Norman Spinrad - The Fat Vampire

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THE FAT VAMPIRE

Norman Spinrad

1 rue Maitre Albert

Paris France 7500

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When she returned from puking up the meat course in the ladies' room, the deserts were already on

the table, enormous platters of profitrole au chocolate--six balls of vanilla ice cream encased in puff

pastry and swimming in lakes of deep dark fondant.

"I took the liberty...." Armand said suavely, smiling at her as he wrapped his lips around a dripping

spoonful.

Christine had never met a man like Count Armand Kubescu before.

True, Los Angeles was awash in slick continental types laying claim to nebulous titles of nobility,

dressing like Ruritanian diplomats, and living it up with no visible means of support. It was an old

Hollywood tradition. They fronted fancy restaurants and clubs, pimped for sleazy porn producers, sold

real estate or used Mercedes, or gigoloed for ancient has-been starlets flush with the proceeds of their

latest divorce.

Like most of these counts from central casting, Armand Kubescu had thick straight black hair

impeccably groomed in some unisex Beverly Hills salon, intense dark eyes under dramatic brows, and a

light generalized European accent. Like most of them, he was slim, graceful, affected a languid William

F. Buckley slouch, and seemed ageless.

Ordinarily, Christine Coleman avoided such creatures like the plague they were. If they weren't gay,

they were impotent, and if they weren't impotent, they were into slimy fetishes or dumb bondage

numbers. If they weren't out to sell you something, they were out to sell you.

Indeed, in a certain twisted sense, they were a form of competition, predators working the

neighboring ecological niche. Christine understood them all too well.

For Los Angeles was even more abundantly awash in beautiful women of a certain age which made

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file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20documenten/spaar/Norman%20Spinrad%20-%20The%20Fat%20Vampire.txt

them a bit long in the tooth for starlets, with a sprinkling of walk-on credits extracted on low- budget

casting couches, a garage apartment in the hills, and a cranky twelve-year old used Porsche. Women

just short of enough acting talent to make it as tv bit players, possessed of just enough pride to prevent

them from sliding into hookerdom or the fading porn industry, and too indolent, face it, to wait tables in

topless bars.

Women, who, like Christine, surfed through life at the fringes of The Industry via affairs with tv

writers, minor-league actors, and production managers, odd jobs in Santa Monica boutiques, a very

occasional walk-on in a commercial, ectoplasmic this, and crystal- channeling that.

The Count Kubescus and the Barons of Brentwood worked the feminine flip-side of much the same

turf, and while the competition from them might be rather oblique, the idea of actually dating one of

them had always struck Christine as the moral equivalent of fag haggery. Like, what was the point?

To see whose reach for the check could be slowest?

But Armand Kubescu was different.

The man could eat.

It had been fascination, if not exactly lust, at first sight.

Allie Ellison had been one of Christine's closest girlfriends before she married Alex the Plastic

Surgeon; in fact it had been Allie who had taught her the art of vomiting. How to tickle the back of the

throat with a forefinger, the necessity of brushing after every in between course barf in order to avoid

both halitosis and enormous dental bills.

"Bulimia, schmulemia," Allie had assured her, "Everyone who's anyone does it, hon. Jackie Onasis.

Jane Fonda. Margaret Thatcher. Nancy Reagan. It's as American as apple pie alamode with chocolate

sauce. Or you rather spend the rest of your life on lettuce and Rye-crisp?"

Christine had always had a sweet tooth, had always loved pasta, and barbecue, grease burgers and

fried chicken, mashed potatoes with country gravy, huge steaks, slabs of bread slathered with butter or

cheese, guacamole, cheetos, anything with chocolate, everything with whipped cream, and it all had a

tendency to go straight to her belly and ass.

Having spent most of her adult life on starvation diets punctuated by occasional guilt-ridden binges,

Christine had nursed a secret hatred for the sylphan Allie, who seemed capable of cramming anything

and everything down her dainty throat without ever gaining an ounce, until Allie had revealed the

Hollywood Diet Secret.

Then they had become the best of bathroom buddies, even engaging in projectile vomiting contests

for accuracy and distance from time to time. If only men knew what really went on when the girls went

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Norman Spinrad - The Fat Vampire

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