Of course, my kind doesn’t require our prey to be nude, just alive. During the last several decades,  as the population of humans has exploded, it’s become rather too easy to find food. With so much quantity, I have become pickier, and the presentation of the prey now matters almost as much as what flows in their veins. Fashion Week gives me the opportunity to patiently inspect prey and winnow down my choices to only the most delectable. And that is just what I did!

The taste of blood really does vary — rather like the nuanced variation of wines. Sophisticates can taste even the variations in weather on the grapes. And while all wine has more or less the same alcohol content and inevitably will get you drunk, some vintages do so in such a palate-pleasing, luxurious way. The blood of a balding, middle-aged slightly obese man may satisfy my primal need for blood, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth for days. The refined taste of a young model with firm breasts and a long, velvety neck — whose blood has yet to be contaminated by life — oh, this is as sweet as mother’s milk to a newborn.

For those humans reading this, let me put it in terms you may understand. If you’ve ever selected a lobster out of its lonely last-testament tank, you pick the plumpest, the one with the best color, the most lively. Now with so many choices, I have the luxury of being able to know as much as possible about what I am poised to ingest. What better way to inspect your meal than naked, or near naked. Of course, in this age — unlike the dreadfully boring Victorian era — it’s not difficult to find men and women practically naked in so many different venues: dance floors, bath houses, casinos, strip clubs — or I can simply entice someone to me with the promise of sex or money.

But models are a different breed. What truly attracts me to the annual couture decadence in New York every year is the palpable terror emanating from just beneath their pale skin. Who will notice them? Will they be ignored? Will Anna give a nod? Will Tavi deign to blog? Am I pretty enough? Thin enough? This mix of fear and sensuality, combined with physical beauty, is a rare and irresistible appetizer. Exquisite. This year, my taste was immediately tempted by the raven-haired ingénue strutting the catwalk for the first time, I sensed his luscious terror of the footlights, and was charmed by the tremble in his knees.

Unsurprisingly, I ran into some old — and by that I do mean ancient — friends this week. Fashion Week has become a bit of reunion of sorts for my kind. It’s hard to resist the gourmet treats. This year — as in years past — we’ve complained about how the culinary attractions are no longer living up to past experiences. There is simply not enough blood in those malnourished little humans for a decent feeding. The stubborn trend of near skeletal thinness of the models continues to put a damper on the event.

Necessity is the mother of invention. This season I found a solution to the problem of the skinny models: twins. I was delighted to find a young designer who had five sets of twins in her show this year. She was all the rage for this clever piece of theatrical pageantry. It was wonderful. Even for me in this long, eternal existence, a week of twins presented a pleasant, if temporary, sense of novelty. I wonder how they will explain the disappearance of so many twins all at once? Ripped from the headlines and soon to be a plot line of a reality TV show, or one of those crime shows. And for those of you dying to know, their blood does indeed taste identical.поисковое продвижение сайта интернет магазина