The vampire vampired vampires — there being no better verb to describe what vampires do. So, there is a definite need for such a verb as to vampire. The noun certainly exists, however, even if the thing which the noun names does not.

In any event, whatever the grammatical niceties, the vampire in question vampired other vampires. Better than a self-draining onanism. Better, even, than vampiring rosy-cheeked maidens (especially from the victim’s point of view, needless to say, whether or not there was any need to say it). But if vampires don’t exist prima facie why all this concern over one particular vampire whose fancy was to vampire others of his (or her) kind? Well, in short, and with no further preamble, I was (if not am) that vampire.

My teeth were long and so sharp they would have given off silly sparkling stars at their points if I were in a cartoon on TV. I could not reflect very well. (Well, anyone can see that for themselves, so no need to dwell on that point.) I had a strange inexplicable loathing of anything connected with the Christian Church. A regularly occurring aversion to daylight. A phobia of garden fence manufacturers. And, surprise surprise, a shake-down full of crumbly dirt. So, if I were not a vampire, nobody was.

And I went vampiring at night (the verb being intransitive as well as transitive). I met others of my persuasion. We sucked each other off. Really lapped it up. Then home in time for a good day’s kip. Often, the sun would be just rising as I turned the key in the door of my lock-up. And prickles would rise on the back of my neck. I knew I was being watched. One’s body always sensed such things. Ring-fenced. Criss­crossed. Each had its reflex reflection in my body and/or mind. I even knew when somebody was writing about me, circumscribing me. I had dreams, erotic dreams, wild wild dreams as well as more mundane ones, any such dreams as the writer cared to give Earth stowaways such as me. That’s how I knew. And I also know when he (or she) stops writing - I stop vampiring.