Seeds Of Fear Read Free

sex, and why Count Dracula was so appealing both then and now. Victorian women weren't supposed to like sex, or to be wanton. It was control, then as now, that was important. Stephen King described the underlying theme thusly: The vampire was saying to these chaste Victorian ladies, "I will fuck you with my mouth, and you will love it."
    He is right, too. For both sexes, the concept of losing control in romance is somehow very attractive. I couldn't help myself becomes a catch phrase . . . I was drunk. It is the most human of states: to want to feel good, to feel better, or to not feel at all. We learn secrecy, new definitions of the truth. And a certain sense of assault develops in whatever mirror we choose to look into . . . because we take off many thousands of years of civilization when we dive beneath the sheets.
    I doubt women can appreciate how scary sex is for men. Perhaps this is why erotic horror pretty much revolves around a male readership. Since much of horror has gone the rather messy splatterpunk direction, that may be a limiting factor for some women's appreciation of the genre. But I think there are a lot of females who, like myself, enjoy erotic horror immensely. What about Camille Paglia, the bogeyman of feminism, admitting to a great love of bodice ripper novels, complete with the bare-chested man bending the gasping maiden near double over a stone bench! And THIS from a committed foe of the paternalistic, woman-bashing status quo?
    Guiltlessly, I'll admit my obsession for these wonderful erotic horror stories. So it's my great pleasure to welcome you to another spectacular volume of Hot Blood. Right now it is time to dim the lights, pull the covers up to your chin, and delve into these little gems of exotic terror (and if you're in bed with a significant other, be sure to check for fangs first!).

SCREAM QUEEN
Ronald Kelly
    T he images on the screen were black and white, grainy with too many dropouts. The sound was bad, harsh and scratchy. The music was even worse, too melodramatic. The scene was set somewhere up in the California mountains: a lot of boulders, dry grass, and scrubby underbrush.
    Ted Culman lay on the full-size bed, naked, his eyes glued to the nineteen-inch TV. The landscape was unremarkable, the backdrop for countless low-budget movies made in the fifties and sixties. The only distinguishing factor about the old flick appeared a moment later, rounding a boulder and walking up a dusty mountain trail.
    Ted sunk into the pillows at his back, as if settling into the cockpit of a jet fighter. He was in control now. The hand that rested on his belly crept toward his groin. Soon it was fisted around him, stroking. He was already aroused.
    The woman who appeared on the screen was a real beauty. Average in height, but noticeably buxom, her breasts swelling behind the cloth of her checkered blouse. She was platinum blond, much in the same style of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Her lovely face was partly obscured by too much lipstick, partly by a pair of white-framed sunglasses, circa 1956. Ted studied the woman's lower region: flaring hips encased in skintight white slacks, long shapely legs, and tiny feet slipped inside simple sandals.
    The woman on the screen made her way up the lonesome pathway, her hips swaying like a pendulum, her delicate jaw working on a gob of Wrigley's spearmint gum. Ted's hand quickened as a muffled roar sounded from offscreen and caused the woman to whirl in her tracks. An atrocious-looking swamp monster—all dangling latex and bulbous tennis-ball eyes—leapt down clumsily from a neighboring boulder, its thick arms extended in menace.
    That was when Ted closed his eyes, and let his imagination take over. As his hand went on autopilot, Ted imagined himself to be the shuffling creature. But there was no menace in his monstrous eyes, only desire; a desire shared by the woman he confronted. In a matter of seconds, his claws had torn past her blouse and bra, tossing