Vampires at Sea, page 1
Vampires at Sea
Vampires at Sea
Lindsay Merbaum
Creature Publishing
Charlottesville, VA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 by Lindsay Merbaum
All rights reserved.
ISBN 9781951971236
LCCN 2024948331
Cover design by Jaya Nicely
Cover artwork “The Fall of the Rebel Angels” by Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Spine illustration by Rachel Kelli
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“...all bad stories can become good stories if you line up the words right.”
—Shilo Niziolek, Fever
“You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know.”
—Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla
For all the hot queer sluts. You know who you are.
Contents
Day 1 . . . 1
Day 2 . . . 9
Day 3 . . . 15
Day 4 . . . 25
Day 5 . . . 39
Day 6 . . . 47
Day 7 . . . 63
Day 8 . . . 69
Day 9 . . . 79
Day 10 . . . 99
Day 11 . . . 103
Day 12 . . . 119
Day 13 . . . 131
Day 14 . . . 151
Day 1
Our first night aboard the Zorya, the dark-sea wind fills our mouths and bloats our bellies. We’re impaled on swords of artificial light. It’s loud—the ship itself moans and hums. The Zorya looks like an obscene confection on a cushion of black velvet; I can’t tell where the sky ends and the black sea begins. It is the Black Sea, actually, its depths the host for a discount cruise for classy art queers. The wind plucks at laughter and small talk. There are flirting sounds, clumsy quaffs of free champagne. We’re on vacation! We queued for what felt like an eternity just to board this ship, corralled amongst our fellow passengers, who generated screechy chatter with their phones while moving as slowly as they possibly could toward our collective destination. When one dared to pop their gum, I shot them a look that could level a village.
“Paciencia, mi zorrita,” Hugh cautioned, taking my hand. His patience is infinite.
Fireworks pop off in the shape of a rainbow, then a unicorn. There are startled faces, expressions of delight. Soon, the slow, delicious selection process will begin, delicious to me, anyway. Who is worthy of a fuck and feed? There are thousands of them, all crammed aboard with nowhere to go. No escape. The maze at the center of the ship is windowless.
Hugh looks boyish, his black hair mussed. He’s dashing too—a polyglot Argentine prince. He’s especially dashing when he squints, in fact; Hugh’s a sexy brooder. I think it’s his shelf of a brow or his nose, the Romanesque severity they lend his profile. He has on a jacket and button-down, his usual uniform, with his suede vacation loafers. Some of his shoes are one of a kind, hand-stitched by people who are just bone dust now. The bright, rubbery bracelet thing we all have to wear is an insult to his thick hairy wrist.
Hugh’s name is Hugo, but I decided at some point to call him Hugh, after Anaïs Nin’s better-known husband. He doesn’t mind. We’ve been together for hundreds of years, it feels like. Or maybe it really is. Who could say? You go through uncountable little moments, thousands of dawns, thousands of twilights, a hundred thousand miseries and feasts and feuds. If you remembered everything, you’d lose your mind.
Memory is a lie anyway. Half of what you remember is just what you imagine. You swear on your life your mother’s house is sage green. But it isn’t green, it’s blue. Or there is no house. It’s a grave and the stone is gray and eroded. No mother either. Just you. And you don’t even know what you’re doing there.
We are on this cruise because some recently forged memories are a little too fresh in our minds. Let’s just say I had a lover—which was fine. Hugh knew all about it, but things got a little out of hand. There was an escalation and a small fire—no, not a metaphoric one—and now Hugh is ruffled. He doesn’t like to be ruffled. He likes me to do as I like. He likes to watch me do as I like. But loud noises, extreme temperatures, insistent voices, and destruction of his work are all things that make him nervous. He is, in general, anxious, reticent, qualities veiled by a slow, elegant manner. A finger held at the chin, the graceful way he crosses his legs so you can’t help but wonder about his cock. (Length: moderate. Thick around the middle. Circumcised, surprisingly. Somewhat shy, but steadfast. In other words, perfect.) My drama passes through our home like a noxious vapor. Hugh, unmoored, locks himself in the bathroom. Sometimes he climbs out the window. Sometimes he doesn’t come back.
Then, like a sign from the god I don’t need to believe in: a coupon for a queer Black Sea cruise arrives folded up with the junk mail. With no sense of irony whatsoever, the coupon assures me this adventure is not for the everyday cruiser. This cruise itself is a work of art. Queer art. Also, there are actual works of art aboard the ship, I discover, when I visit the cruise line’s website. I scan pictures of hordes of chemically uninhibited bodies with cellulite looking for pleasure, debasing themselves publicly, grinning, with drinks and sandwiches in their mitts. The ocean! Europe! Horny lonely people! This could work. I leave the brochure on the table, where I know Hugh will see it.
We don’t actually need a coupon to go on a cruise. We don’t need a cruise either. We could fly to Europe, rent a car, do whatever we like. But Hugh is as frugal as English royalty—I hear the Brits wear their moldy old suits for decades, and Hugh is just the same. Everything’s tailored, dry-cleaned, polished, pickled, and preserved. Worth a small fortune to a monger of vintage clothing. Money is vanity of the wrong kind in Hugh’s book. It’s a heavy, moldering book.
People are always offering Hugh money, which embarrasses him. Grants, fellowships, and, worst of all, speaking tours. He deflects and dodges. He shudders at the very notion of a microphone. So Hugh has a reputation for being reclusive, which only makes him all the more desirable. But what would we do with money, really? We can have anything we want.
Personally, I do enjoy rich people. The delectable perfume of their avarice. I find satisfaction in their lust for wealth, but much more pleasure in their lust for me—ideally, I get both. Their pupils dilate as I foretell their investments’ future. Ardor drips like honey from their fingertips into my waiting mouth. Investors offer me millions, and I give them promises, send them home semi-conscious in rideshares with their flies undone. What imbeciles. The actual cash is nothing to me, though it’s everything to my starchy, soulless employers. It’s a symbiotic relationship.
Sometimes there are literal cheers when I enter the office, and that does give me a little boost. I wear skirts that show off my legs, chic blouses and blazers. Classic. Every single officemate has tried to fuck me at one holiday party or another, where there’s always a mini menorah, which they believe is for me. I suppose it’s the rather Hebraic spelling of my name—Rebekah. A few get lucky. But I like best the peculiar tang of the longing coming off those I don’t choose.
A petite Filipino man with a fixed smile shows us to our stateroom. I think his name is Stewart, but no, it turns out he is a steward. His name is... Ragnar? Remington? Something Germanic with an R. It doesn’t matter. He has an irritating habit, a nervous cough I could exert my influence to disabuse him of, but I have more important concerns. First among them, our cabin is a closet, and the carpet is thin and rough, the sheets, too, serrated with sand. A small plexiglass plug the size of a toilet hole is pretending to be a window. And it smells like cigarettes, chlorine, mildew, desperation. Any thought of fucking evaporates. This cabin isn’t even worth a rub-out.
Gingerly Hugh perches on the bed. He makes a face like he wishes he’d put a towel down first. Then he crosses his legs and clears his throat. “Well,” he says. His hands unfold like lilies.
“We need an upgrade,” I tell R the Steward, who’s sweating. He starts explaining in his apologetic way that he is not authorized to approve upgrades, we’ll have to speak to Goth Services. No, it’s Guest Services. R says it like someone’s name—Guest Services III. Fine then.
Hugh frowns. He is feigning hesitation and we both know it. He doesn’t want to want what he wants. Oh, it’s so tiresome, his self-loathing. I lick my lips and count the seconds, my way of practicing the patience I don’t have.
Finally, Hugh relents.
R guides us through the thin passageways and down the elevator’s throat to a tall half-moon desk with two dykes behind it who look like they could build a fire and fix your laptop at the same time. Their eyes light up at the sight of me because I’m hot as fuck. All it takes is a smile. They’re gone before I even open my mouth.
Within fifteen minutes, we’re lying in a champagne bed shaped like a clam in an ocean-view stateroom. Everything is champagne: the carpet, the walls. There’s a bottle of it in a basket on the desk, in fact. This room has a settee, and a small tub with jets.
“Bien hecho,” Hugh says. Now that the unpleasant part is over, he’s content.
I want him to fuck me on the bed. He wants to fuck in the tub, but the tub is too small. It’s impractical—where would my knees go? So I knock him to the floor and straddle him and m
In my earlier years, before I figured out how to properly nourish myself, I fed lazily, wantonly, indiscriminately; sampling desires, longings, obsessions, and other delicacies. I binged, seeking ecstasy. I nearly achieved it a few times. Then I found better ways. But I have no regrets.
We leave our bags unpacked and head for the entertainment arena on the upper deck, to pick out the nicest bar our wristbands will grant us entry to. We are celebrities under house arrest.
I ease in. The smile, the eye contact—held just a little too long. The tilt of my head reeling them closer. You can’t break free even if you want to, which you don’t. You’re listening intently. I’m telling the most fascinating story you’ve ever heard. You can’t believe it, your mouth is open to catch my every word like a pearl, a delicious pearl that cracks like candy between your molars. What luck that we’re meeting! And so soon into the trip! The cologne you’re wearing smells like money. Your watch is simple, understated, yet worth as much as a shitty studio in a neglected part of the city where we live. The younger one touches my thigh under the table. I guide his hand deeper. The older one is in his fifties, still good looking. He makes eyes at Hugh, who hasn’t looked at any of us or spoken a single word. Again, Hugh is fantastic in profile. He’s watching us all in the smoky mirror behind the bar. I can’t see where he’s looking, but I know this. He hates what I’m doing, his own part in it.
They lead us to their room and Hugh gets fellated as I drain one, then the other. No, they’re not dead. What do you think I am? They’re just unconscious. Spent. Their emotional pocketbooks emptied. Conversely, I’m full now, but still horny.
There are those of us who don’t rely on the consumption of flesh to survive. There are those who are preternaturally strong, immune to pathogens, who live on and on, aging ever so gradually without killing a damn thing. Not a single beast, not even a plant. At least, not on purpose. Not usually. I’ve never cracked open the red heart of a pepper and scooped out its insides. Spicy roots and lacy collars of lettuce have nothing to fear from us. Did you know tomatoes scream? Well, they do. So you tell me, who’s the monster?
Day 2
In the morning, we take long showers, lather up with sweet herbaceous soaps. Our steward knocks and makes offers in a cheerfully apologetic way. I tell him there’s no need to ever come back to this room, give him an obscene tip—I do have manners—and send him on his way.
We venture out to tour the ship, passing the “Albatross” brunch buffet in the dining room we’ve just upgraded to for free, like proper rich people who don’t think they should have to pay for anything. Though we’re still mid-tier on this ship—the “Sea Dragons” look down at us from the balconies of their suites that cost as much as a luxury car. A sea dragon is a fish that sometimes lances the hands of those unlucky enough to catch it. There in the upper echelon is also where you’re most likely to get seasick. We do not get seasick.
We pinch the stems of ornamental glasses filled with tomato and watermelon juices because we like the colors. Then scoot past huge metal trays of mashed-up potatoes with pieces of the skin mixed in, greasy meat logs, and spit-bubble lumps of eggs, steaming and wet. I don’t even want to know what the plebian “Herring” buffet looks like.
The antsy passengers are queuing, clutching their plates, craning their necks to see where the line ends, they’re so hungry and hungover already. My nose wrinkles at the smell. This is an all-gender cruise, and everyone is wearing everything or nothing: kaftan or speedo, kaftan or topless with nipple piercings. A quiver of top-surgery scars, straight as arrows. Faded yet artful tattoos, impeccable makeup, facial hair, and nose piercings. Hugh is wearing seersucker and a hat and oversized sunglasses. He smells like an English garden. You should always picture him in black and white, by the way. Or sepia.
“You look like you should have a nymph on each arm,” I tell him. I imagine him bracketed by dewy waifs. Hmm, a snack.
“Ah, mi cielo, but I have a far superior companion.” He squeezes my ass like ripe fruit.
I lick his face.
He wipes his cheek with a handkerchief that appears out of nowhere. A gentleman always carries a spit rag. “Count on you to wear Roman sandals to Türkiye.” He’s looking at my feet.
I’m wearing flat lace-up sandals that crisscross down from my knees over my toes, nails painted opal. I look like a priestess: my dress is a sheath, so thin and soft you can see through to the triangles of white underwear beneath. Bras are just nipple covers to me. We both have skin that appears blessed by the sun, though we usually spend little time out of doors. We’re on vacation!
“I think that’s where we are, anyway.” Hugh studied the map on the brochure they sent us in a packet before we got here. There was more information online, which I didn’t bother pointing out. Our wristbands might harbor a digital itinerary, but there’s no use mentioning that either. He considers Google “cheating,” like you’re eavesdropping on knowledge. There are multiple sets of antique French encyclopedias stashed in our library, or should I say Hugh’s library, since all the books are his. He has a weakness for rare tomes. Hugh’s even got a few scrolls that can never be removed from their capsas, or they’ll turn to sand.
It doesn’t matter. We’re not home in our skinny house with a poky staircase. Anywhere is somewhere—that sounds like a pseudo-Zen Titter post, or whatever it’s called. Hugh went through a Buddhist reading phase and it made him insufferable for at least a decade. It was still better than his origami phase, though, when he filled the house with paper cranes.
There are several ports for the ship to dock at along our way, though we’re skipping certain places, and everyone aboard knows why, I’m sure, the same reason this cruise is offering discounts. There’s even a page on the cruise line’s website about “how to get along with your fellow passengers” that recommends avoiding subjects like politics, including wars and famines. “Our passengers arrive from all over the world to enjoy a first-class, cultured experience. Therefore, other guests may not share your same knowledge or outlook.” Then there are columns of “recommended” and “not recommended” topics. Brawls over foreign aid have likely broken out before.
War or no, Hugh and I could disembark anywhere, maybe in Bulgaria or Romania. Set ourselves up in some modest, deserted castle for a few years, live lean, take in the scenery, ensconce like mollusks. But what about our skeletal old house in Cole Valley? It’s misty; we’re close to the park and The Haight; the streets are home for bands of young hippies, all addicted to painkillers, and their beautiful pit bulls. As Hugh passes by, they fall silent. When I go by, they whistle and the dogs whine and I smile, but I don’t meet their eyes. Not my taste. Too lean, too much grit.
We pass pools with swim-up bars and rainbow awnings, including one called the Black Laguna. The water is filtered through charcoal. There are signs warning you not to drink it. And everywhere, there are waiters in white short-sleeved button-downs with gold buttons and cornstarch-white knee-length shorts. They offer frozen margaritas and other slushy drinks squeezed out of a machine, pure-white coladas topped with bleeding-hemorrhoid cherries. Some of the drinks aboard are free, others are not. They also circulate free boiled hot dogs and bread pockets of falafel trailing steamy, meaty smells.
There are rainbow lounge chairs and rainbow bikinis and a rainbow disco with a thatched roof and heart-shaped strobe lights. There’s a malt shop called The Harvey Milk Bar. How deliciously insensitive.
I come face-to-face with a digital kiosk advertising a smorgasbord of adult entertainments, plus more sea voyages to sign up for after this one. There are engagement rings for sale with stones big as teeth. “Guess what?” the ad informs us. “They’re not just for femmes anymore!” If you buy one, you can get married on your next cruise. Now the kiosk suggests a Stonewall-themed costume party. There’s a grainy image of open mouths swallowing wigs. Now it’s Priscilla Queen of the Desert—on ice! Plus classes: Bulgarian yogurt making, Stalinist flower arranging, plum brandy tasting, Pilates, Morse code. You can ride rainbow waterslides powered by the passengers’ own recycled poop. There’s a talk on “green cruising,” too, even though the poop slide is the only thing that’s “green” about this floating behemoth. Oh, well. We’re on vacation!
