Josie and Alena—Ringing in the New Year: A Vampire Relationship Guide Short
This short story takes place when vampires were still in hiding.
“To-night we’re gonna party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine … because it is! Wah-hooo!” Alena had been sing-songing the same lame joke all day and I was about over it. Unlike her, I didn’t feel good about going out tonight. First, I’d had to call in sick at the restaurant in order to get this New Year’s Eve off. Second, I really didn’t have anything to wear.
At twenty, with long, curly blonde hair and big tits, it should have been easy, but supporting myself at three different low-paying gigs didn’t exactly equate to building a hot groupie’s wardrobe. “I don’t have anything to wear, Alena. Like, nothing.”
“It’s not a high-fashion event, Josie. Just, like, wear your cargo pants and a tank. You’ll look hot, but like you didn’t try to be.”
“I guess. Where are we going, anyway?”
“It’s this awesome house on the beach that this hot friend of mine owns. It’s gonna rock like it’s nineteen—”
“Yeah, I got it, ninety-nine, ’cause it is! Wah-hoo. Now, back to my outfit. Some guy’s house on the beach? That sounds like rich people to me.” Not that there was anything wrong with that … I just didn’t know how to be comfortable around rich people, being so far down past the poverty line myself. Rich people made me sweaty.
“Whatever, J. You’re being weird. You’re not gonna marry this dude. You’re, like, just going to his party. You don’t need anyone’s approval. Just get dressed—let’s go! The Y2K-compliant road soda’s already in the car!”
Road soda. That meant that Alena would be drinking while I tried to navigate the party-night beach bar traffic on my own. I readied my army-green cargo pants, brown sandals and a beige tank top that showed my almost too-fat belly. It would be a few years before I had to tuck that thing away, never to be seen again.
Of course, Alena didn’t have to worry about wardrobe problems the way I did. She was tall and thin with a perfect body and her parents (she had a whole two of them, and they had jobs and everything) paid for her college education and her living expenses. So her peach halter top and brown trousers looked like they’d just stepped off the set of Beverly Hills 90210.
“Oh—I forgot to ask—did you get a hold of Matthew? Is he coming?”
I sighed and fantasized a moment before answering. Matthew was the tall, luscious brunet I’d been lusting over for the past year. A long-legged runner with short hair, a smooth chest, and a sense of sarcasm to match my own, he was the assistant manager of the shoe store where I worked Tuesdays through Thursdays. We were meant to be, as far as I was concerned. If only he would realize that and ask me out. We’d hung out often, watched some movies at his house and gone to dinner, but usually as part of a group. While we had a lot of one-on-one time in these group settings, and we hit it off amazingly, he hadn’t made a move to elevate us from friendship to sexship.
“No, I called Matthew but there was no answer.”
“Sucks to be him, because you’re gonna get lucky tonight—I just know it! Now get dressed, it’s getting late. I need to kiss someone at midnight and I’d like the person I kiss not to be you.”
I stuck out my tongue at her and looked at my clock. It was already ten thirty, and we still needed to find this obscure beach location, so I threw on my clothes and makeup, and spritzed my hair one last time. Alena and I ran out of my one-room efficiency and into my rust-and-white hatchback. Sure enough, the drink holders in the front held cups filled with blue slushie and a suspicious brown swirl. I couldn’t afford to lose my license since that would make it impossible for me to get to work, but that didn’t matter because both cups were actually for slam-a-drink-down Alena, my favorite irresponsible party girl.
As predicted, I drove while Alena jammed to Prince—I swear, I wanted the year to be over just so I’d never have to hear that song again—and Faith Hill, who was reminding us to breathe. It was full dark and I was having a hard time finding the right side street to turn down to reach the party house, but after a few wrong turns, u-turns and honked horns, I found the road to Partyville.
Once I located the house, a fact that Alena clued me onto by yelling, “Yo, party people! We have arrived!” out her window as we drove past, I had to find a place to park. Concerned that my old but faithful car would overheat if I drove it much longer, I settled for a spot across the street and a few houses down.
I worried over my hair and makeup for a minute, wondering if my brown lipstick was dark enough, then followed Alena who’d already slammed my squeaky passenger side door and was now drunk running to get to the house. Freak.
I caught up with her just as she was simultaneously pounding on the door and opening it. As she leaned into the entrance, someone must have pulled the door from the inside because Alena fell forward and ended up in the arms of a tall, handsome man with hair the color of tree bark. Not a college student, a man—with man stubble and everything. I watched as she realized she was in someone’s arms, and moved her head to look up at his clearly defined jaw.
“Um, like, hi,” she said doing her best, I’m just a shy girl act. If this dude fell for it, he’d be in for one hell of a surprise later.
“Hello,” his deep tenor voice emerged smoothly and his plush lips curved around every word as if it were the body of his lover. Alena stayed planted in his accidental embrace like a conjoined twin and I just sort of stood awkwardly on the stoop of the little beach shack. I couldn’t see much beyond the door because the inside was dark and smoky, but I did hear some great techno music coming from within, which made me want to shake a little, even though I generally didn’t dance.
Eventually, the dude holding Alena just sort of turned back into the party with her still snug in his arms. I scuttled in behind them, smoothing the front of my cargo pants and self-consciously tugging at my half-shirt. I stood next to Alena and her accidental captor and tried to look around the room. Once the door behind me was closed, blocking out the street lamps and the porch light, my eyes were able to adjust to the dark red glow of the room and I could see the other partygoers.
All the other male partygoers … because Alena and I were the only females there.
Now we were getting somewhere. Because I might not like dancing, or drinking, or parties in general, but I damn sure do like boys. And being one of only two girls at a beach party? Yes, please!
I fluffed my hair again, which must’ve been about the thirtieth time, and stood a little bit straighter, pointing my tits up and out the way only a desperately single girl can. Alena was still wrapped up in her babelicious dude, so I decided to circulate.
First, I walked around just to get the lay of the land and identify any hot pockets of men. I grabbed an icy cold bottle and made my way through the room, sipping occasionally, trying to look cool by not making the crunchy “gross” face I usually end up with when drinking beer.
But the more I traversed the space, the more I realized that every single huddle of men was its own hot pocket. Every single dude in this place was the hottest man I’d ever seen. I decided to circle back and find Alena and figure out how to handle this hotti-tosterone overload when I started to get a better look at the men in the room.
The men in the room who were beginning to kiss each other.
Okay, not every guy in the room was kissing another guy, but in each little party clique there seemed to be one pair of guys cuddling, kissing, nuzzling or, in the case of the group on the couch, stroking each other in a way better left for private time.
And that’s when I realized why Alena and I were the only two females there. Because this crowd of men had no use for females. They had it all covered on their own.
This realization made the party infinitely better. No longer forced to worry about my hair, makeup or outfit, I totally let go and danced my funky chicken moves like never before. I even ended up with a shopping date so good looking, he’d make a Greek God both jealous and horny.
Unfortunately, Alena didn’t handle the disappointment so well. She took it upon herself to ask every single man there if he was gay, and then if he was sure he was gay. Because apparently, each man’s desire to only sex up other men wasn’t proof enough for her. I’m kinda surprised she didn’t ask all of them to put it in writing.
At midnight, Alena and I each grabbed a friendly but reluctant gay stranger to peck on the lips, then we blew our kazoos. It was now the year 2000 and there was a collective pause as everyone looked around to see if Y2K really had made all the clocks stop and the world blow up—but everything was fine.
John, the man I’d kissed, asked me, “What’s your name again? I want to always remember the girl I kissed on Y2K.”
I laughed. “It’s Josie. Josie Decker.”
“No way—you’ve got to be kidding me? The Josie Decker?”
“What, am I, like, famous or something? I don’t have a sex tape floating around, do I?”
John laughed and said, “None that I’d know about. No, it’s just that I’ve heard a lot about you from Matthew.”
I stared at John, my eyes surely boring a hole into his head. Maybe I could get some dirt on how Matthew felt about me from this new, surprise character witness. “Oh, cool. How do you know Matthew?”
“Oh, everyone here knows him. His boyfriend is my ex. They were both here—they left right before you came in.”
“His … boyfriend?” I asked it quietly, trying overly hard to modulate my voice. The shout of an excited, drunk partier drowned out my response and John moved on to some more masculine entertainment.
I grabbed Alena and told her how my dreams of dating Matthew had been dashed in one fell swoop. (It should be noted that her response not only helped me get over this hump but also pushed me forward—to Walker, my one true love.) She said—her voice slurred and eyes half-closed, “Josie, iffa man wantsa have sex with another man, you gotta move on. Izs done. You go to another man that wantsa vagina.” Then, shoving her long bony finger into my chest, she said, “Because a vagina’s what you haff to offer.”
That’s Alena for you. Pragmatic to the end.
Evelyn Lafont is an author and freelance writer with an addiction to Xanax and a predilection for snark. She is the author of several books including, The Vampire Relationship Guide , which follows a clueless human named Josie as she sets out to date a vampire. Her books are available on Amazon and her website. For humor in small, portable doses, you can follow her on Facebook.
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And Thank you soo soo much Evelyn for featuring this story here!! You are totally tubular!!lol