Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / The Chosen of God Part 11

DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

Part Eleven
by: The Brat Queen

Winner: Best Lestat '98-'99!

Characters: Lestat, Armand
Spoilers: Up to TotBT
Description: In response to Jester of God, Lestat tells his life story.

Rated R for upsetting adult content

Warning: CoG contains triggering elements. If you know what "triggering" means you may wish to not read this. If you don't then just be warned that it and Jester of God are very similar.

Author's note: This part might make more sense if you first read Armand's views on Music in Part 9 of Jester of God.

Music, brother? Fair enough, and not without a point or two, but let us discuss sex.

Shocking to many, I know, is the fact that sex has been one of many topics of conversation I've participated in lately. Sex, and you, but as we know these are not necessarily one in the same.

I've promised not to talk about you in this and I'll keep that promise, unless prompted to do otherwise by none other than yourself.

So, sex.

Sex is without a doubt the most dishonest thing I have ever known. I have a companion who considers it the opposite, however only with the disqualifier that the only person who can be assured of any insight from the action is someone who is not participating in it.

Which may be true. Perhaps to a third party some insight can be gained by learning of the actions of two other people. As my companion pointed out, there is something to be said regarding whether or not sex is being had and with whom someone is having it.

I suppose.

But let's take the two partners, shall we?

Sex is contempt.

I will make this even clearer: I have contempt for absolutely everyone I have had sex with.

Sex disgusts me. Especially with men. Women, of course, have no previously created emotional attachments within me (my dear mother included in this) so they are somewhat exempt from this. However they are only exempt in that they are a bit more likely to fall under the concept of "fun" rather than "sex" when they were my bedmates.

Only a bit more likely.

So we are going to ignore them.

For now.

Men.

Let's paint a picture.

Take a man, any man. You'd be correct if the first image you thought of was my father but in truth any man will do. Picture this man however you like. Perhaps he's tall, perhaps short. Perhaps his hair is dark, perhaps it's fair. American, Italian, Japanese - these details do not matter.

Imagine now, if you will, what our man is thinking.

I'm in the room with him, and there is attraction of course. With few exceptions, there is always attraction. You know this. Quite a lot of our kind do, even when they were mortal. Most of us are incredibly attractive.

But it is also honest to say that a few, such as you and I, are a bit more attractive than most.

At this point, brother, I think you can start to fill in some of the blanks as to what I am thinking as I regard our gentleman, but I've learned never to assume with you so I shan't say this for certain.

Getting back to the situation at hand, we have a gentleman who looks at me with the tiniest bit of an idea inside of his head that feeling my body against his might please him.

What happens now?

Now I consider our gentleman. I do not sleep with everyone in the entire world so we already know that there is some sort of criteria for my bedmates to pass. We shall assume that our friend here has passed it. How? Who knows? Perhaps I find him vaguely interesting. Perhaps he is attempting to be a part of my life. Perhaps he's already a friend. There are many reasons why I do this. Pick any that you like.

Sometimes I do it because I hope it is love.

Sometimes.

In fact, let us even assume so. Let us paint what is perhaps the best case scenario for this situation and say that somehow my little heart has been struck and I desire this person for my partner. True desire on my part, true hope in my soul that I have found a companion.

Cruelly now, there comes the test.

I wonder if you know of it, and do it yourself. As I said before, I don't dare assume.

I suppose we shall see.

Back to our would-be lover in the meanwhile.

I have been told that I am pure sex. I have been told this by many people. Enough for me to assume there is something in this and also enough for me to report it here without any of my former or current lovers thinking that I am revealing the words they whisper to me in bed. Considering how different my lovers have been, and how they have felt about one another, I think it safe to say that a good deal of them have come up with this concept on their own without the influence of one another.

You, I have been told, are pure seduction. For what it's worth to you.

I will agree with my lovers. We are all given talents in life. One of mine - in addition to my music - is my sexual prowess.

Ah no - not my long list of bedmates, as most would use that term. No. Instead I refer to my sexual ability. An ability so fine and expertly tuned that I can discern the true sexual secrets of almost everyone.

Discern them, and use them mercilessly.

The first victim of this was my father.

He was easy.

The rest came naturally after that.

We all have hidden desires. Things that we don't tell anyone, sometimes even ourselves. But we secretly hope against hope that our lovers will fulfill them.

Most of my bedmates have discovered that I can fulfill theirs in ways that are almost frightening.

Take our patiently waiting gentlemen. There he is, thinking that he desires me. There I am, hoping in this instance that he too will fulfill my own dreams. So I approach him and like the best mind reader feel the impulses deep inside of him and I learn without even thinking about it what buttons to push.

I have found, for the most part, that most of my sexual partners have very similar desires.

What do they want? Submission first and foremost. Can you blame them? Who would not want to conquer me? Or to know that one as beautiful as I was their adoring slave? Few men, I find, can resist the idea of knowing they can control someone - anyone - with the palm of their hand.

So I purr at them, and give in to them, and continue to adapt.

Now we get into more fine tuning. What do they want next? It depends. Some want an experienced lover, others want a virgin. Often and unsurprisingly they want a youth.

After that it becomes even more specific to the man in question and his own hidden desires.

Their minds at this point are gone. Hormones completely rule them and they go deeper and deeper into the spell that is being woven, giving up all concepts of who or what I was for the vision that is currently before them and which fulfills their total and utter fantasies.

Completely and utterly pathetic.

And then they wonder where my contempt comes in.

It is - or rather should be - obvious.

The worship and desire in their eyes is not for me. Not truly. It is for my eyes and my lips and my cock and my body but it is never ever ever for me. And there, my brother, we discover their ultimate fantasy. They could not give a good God's damn about me truly. All their morals and values are dumped into what sums up as an extroverted session of intense masturbation. Let Lestat purr and coo at them. It's all they want. A pretty little oversexed toy to play with and never have to take care of.

Please.

I find it often only takes once for me to break the most stupidly insistent of my would-be lovers. However it must be said that even after I have done this I far too often delude myself into a few more sessions, convinced that the look of worship in their eyes is, this time, truly for me.

But even those relationships don’t tend to last very long.

The longest of these, of course, was with my father. After him I find I have spent my time with the expert in these matters and therefore do not care much for amateurs.

So there we have it. Finally and definitively it is stated the Lestat de Lioncourt, the Vampire Lestat, holds nothing but contempt for everyone he has or ever will have sex with.

There are no exceptions to this rule.

Take that as a condemnation of each and every one of my sexual partners or take it as a confession of my own contemptuous methods of sexual behavior if you will. Do whatever you want with it. I don't care.

Ah, but I can hear the protests now. The wails and lamentations for a romantic vision of me that is fading before everyone's eyes. So let me take just a moment to restore a little faith in me.

I feel contempt for those I have sex with.

Making love is another matter.

Few people have ever made love with me, but they are out there and I do adore them.

Making love is an incredible thing. It is something that I am still, to this very day, discovering. It is a stripping down of all of my barriers - and theirs - and a feeling of connection unlike any other, even the bond of blood.

This does not mean that some games are not played. Of course they are. But now, at least, the games are in fun. A shared enjoyment of some kinky entertainment, and of course always with some advance warning and an assurance of some sort of consent.

I enjoy making love.

And I will even make a small confession: One of the moments I enjoy most is when my lovers stop in the midst of things - even in the heat of passion - hold me still and tell me to stop. Stop acting, Lestat. Stop pretending. Be yourself. Be your flawed, selfish and arrogant self. That is what they find truly erotic.

I can't blame them. I find it to be that way myself.

And there's the final irony for all of my sexual partners who sought the fantasy of me. Every single one of them could not leave me colder. But those who seek me in love and true understanding find that I am almost unable to keep my hands off of them. And I most certainly find it near impossible to stop thinking erotic fantasies about them in my every waking moment.

I can't help but wonder if it's so much effort to ask in return for such reward.

My own arrogance again there, obviously.

The end for this letter then. No true tale told here, just a bit of insight.

I leave it to you to figure out who I have had sex with, and with whom I have made love.

And I'll leave you with the final bit of torment that sometimes - rarely, but often enough to matter to you - I have done both.

So perhaps the real question is which left the more lasting impression within me: the contempt, or the affection?

One can only wonder.

L.