has told me that he likes her, old Mrs. Devereaux, a woman of old New Orleans, who still has a place in her that recalls Southern gentility, and what it seemed to mean to the naive women of her time. I realize, that once again, the topic under discussion has been abandoned, or forgotten by Lestat.

“Louis has told me often that he cannot get enough of me. And indeed, he is quite insatiable. His ardent lovemaking has worn me to blissful exhaustion more times than I can count. I suppose if we were mortal, and in love this way, we would necessarily have to give in to fatigue. As it stands, there is only the deathsleep that interrupts us…and so for whatever the reason we are the way that we are, I can say that I would not change *that* particular bit of arcana. I know that I will never, never have enough of Louis.”

He is pensive for a while, his eyes far away. I have joined him on the balcony, standing well apart from him. Looking at him.

“Remember when we told you about the first time Louis made love to me? When I finally let go and he took me?”

His voice is low, and resonant. His French accent is pronounced, more so than it usually is. I nod. He sees this movement and nods a little in return.

“That night, Louis was so resolute. He wanted so to be gentle with me. To spare me pain. But there *was* pain, although I welcomed it. When pain is inflicted within the confines of love and acceptance, I don’t know that it really should be named that. In the end, he could not control his need for me, and he took me violently and brutally, as I had done with him many, many times before. He was helpless in his wanting of me, at least *that* time he was. Louis is a controlled being. He has a will of iron…..most of the time. When he relaxes his grip upon himself, he is the most licentious of creatures. There’s a secret here. Maybe not such a secret…really. He gives and he gives. He takes, yes. But he takes because he knows that I need him to. Really, it’s all him. All him giving to me. And the really funny part is that he thinks I deserve this.”

He’s quiet after this last, and I know that it’s better that I remain silent. I don’t want to leave him there, though, at least, not until I see the set of his shoulders change, the way his head lifts, anticipatory and eager. And then turning the corner, a block up, I can see a figure approaching. Louis, of course. These little pieces I glean from him. It’s such a small part of the whole picture, of all that is Lestat. I leave the balcony…I leave the parlor. It’s their time, in their home.

FIN