Sex with corpses. Everybody thinks about it. They don’t want to talk about it openly, though. Slightly less harmful than pedophilia, equally stigmatized, and the quickest way to kill a conversation. Seriously, when’s the last time you had an open discussion about necrophilia with your friends or coworkers? We live in such a sexually repressed culture. Sad.
Let’s break free, shall we? Hell, our president once starred in a porno. The time for modesty is over.
Necrophilia suffers from heavy stigma. And yet, it’s a natural act. Biologists have documented acts of necrophilia in the wild among several species. The French didn’t coin the phrase “little death” for nothing.
A morgue worker once admitted publicly to having sex with more than 100 corpses. Not back in the late 19th century, either. Just a couple of years ago. His bosses made him do it at first, but then he learned to accept it. On top of that, nobody would date him. Girls were too creeped out by his job. Poor guy. So he just kept on fucking the dead. You know what? I’m skeptical. I don’t think anyone made him. I don’t think he did it just because he was lonely. I’ll bet a big part of him enjoyed it. More than once, a guy or two have dug up a chick for a little action. One physician kept his wife preserved for decades.
And of course, there’s that William Faulkner story.
Don’t judge this coroner’s assistant, at least not yet. A hundred corpses. That sounds bad. The journalist interviewing him judged. Asked him if he was nuts. The guy responded, “No.” I believe that. Here’s what I’m saying: Let’s overcome the whole “yuck” factor and consider that, yeah, some people still look pretty damn good as a corpse. Other people may have a natural inclination to fucking attractive dead people. That inclination is fine. It’s a form of sexuality.
Yet, we can’t make necrophilia legal. In fact, I consider it a form of rape. After all, your body belongs to you. I think you should have a say in what happens to your flesh after you die. A random stranger can’t just roll up into your house after your dead, bag up all your DVDs and computer. Right? That stuff still legally belongs to you and must be distributed according to your wishes. Same with your body. Doctors don’t just harvest your heart and lungs and kidneys after you die without written permission.
Maybe we should add a check box next to the organ donor one. U okay if the mortician cops a feel? Yes/No.
Your inclination to death sex might be natural. However: When you fuck a corpse, you’re still taking advantage of that person. You’re desecrating their remains. My family and friends probably wouldn’t be too cool with that.
So, let’s imagine I’m dead. I no longer exist, except as a deteriorating body. That doesn’t give anyone license to have their way with what used to be me. I have very clear instructions for my post-life. Cremation. That doesn’t include surprise butt stuff on my corpse. Maybe I’ll talk about this with my boyfriend. If he still finds me attractive, and wants one last coitus, that’s fine with me. The idea of it even turns me on a little. But a stranger? No thanks. He couldn’t even buy me a drink first.
Yeah, there’s a little necrophiliac in me. Maybe in you, too. I’ve fantasized about someone I love fucking me after I’m dead. Like I’m technically dead, but can still see and hear and feel. Necrophilia combines my other fetishes: dolls, rape, general taboo.
A couple of years ago, I watched an avante garde horror film about a coroner who has sex with a young woman’s body. It was oddly artistic. I enjoyed it.
On Second Life, you can find all kinds of morgue play toys. I’ve role-played with a couple of people in a virtual morgue. Sick? Go ahead, judge me. I don’t care. I have no regrets.
A few times, during sex, I’ve pretended I’m dead. Not in an obvious way. I’ve just imagined myself as a corpse.
When I was 12, I undressed and wrapped myself in toilet paper. Wanted to know what it felt like to be a mummy. My mom entered my bedroom and freaked. “What the hell are you doing?!” She ripped the Charmin off and pulled me to the edge of the bed. Hands on my knees, she hissed, “This is why everyone thinks we’re so weird. Because of you.” Then she stormed off.
If she only knew.
Later, I would become interested in art about death. One artist I know of makes sculptures with actual human remains. It’s some of the most beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen. One of my favorite photographers has documented the cremation process. Another one photographed the famous Body Farm. And yet another one has recreated crime scenes using fashion models. See? I’m not that weird. Or at least I’m not the only weird chick with a death fix.
Am I just trying to shock you? A little, but for good reason. We should be having these conversations. I’m working on a theory. For a while now, I’ve suspected that these taboo fetishes exist on a spectrum. You might not consider yourself a flat out necrophiliac. But don’t you tell me you wouldn’t fuck a hot girl or guy who happened to be dead. The thrill of doing something different or bad, of having someone else’s body in your complete control. There’s a reason why women’s dead bodies crop up so much in movies and TV.
Edgar Allen Poe believed there was nothing more beautiful than a dead woman. FOX made an entire series off that quote. We’ve always viewed death with a mix of fascination and dread. So if the featured image heats you up a little, don’t feel guilty.