Chapter 4. Mistaken For Necrophilia

I remember when it was yesterday I first started developing my interests in other women. I was an immature youth, a hyper sexualized youth. I could go all day masturbating and never broke a sweat.

It was that kind of day you felt like masturbating to chicks in Jesus sandals, in the privacy of your own computer. Imaginary double straps of doom coming down to stomp on your lady junk. Nothing would make you not a horny dog for the pleasing aroma of stinky leather sandals rubbing against your junk. It wasn't like slides, designed specifically for soccer. These had a very specific so bad their good quality, along with the groovy bottom souls especially identifiable. Her tie die shirts bounces as she does you lying down, her sitting on you in bed, with her bare bottom exposed. All all you want to do is smack that ass at the bottom of her shirt. Paddles are the way to go. Smack, smack, smack goes the paddle whack.

And that's when you say a day is done.

I turned off the computer and waited to go to bed, however I couldn't get specific erotic images out of my head. So I simply dealt with the images as my hyper sexualized self, and kept masturbating to girls in Jesus sandals until the night was over. I've always wondered why I always had a hard time sleeping, whether it's imagining Catherine Howard in my imagination brushing her Jesus sandals against my junk. The long haired version that is, as there seems to be multiple beheaded versions. I picture Ms. Howard's decapitated head licking her junk.

And she goes "Oh what a hunk."

But I'm not a hunk. I'm Hemato Tomato.

I'm a chunky girl. At the time I considered myself something of a necrophiliac, though it wasn't until later I came to realize that it wasn't necrophilia. Rather it had to do with the sexual satisfaction for blood.

I had just started going to see James, and it was a little before I met Anna-Marie. I needed some kind of father in my life, and at the time my father was a guillotine gun head figure. He was someone I never could completely trust, and someone who was as much of a godlike figure as anything else. I lived in a time when the French had secured their final take over of the United States, the British gradually having less and less influence over time in a final bid to maintain dominance after 1989. At first the people, as fickle as they are, initially took a liking to French control.

Though over time it became more like choosing the lesser of two evils, the lesser evil becoming more power hungry over time and gradual securing their place in what would have been a new mainstream America. French became an international mandated second language. I deliberately failed that class as a way of giving my nation the middle finger out of a feeling of total betrayal. So meeting James, who had mastered the French language, had an initial thing not going for him in my mind. But sense he was a guy and not a woman I was willing to give him a chance.

That was the difference between men and women, specifically French men and women. You didn't exactly expect much out of men, but part of the sexual blood lust appeal of French women was part of that feeling of total betrayal of having those total expectations broken, the feeling of being one with a murderess. And on some level I justified to myself not doing business dealings, and eventually even going to an especially rare guillotining to determine the depth of my sexual satisfaction.

And then I would eventually meet Anna-Marie.

I was originally reluctant to form a friendship with her, given my other trust issues regarding British, Germans, and French women specifically. I found that as long as I could take her a bit at a time from a distance, I could form a hateful but polite courtship who I viewed as the damned.

So our pairing was doomed from the start.

And so that's how the context of this epitaph will framed.

And then burnt in flames.

Many of the issues I had developed I mistook for necrophilia. I found satisfaction in the idea of digging up corpses and being with beheaded women everything, particularly if they were of French descent. It was the kind of love/hate relationship with certain groups of people because of negative associations they bring you. I suppose that's why I never took the offer for dates before.

There are some things that society refuses to talk about, particularly when things are perceived to be of a sexually violent nature. Whether that's extreme spanking or beheading by the ax, or in my own personal preference at the time and still is French girls getting it in the neck for murder. It was a secret I had kept for so long, and I was unwilling to explore the specific issue in my psychology.

It wasn't like a fetish, like some people had. But rather it was a kind of kink that had developed over time. My kinks had originally been rather mild and tame. Most of those began to win I was first turning into a teenager.

One of the girls, that would later come to influence a character in one of my books, I dreamed was in my bedroom I always wanted to avoid. She was wearing a summer camp outfit, and pair of Jesus sandals. I developed the association with those sandals being worn by girls who were mean to you in front their friends, but also almost creepily nice to you when they were not around. This tended to be all the girls that crushed on me, and looking back on it I think I had more girls crushing on me than I wanted to admit at the time do to my lack of self-esteem.

And then she came as if from a dream, another girl that descended from my darkest and wildest fears. "You know, I would like you. But you're kind of ugly. Not that ugly, but kind of ugly." At the playground. It didn't help the fact that her last name was French, although I had come to block her name out of my mind.

So in school I tended to keep largely to myself, avoiding most friendships. It was a time when I still had to wear boys clothes despite being female, one of the things no other minority group would ever have to experience. I began to develop feelings of hatred to girls who wore Jesus sandals. It didn't matter that this hatred wasn't rational, I simply wanted to avoid anyone who wore them. And so when I saw girls be nice to be who wore Jesus sandals, I wasn't sure how to feel at first.

There was a blond girl who would always smile at me in typing class in my Freshman year. While I found her cute there was something about her I found that I couldn't trust, although I couldn't exactly put my finger on what. All I knew was I didn't trust her, and wanted the government to black bag her at night, take her to some kind of dark bleak prison, and then shoot her neck with a guillotine gun. I unfortunately developed a lady hard on. I was freaking out in my mind. And then the other girls who were brunettes were tapping dancing in their potato shoes as a way of mocking me for my interest in ladies wearing wooden shoes. So whatever trust I had that the blond girl was being legitimately nice when smiling at me was out the window.

Guillotine guns were based on the Burger guillotine, they simply became more hand held and increasingly electronic over time. All one needed to do was pull the trigger, hold it like one would hold a knife gun, and then while looking through a telescope they would press a button to lock their tiny necks in a stock, and then after waiting for about a minute to let them breath their last breath, pulled the trigger.

It was thought to be as humane as you could make execution, as humane as rounding up people in the streets and beginning to commit a kind of genocide against those of Scottish/Irish. All this was happening inside my mind.

My high school life would be changed forever.

Until that is I met Anna-Marie.

Who gave me an actual chance in life, and yet the government take her away from me at the slice of an angled blade. At night I dreamed about the memory of hers eyes continuing to make around. Her eyes would constantly crying do to some pain she only has in her neck but cannot vocalize. When I saw her head in the basket, I was lost and didn't know myself.

It was the first time I ever cried. The girl that died feeling heart broken, because of my sexual interest that she found out about me. I found out for the first time in my, the state did not care about humanity. They only cared about vengeance. Vengeance against who you might ask? I had no clue, I simply wanted to go and off myself somewhere, so I could be with my darling Anna-Marie again.

I remembered the pictures in cyberspace, grabbing pictures of anime girls getting it in the neck. I remembered the women who would be paddled in school, I wanted everything to melt all away. I tried writing about this experience the first time, but it was suggested I get rid of it by my father. He didn't want me to became a famous writer, if I ever could, and didn't want me drawing undo negative attention on our family. It wasn't like we already got great attention, with the news occasionally drawing attention to physical abuses down to my brothers and sisters.

I held it all inside, stayed away from the world.

It was the first time that I felt truly alone. I felt that my life had no purpose to existence besides to rot. I began to neglect my own body, and staying in bed for so long after high school. I began to dream of blond women at night, haunting the nature of my reality. I began to rot and become psychologically prone to suggestion. Among those was coming to terms with the question why I had not yet decided to dig up Anna-Marie's body and fuck her.

Well obviously because that's morally wrong. As I said, there was some conditions society refused to talk about. For long time even homosexuality and gender non-conformity was considered something rather taboo. And at times I would be alone imaginary little fairy girls and elf girls saying pick-a-boo. I would role play in my mind little stories about fairy girls getting it in the neck.

There was something deep inside me, that wanted something different in my life. It was difficult to articulate. I had always wanted to write middle-grade novels, but my parents would always tell me how books for children were not considered art. And they knew that I had briefly dated Anna-Marie before she died. But I knew that for her there were some aspect of her childhood she never told me herself. Over time I gave it up, and learned to restrain my tears.

I just wanted people to be happier.

Even if it meant writing a novella about a parricidal killer. I would change her name slightly, toiling on the project nightly. I would work all the way through my despair. My condition was subtle, and yet apprehensible. Yet over time I found there was something inherently different about me and my relationship with other people that could not simply be described as a mere case of necrophilia. I wanted to be with Anna-Marie in death and the afterlife.

I just didn't want to open her tomb.

Not pry it open with a knife.

It was one of those days I had a hard time finishing lines for one of my beheading reference poems. O the short girl walking up the stairs .. but I had no lyrics for the poem, of the tragic life of a fisherman's wife.

I wanted to write a short tale about a fisherman who comes home to find his wife has been decapitated by the ax. I had this way of taking semi-autobiographical elements and turning it into a science fiction and fantasy story, although I refused to associate with science fiction and fantasy magazines and other aspects of that particular culture. Yet I had no experience being on the sea. I had only sailed briefly with my dad, when he would take a break from his work. After all even if he killed my girlfriend and I hated him for it, he wanted to somehow bring me back to his side.

But then I thought of the poor Anna-Marie, something other than myself. I remembered when she told me about the death of her mother, and how it gradually drove her father insane. He would always comment before she died, about how he was never quite the same after her decapitation by the ax in another country she was visiting, and so he never got to return her to France. I suppose criminal intent was a family lineage, yet I saw something in Anna-Marie that wanted her families side to have its story. And so I tried to think of yet more lyrics:

O the short girl walking up the stairs,

Is turning gray, mixed with dirty blond hair.

In her wooden clogs that abruptly come to a point,

With her arms behind her back,

She dies beyond the scaffold stairs.

It wasn't quite what I wanted it to be, but it was something for now. I wanted to come up with even more lyrics. So I went all out:

With a German dress she leans on the block,

Waiting, waiting for the ax to drop.

When the blade goes a lop,

Tumbling curly dirty blond hair goes down,

Into the basket.

Yuck, far to blatant it was. I wanted something was was more about the husband, so I didn't want to focus on her mother's death for to long:

Here is the broken thief,

Who stole a coral reef / on a fisherman's boat.

She tossed her husband off the boat,

Not intended him to drown,

Before drowning in her own sorrows.

I felt like I was getting into the rhythm of the poem, though I wasn't exactly sure what the concluding lyrics would be. But I decided, I going to finish it:

Heres is the thief,

Whose life came to a stop.

Together they join hands in Purgatory,

Beyond the light in a pop.

The tragic life,

Of a fisherman's wife.
 

I found my soul suddenly felt much more free, and so I hid the manuscript as far away as I could from my father. I had accidentally eluded to my father the exact particulars of my sexual interest, although not in the exact details that were in my head, and all the nuance.

For my own sanity he made it forbidden for me to participate in further guillotining of women. For now on I would only participate in the execution of boys. He would decapitate girls in my absence. For someone who was almost never around in my life, it was strange how he felt guilty for allowing me to participate in the demise of Anna-Marie, watching her vision fade slowly all those years ago. I absolutely hate my father, I want him gone from this world.

So I closed the night with a final dream before going to sleep that night: Upon the sand, of rising sea was once a shovel to see. Where time stood still, and the children in wooden shoes sang the blues of the sea. When the sister laughed, the other carried a shovel, then shifted the castle in half. The imprints of time forgotten, seas not benefit for the sand. I was not begotten many thoughts of the new castle, which gave way to the sea. Come enjoy the memory, swimming out to the sea. Swim out, to the castle of the rising sea. And so this formed the basis for a children's poem. I would later publish that poem on an cyberspace locale.

While nobody cared to listen, I found myself freed. Because I would have liked to imagine the happy childhood Anna-Marie's kids could have had.

But nobody would listen, I thought. It was my condition.

I mistook myself for a necrophiliac.