“No Costume for Me”

By James Callan

No Costume for Me

When he told me that he had charmed me I made the excuse. I said to myself, of course, he’s a vampire. He’s working his voodoo magic. Projecting his aura, all seduction, heavy with oo-la-la. It had me buckling at the knees, that twinkle in his eye. Supernatural plucking of heartstrings. Music to my ears and to every other fibre of me. Intoxication with a stare. Like a warm current of please-douse-me-from-head-to-toe-and-don’t-miss-a-spot, I bathed in those waves of vampire magic.

That was my excuse. That he had charmed me. The vampire. My excuse for why I was swooning for another guy. Because all the other times I had managed to hold those feelings at bay. On all other occasions I had kept them hidden away like vampires sleeping through the daylight in coffins in deep, castle dungeons. But against the power of his unholy charm, what on earth was a fellow to do? I was powerless against his enchantment. All I could do was give in. Give in and hope the night ended with our clothes on the floor.

His fangs gleamed in the moonlight as he smiled.

Then he casually took out the plastic teeth and put them in his blue denim Levis. Some kids across the street were smashing pumpkins. The vampire had removed the mouthpiece to better articulate the curses he shouted at them. ‘Assholes,’ he muttered afterwards and didn’t bother to put the fangs back in.

He picked me up at the bar. Everyone was in costume for Halloween. I didn’t bother. I was just me. Just a guy. I was hoping a girl would come up to me because I wasn’t in the mood to get drunk but I knew it was the only way I’d have the courage to make a move. So I waited for a girl. And I didn’t have to wait long. For a boy.

God, he is cute, I thought. Then winced and looked away. I pushed away my ginger ale and called for the barman to make me a vodka tonic.

‘Nice costume,’ he said to me, so close I felt his breath on my ear.

I melted. Turned away because I was trying to seal that spark in those castle dungeon coffins. ‘Yeah, well, Halloween isn’t really my thing.’ I told him.

‘Really?’ He sipped at his Bloody Mary, playing the part, because he was dressed up like Count Dracula or some other creature of the night. ‘I bloody love it! (No pun intended.)’

I laughed through my nose, kept my mouth from smiling.

‘So what is your thing?’ He asked me.

I turned to look at him and as I did I could think of nothing other to say than ‘You…you are my thing.’ I didn’t, of course. I just stared at that beautiful, undead creature before me with his ashen skin and midnight hair and blue, blue eyes. I didn’t say anything. And I didn’t need to. He must have seen it in my eye. Maybe the half vodka tonic had loosened me up just enough to let my poker face fall to shit. In any case, I didn’t need to speak.

The vampire took my hand and I let him. I turned to jelly as he walked me across the bar and out into the night. The city streets and wet pavement blurred with reflective sheen as I blinked and breathed to stay sane. I was delirious, heady with a swarm of sensations. They bombarded me all at once. But among that whirlwind of countless emotions, among the infinite debris in a chaotic toilet swirl of jumbled stuff, greatest of all, like a white hot electric slap on the ass…thrill. Thrill in letting go. Thrill in the form of lust, unbridled. Raw and real and just like me, no costume. No mask. Thrill in its most empowering form.

We walked and we talked and we leaned into each other and we laughed and we were quiet. He chewed gum and I declined his offer for a stick of my own but still tasted the cinnamon when we kissed. We walked some more and we parted ways. Happy Halloween.

We didn’t end the night with our clothes on the floor. But we did end our night with one last kiss. In the end I didn’t even get his name. And in the end, I didn’t care. What was more important - far more important - is that the night ended with a new notion, bold and bright, a new stance, firm and fulfilling, seared into the forefront of all that is me.

The night ended by being the last night that I would wear a costume, Halloween or any other day. Never again. No costume for me. Never again will I wear a mask.

 James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He lives on the Kapiti Coast, New Zealand on a small farm and takes care of his little boy, Finn.