Session Notes

Necrophilia

necrophilia

Function: noun

erotic attraction to or sexual contact with corpses.

obsessive fascination with death and corpses.

“I see dead people.

Well, all right, I do more than just see dead people. My psychiatrist likes to call it a “problem” but I like to think of it… as a habit; a fetish if it makes you feel any better. I don’t see anything wrong about the whole situation. It’s just like any other habit, be it bad or otherwise.”

It was my uncle who had forced me upstairs.

He told me it was my turn and I could go alone or with him, if I didn’t feel up to it. I decided to go on my own, I was sixteen at the time – I was a man by then.

It was weird; I had never been to a funeral, never known someone who had died until then. I was dressed all spiffy and my hair was even cut all nice for the occasion. My white button-up shirt was starched and my black tux had been ironed the morning of.

It felt like I was more at a party than a funeral. And I suppose I was. We were celebrating the death of Ernest Bradley Wright. We were celebrating his wretched life, the same life where I had barely known him for all of my sixteen years on the earth.

The only reason I was being sent upstairs was because that’s where he was. And with a few mild mannered nods, hurried steps and jumping two steps at a time – I had made it upstairs.

This is where my story really begins.

If it wasn’t for the weird slapping noises, I probably never would have been curious, I never would have taken a peek, and I most definitely wouldn’t have to be here today; that I’m sure.

But as I said before… it was the weird slapping noises that caught my attention, perked my interest. I couldn’t figure out just what they were, though. It sounded almost like… skin on skin contact but not quite. It was the best way I could describe it at the time.

And of course, being the inquisitive sixteen-year-old teenage boy that I was at the time, I evidently had to continue forward and find out what that noise was and where it was coming from.

The closer I seemed to get to the doorway, the harder the slaps seemed to become, the quicker their pace, the weirder the sound.

It was at the closed door where the noises were coming from, slightly muffled behind the closed doors but still there. I hesitantly leaned my right ear – my better ear – against the door, listening for anything else that would help me solve this mystery.

All I could hear was those queer slapping noises though, and stifled noises – human noises at this point in time. I closed my eyes briefly and knew what I was about to do, what I had to do if I wanted to figure all of this out.

Counting to three under my breath, I turned the knob and silently opened the door, peeking through the space that was being revealed with every push of the door.

What I saw caused my eyes to widen, mouth to gape, a subdued choke on my own saliva gathering at the back of my throat and something akin to queer fear.

Five men dressed tidily and neatly in their black tuxedos formed a semi-circle around the open casket of Ernest Bradley Wright. All the men’s flies were open and penises were out, hands wrapped greedily around them – every one of them. Some of them were fully erected while others were half hard, precum and dribbling semen gleaming on the tops of their penises underneath the blurry yellow light in the room. Husky moans and low growls were coming from in between their lips, alongside the erratic breaths and heaving chests.

I gulped, feeling red, flushed warmth crawling up my neck and onto my cheeks.

This was a bad – and I didn’t understand it at all.

I was too engulfed in the sight, too disgusted by its sickening beauty… I didn’t notice the dark haired man turn my way, dark eyes staring and glittering at my stiffened figure behind the door – peeking in.

“Well… look’ it here… interested, are you… ?” The thick southern accent broke me from my reverie, as did the large form in front of me now, blocking my way. “It’s not sick. It’s only sick if you look at it the wrong way… but there’s a right way and a wrong way for everything in this world. See this the right way and you’ll see this as the beautiful scene that it is.” The man’s voice was rough and low, grating nicely against something within me… something I never thought I had. “Here, take a look… what do you see?” He pressed me forward, pushing me against the hard edge of the casket – solid against the thin muscle of my thighs. I squirmed slightly but he held me back, using his broad chest and large arms to hold me still, hold me in position.

I noted the grey blotchy skin of Ernest, the wrinkles that were thick and low – embedded into his skin and crawling around his face, the corners of his eyes, and the creases of his lips. They were everywhere – and they were ugly. Thin white strands of hair streaked on the top of his head, barely covering the mottled skin of his head. The ugly yellow light cast dark, blemishing shadows against his dead body and form… doing no justice to the embalmer’s work. The only redeeming factor to all of this was the powder blue suit he wore, black dance shoes in place – made him decent looking, at the best.

“Ernest Bradley Wright, my dead and ugly uncle.” I stated simply, craning my head back, attempting to see what the man would say next – his reaction.

“Ernest Bradley Wright? Yes. Dead? Yes again. But ugly? I must disagree with you on that one, kid. In fact… the man’s more striking in death than he was alive.” To seemingly prove his point, he leans over my shoulder; using a large hand to hold Ernest’s dead floppy head by the neck and heave him upwards.

I wriggled backwards, wanting to get away, scared of my dead uncle – my dead uncle who was getting up with the help of this curious man. He keeps me in place though, still leant forward and pushing me against the casket still while his own form presses closer against my own. I feel stuck – torn.

“Much more striking… regal and handsome… rough and rugged looking… with a… ” his voice is whispery and dreamlike as he comments this, abruptly crushing his lips against my uncle’s dead ones. I gasp at the sight, holding in a shallow yell. He groans and pushes himself away from my uncle, putting him back down gently into the casket – as I smother the desire to retch. “Your uncle was a great man while he was alive, I’ll admit. But he’s an even better man now that he’s dead.”

“This is disgusting… please, stop! Let me out of here – I don’t want to see this, I don’t want to do this!” Crying this out, I scuttle backwards – ducking beneath the bigger man’s arms and away from both him and the casket. Breathing heavily, I lean forward; hands crouched on my knees… scared, anxious, and eager and everything else in this one moment.

“Kid… c’mere… ”

“No, don’t… leave me alone.” I choke out, shaking and looking down now.

In one quick but unexpected movement, the man is holding me close; one of his hands nudged in between my legs and cupping my balls through the material of my dress pants. I gasp sharply, closing my eyes tightly – whimpering quietly.

“Come… let me show you… this is the right thing to do… you’ll enjoy it… ” the man’s rough timbre of his voice leads me next to the casket, bending me over; hand still nestled and gripping in between my legs.

I coo lowly, shivering.

“Here… keep still, I’ll do it the first time for you… the next time. You’ll excite yourself… ” a hot whisper trails and caresses against the back of my neck, goose bumps crawling up my neck and my arms. “Open your eyes… look, it’s the only way this’ll work… ” my eyes blink open, looking down blearily at the gaunt face; grey grim skin in sight. His hand deftly unbuttons my pant and slips his hand into it, cradling the head of my penis – teasing the slit. I murmur; my uncle’s closed eyes blinking up at me in a colourful mess of feelings, hallucinations… something else.

“Now… what do you see… ?”

A hard, aching want strums through my chest and trembles between my legs.

“You think I’m bad? You haven’t seen nothin’.

I read about some homosexual necrophiliac duck that went along and raped a male duck that had just died from crashing into the glass facadeof a building. That’s some pretty fucked up shit, isn’t it? Nope. Not to me anyway, I think people should just leave the duck alone. I mean, think about it. If ducks can do it… why can’t humans? It’s Mother Nature’s way of saying… that’s life and at it’s best, is all.”

Subject is in denial.