Purity is a very powerful fiction. It's been keeping women in their place as long as there have been women. We covet it, because we are convinced that joy and complexity can't coexist. That to keep the candy, you can't have the sex. But the funny thing about purity is that it's always defined as an absence, as a lack. No taint, no complexity, no fear, no shame; whatever it is, purity denotes specifically an absence. It's negative space. And the thing you hope they learn is that, like any other empty page, it's worthless once you've written something, and realized there was never a point in purity. That sex and candy aren't opposites, it's not a choice you make, or a hill you go slipping down from grace: they're just two more ways we can get to pleasure. That the fight isn't about preserving purity, but in finding joy.
"How can you say that? I mean, I have fangs! And they just come out! And I can't control them, and..." He's so sweet, but it makes it worse. "This is so embarrassing," she moans. "I'd die if I wasn't already dead!" He shakes his head, insisting that she listen: "Don't be embarrassed about what you are. Because what you are is great." Hoyt, the way he says this, is sex and candy to some caffeinated, barely bearable, husky, adoring extreme never before captured on film. "You think I'm great?" she says, amazed, and he nods. "I like you. I like you a lot." He holds her hands and says that's why they should wait before moving on, and just see what this is like for awhile. But because it's Jessica -- my God, because it's Hoyt -- she throws that plan the fuck out and jumps him, fangs out and proud.
Bill parks outside Lafayette's house as Sookie begs him to let them help, but Lafayette just wants to lock himself inside and have his uncle deal with the bullet wound in the morning. "Your uncle the veterinarian?" Sookie spouts, and he's like, "He chops off steer nuts for a living? He can handle a few stitches." He reassures her for about a million years -- "Is she always like this?" -- and tells them both that, as far as he's concerned, "I spent the last two weeks at Club Med, drinking a margarita and getting my chest waxed," asking Bill to let all the vamps know that. Sookie gets that, the desire to just completely move on and deal in your own way, so she finally leaves him alone at least long enough to get free.
And inside, before he shuts the door and locks a million locks and climbs to the couch, barely sparing his things or apartment a glance, and pulls up an old quilt around himself and lies down, exhausted and hurting and terrified and ashamed, before he even gets the door closed, he's started to cry. But eventually his breathing calms down, into deep sobs, all alone in the night. A survivor.