Where the Sun Don’t Shine: An Exploration into the Dark Corners of My Closet where the Vampires are Hiding Waiting for Me.

Oct 20th, 2005 | By | Category: Prose

I had a dream. Not a Martin Luther King one. A real dream.

In it, I received a phone call at my house.

“Hi, this is Shelly from Starbucks,” said a sweet voice. “I’m just calling to let you know that you left your phone–”

Slight pause.


I woke up in a cold sweat, positively scared out of my wits. I thought:


1) Was Satordi also using my phone to take pictures of himself with fellow velvet lovers at the Bloodbath Ball ?


2) Where does the archetype of the vampire come from? And is the definition of the vampire as we know it based on any factual information?


3) That’s the stupidest dream I’ve ever had.

But the third thought didn’t matter. I had questions. Deep philosophical questions. Such as: How is being stabbed in the neck with two teeth a symbol of penetration? Does that mean if I stick a fork in my steak, we just consummated? Do I have to start calling said steak, and telling said scrumptious T-bone I have feelings for it, other then just A1 induced lust?

It is because of John Polidori’s “The Vampyre” and not Interview With The Vampire that really created the vampire we know today. The only thing anyone can credit Rice for is bringing into light the sensual love between two long-haired male hippies who cry for pages and pages over their loss of mortality and French Quarter music.

Thank you, Anne.

Dr. John Polidori was Lord Byron’s physician. Polidori was also an attendant at the famous house party in Switzerland that led to Mary Shelly writing Frankenstein. There they drank delicious Swiss Miss, sans cardboard marshmallows–and told scary stories. I could bore you with the historical details, but I’ll give you the Eileen version of why Polidori wrote “The Vampyre”.

He wanted a taste of some fine fine Shelley.

So like all men, he believed the best way to court a chick would be to creep the hell out of her. He did this by writing “The Vampyre”, which was the story of bloodsucking Lord Ruthven, based on Lord Byron, a clubfoot so sexy he could seduce an albatross.

Two years after “The Vampyre” was subsequently published, it was adapted to stage. Victorians everywhere saw it. Because Victorians loved two things: parasols and sex.

I know what you’re thinking, “Eileen, those heels you’re wearing make your ankles look chunky. Also, the Victorians were the most sexually repressed people in history! What have you been drinking?”

The answer, my friends, is liquid opium. Also, the hell they weren’t! The Victorians were so sex crazed they had to clothe piano legs for fear that if people saw the exposed oak finish, they’d go bang in the solar.

Sure Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, sure Anne Rice became so famous after the second book of Vampire Chroniclesthat she had the power to not have an editor and write as horribly as she wanted to. But did you know Polidori has a plaque on Great Pulteney Street in London? A friggin’ plaque! I mean, who cares about fame and fortune and having enough money to have a life sized doll created of your dead daughter that sits in your hallway and freaks out all the tourists who come to visit your house in New Orleans? Polidori has a friggin PLAQUE. Possibly made of brass! On GREAT PULTENEY street! You know what’s on that street? Stores! And maybe a Starbucks!

Polidori’s vampire is the one we all know and love. Beautiful, well dressed and unreachable. Kind of like a gay man. In comparison, folklore paints a less attractive picture of the vampire. Vampires were peasants who came back from the dead to torment the living. Usually they were stupid, bald and had pointed ears.

So…dirty, lumbering and poor. Probably homeless too. And who wants to dress up like that for Halloween? Imagine the blurb on the back of that costume box:

Here is all you need to dress up as the infamous Vampire Onfroi!

* One pair of slightly soiled underpants (which can be sinfully worn over any pair of pants).

*Empty bottle of Wild Goose.

* Change Hat.

****Château de Cardboard sold separately.

So that means my dream of Satordi was merely a fabrication based on fiction. Satordi isn’t sexy or crafty at all. He’s not at the Bloodbath Ball, or shopping at Hot Topic for the latest pair of velvet Dickies. And I doubt he can dial a phone.  He’s rutting around in his own filth tearing off the heads of rabbits. I won’t be having any more nightmares about him anymore!

However, I soon realized I wasn’t the person who had suffered the most from the literary vampire curse. Sure, it might be those people walking around pretending to be vampires, sleeping in coffins and drinking each others blood. (This, by the way, causes diseases, but ask any of these real bloodsuckers and they’ll tell you that it’s giving them life energy. Give me a break. Have you ever met a heroin addict who would ever tell you, “No man, I swear, this shit’s good for you! It’s god Vitamin A and Riboflavin and shit!”)

No no, the one who has suffered the most is poor Vlad Drakul.

Paul Barber, author of the excellent Vampires, Burial and Death, explains that, “”Until Dracula came out, no one ever associated the historical figure [Vlad Drakul] with the vampire lore…the Romanians have often expressed their dismay over the way we have expropriated their national hero and made him into a vampire…if the Romanians began to make movies portraying George Washington as a ghoul, we would know what they feel like.”

To that I say, “Bring it on Romania”. Fair is fair.

“Government is not reason. Government is not eloquence. It is force. And, like fire, it is a dangerous servant and a fearful master. Now give me your brains! Raaaaurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Now that’s literary.

Celebrity Rebuttal: Anne Rice


Who do you thikn you are to dengerate my book sin this foul fahsion, you fiend. you have no idea the amount of Pain dna Work that goes into eveyr Tome I have Uttered, as the chaarcters breathe through me and find their own life. No one casn do this for me, which is why I fried my Editor and fed him to the peasantry thus givig him the heathen burial he so richly derserve din the fierst place. If you were ever saw true art, fi you could feel what I feel every time I look into the face of the little doll in my hallway, then you would know what it is liek to have a sdoul that burns, that pines, that perishes for art, and for my husband stan who wrote that poem about the rabbits, but mostly for ART, you fiend.Every bad review pierces my soul, and I knwo that someone undeserving has picked up one of my sacred text and sullied them with un-understanding hands, flipping through my very essence in some hideous Barnes and Noble while you suck on the espresso of DEPRAVITY and SHAME. No one asked me to write these books, you know, indeed they have repeatedly begged me to stop both with words and deeds, but I know a foul demon for what ti is and I have my champion in the blond lion Lestat, who chases the monsters from my path and drops the flower petal of litrerary inspiratiom before my every step, and as long as I can hear the swish of his velvet coat in front of me, then I know I am safe from you and your kind that seek so to harm me with your little barbs, your claims of history and Logic, mthat have naught to do with the world in which I live. IF you indeed are so offended, then I urge you to return your books ot my home 438 Don’t Giveafuck Street, Kissmyass, Lousianaa, care of Lestat. And beware, my dear, beware the dark night where the rustle of a tree might well disguise the soft step fo a man who seeks ot do you…harm.


Eileen has a Master’s Degree in Professional Writing and Editing from George Mason University. Frequent target of fallen angels, Eileen hides from their seductive wrath in the hallowed confines of Defenestration HQ, where she hopes to erect a wall of words between herself and the forces of evil.

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