For as long as he could remember, Mike had wanted to fuck a dead girl.
He fostered no hate towards women or even a real drive to kill; he’d just always had a thing for dead girls. He’d hidden it from everyone in his life for years, had staved it off with the fake necroporn you could find on the internet (even though the girls were always breathing, they were simply caked with tons of white makeup and told to lie still) but even in the most desperate times, Mike thought of those as little more than a grainy copy of a copy. He had thought once or twice, rather halfheartedly, of summing up the courage to go out and kill a girl, but he couldn’t imagine doing it.
Mike had never been a violent man, and thought he never would be. He just wanted to have sex with a corpse. A cold, compliant lover that would never insult him, never laugh in his face. Rigid, but in so many ways, pliant.
When he thought about it, he felt he could trace his strange desires back to a single moment in time, when he was maybe 13 or 14. He and his friend Tristan had a game they’d invented while IMing each other back and forth. The game was simple: find the most disturbing or gross picture on the internet, send it to the other person. If they gave up, cried or vomited, you won. In retrospect, Mike realized that Tristan was really a sadistic bitch for starting the game because at the time, Mike had been fairly naive, and was easily disturbed by just about anything.
Tristan, on the other hand, seemed to get off on the weird and miserable. So one night, when the “accept file transfer” came up, Mike accepted it, if somewhat reluctantly. He was always secretly worried that Tristan would send him something so awful that it would scar him permanently, that the anonymous horror would suddenly infest every aspect of his life, even the sacred realm of sleep. Mike almost toppled his computer chair when the file finally loaded and opened itself, full-size on his monitor. The filename read “Black Dahlia Murder”.
The photo was grainy, but Mike could see what mattered. A woman who might’ve been beautiful once, her mouth slashed open to her ears, her eyes still open. Before he had a chance to really react, a second one opened up. The same woman he suspected, cut in half, both parts of her torso lying in a grass field. Mike sat there for what seemed like hours, staring at the photos, wondering why he wasn’t gagging, crying, screaming at Tristan for battering his eyes with something so awful. And then he realized it. It wasn’t awful, at least not to him, at least not anymore.
Up until this point, Tristan had sent him messy, chaotic photos of car accidents and train wrecks, of infected body parts and pus, of dead dogs and animals. All of those had traumatized Mike and wreaked insane amounts of stress on his nausea. Never before had he seen an actual corpse of a woman, or at least not one that was recognizable. When he could finally think straight again, he responded to Tristan with two words, “Thank You”, saved the photos and signed off. He printed them and stashed them in his pocket so his parents wouldn’t see and took them into his room where he could see them better.
Pulling out a magnifying glass he’d gotten years ago as a Christmas present, Mike laid the full-page photos out on his desk and stared at them in a mix of awe, mystery, and growing desire. He couldn’t understand why he had a hard on, trying to tell himself over and over “Death is bad, death is evil”. He’s even cried when his grandmother had died a year ago, how could he think a dead girl was sexy?
Regardless of his logic though, he couldn’t stop staring at her, couldn’t stop wondering how her cold, malleable flesh would feel, wondering if he touched her insides if they would be wet or dried out. Mike felt a sudden urge to cry, confusion beyond that of an average puberty-stricken boy welling up in him, morality and urges fighting an awful battle behind his bright green eyes. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, the Black Dahlia’s wonderful, hideous face swimming in his mind. He could see her unnatural mouth peeling open, a massive, wet, cool gash he imagined. He wondered what it would be like to slip inside of that, to feel cold dead skin against his warm living self.
He opened his eyes again, not realizing that he was not in fact crying. He stared down at the photos of her face, of her horrible dead eyes, of that atrocious mouth and unzipped his pants. Silently he cursed himself for feeling this way, cursed Tristan for doing this to him, and cursed the laws that would keep him from ever having what he really wanted.
Now, at 25, Mike had come to terms with his feelings, had even managed to put a name to them. Years ago on a whim he’d looked up “fucking corpses” and had been shocked to find a slew of links marked “Necrophilia”. For years, he’d felt he was the only person with this strange preference. He’d found all sorts of art galleries and forums, though he never joined any of them. It wasn’t out of embarrassment or anything of that sort; Mike just didn’t know what he would even say to these people. They felt what he felt, had the same strange, hated desires as he did and still he felt alienated from them. He didn’t want to talk about fucking a corpse. He wanted to fuck a corpse, and that was the end of it.
After years of trying to suffice his needs with art and fake porn, he gave up and gave in. At first, he decided he would try and go into a mortuary school but discarded the idea almost instantly, as years and years surrounded by corpses would kill him. He couldn’t wait that long, and he knew he couldn’t do it in an environment surrounded by witnesses. Mike could only imagine what would happen if his autopsy class began by unveiling some pretty 20-something that’d met an untimely demise. He knew almost definitely that he’d lose the control he’d spent years building up, would throw the clueless professor out of the way and slide into that cold, soft body. He started to formulate a plan in his mind, a plan that might very well land him in prison or worse, but nevertheless a plan.
Mike began saving up as much money as possible for months until he had a cache of 50,000$ and then he started making phone calls.
He never knew the man’s name, never even knew for sure he wouldn’t turn him in, but by this point Mike found he didn’t care. Of all the things he had ever wanted in life, this had them all beat by miles. The wad of cash felt strange in his pocket, far too huge and noticeable. He was terrified someone would know what he was doing, that he’d get caught just inches away from his prize. He’d been following newspapers nationwide for years, particularly in less-than-favorable neighborhoods, waiting for what he wanted.
He’d finally found it in Massachusetts, only a few hours drive away. Somehow he’d managed to contact the coroner’s office and talk to the man whose job he’d always envied. Mike never gave a name and had called from a phone booth miles away from his house. He’d put the question plainly: “How much would I have to pay you to let me be with a dead body?”
There had been a pause and for a moment, Mike was terrified he was calling the cops until the man responded “You’ve got to be fucking joking.” Mike’s palms were sweating, the phone felt slimy against his shoulder. He realized his legs were shaking. “I’ve got fifty thousand dollars here, sir. I can get more if I need to. Please, I need this.” Mike was shocked when he thought he actually heard the man laugh.
“You’re offering me fifty grand to fuck a dead chick?” Mike swallowed hard and tried to breathe, nodding, whispering “That’s right.” There was another long, agonizing pause and then the man responded. “Fine. But listen to me, boy. You best have that money or else I’ll have the cops nail your ass quicker’n shit, you hear me?” Mike could barely talk, his head swimming, he was terrified he’d misheard the man. “God, yes sir,” Mike sobbed. “I promise. I’ll have all of it. When should I be there by?”
They set a date, Mike still barely believing what was going on, and ended the phone call. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy. He drove home, packed a few things and started the drive to Massachusetts.
Calvin could barely believe the phone call he’d just had, but assumed that if there were people sick enough to kill, there were people sick enough to fuck a stiff. After 30 years of cutting open bodies, he’d found himself jaded to almost everything and hating the job endlessly. He could see no point in telling this poor fuck off, especially getting fifty grand out of the deal. At worst, he’d lose the godforsaken job and possibly go to jail, at best nothing would happen at all. He’d be a whole lot richer, some sick fuck would be satiated, and the world would keep on turning like nothing had ever happened.
There was a tiny knock at the back door around 1 AM and Calvin got up to answer it, ready to bust the loser if he didn’t have the money. He was shocked when he opened the door to a normal, decent looking young man who was smiling nervously. The man dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of crisp bills held together by a rubber band. Calvin grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in, locking the door behind him. He thumbed through the stack, making damn sure he wasn’t getting jipped by the kid and was a little amazed to find it all there. He looked up at the kid, studying his face. It was amazing and a little scary what kind of atrocities could hide under such a normal mask.
“You really want to do this, kid?” Mike stared at the ground and nodded, his face reddening significantly. “Sir, I’ve wanted to do this since I was 14 years old.” Calvin snorted and shook his head. “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Mike looked up, smiling the tiniest, saddest smile Calvin had ever seen and nodded, whispering “I know, sir.” Calvin led him into a room lit by fluorescent light and motioned to a shape on an operating table. He leaned in and mumbled with a tinge of disgust “I’ll leave you two kids alone. You just knock when you’re….done.” Calvin suppressed a shudder as he shut the door behind him, going further into the building to be away from the strange, sick little fuck he’d just let into his mortuary. He felt no guilt at the transaction, just a small, confused disgust.
Mike could barely believe that after so long, this was finally happening. Gingerly he lifted the cover from her face and stared down at the dead girl. On the phone, Calvin had said she’d been strangled to death by her boyfriend. Mike didn’t know if he should hate or love the man for doing so, as the girl was beautiful. Gently Mike reached out to brush his fingers through her curly auburn hair, his fingers grazing the edge of her cheek. As he’d imagined, she was cold and smooth, and he leaned over her to cup her face in his hands. Mike felt his heart swelling, realizing suddenly that after this, sex would be ruined forever for him.
Nothing would equal this ever again. He decided he would make this last as long as he could, and keep the memories even longer. He drifted his fingers over the large Y-shaped incision on her chest, wishing he could reopen the wound and stare into her organs. He sucked in a breath as he pulled the cover completely off her and stared at her body, pale and veined, all his. He buried his face between her breasts, laying his ear on her soundless chest, his fingers exploring every inch of her body. Calvin had assured him that she’d already been autopsied and would be washed again before anyone besides the embalmer saw her, which had been a relief.
Mike didn’t want to wear gloves or a condom for this, he’d deprived himself for years and felt that after all this time, if he was going to do it, it had to be all the way. He pulled her legs apart and stared at her cunt, a massive hard on growing in his pants. He took a deep breath, checked to make sure the door he’d come in was locked, and went back to her. He slid a finger inside of her cunt, not surprised that it was dry like the rest of her. He pulled her body to the edge of the table and kneeled down, pressing his lips against her pussy. He flicked his tongue out, pushing her lips apart, wetting her for himself. He sucked at cold skin, his hands running over her heavily veined thighs, up over the swell of her hips, squeezing her cold hard breasts.
When he finally couldn’t wait any longer, he unzipped his pants and spread her lips, sliding into her. He stared up at her face, impassive and beautiful, the deep bruise violet around her eyes as attractive to him as the deep ligature marks around her throat. Her eyes were closed and wanted them open, so he climbed on top of her and pulled back her eyelids. Her eyes, muddy with death, seemed to stare right into him and he shuddered, pushing back into her. Mike fucked her body for what felt like forever, never closing his eyes but rather staring right at her dead ones, wishing he could drag her home with him and keep her forever.
He grabbed her legs and after a bit of a struggled managed them up, forcing himself into her ass. She was tight and he’d barely been able to fit inside of her, but after a few awkward seconds he managed to, pulling her small body back and forth on his dick, chewing his lip so his moans wouldn’t be loud.
He lay back on the examining table and carefully pulled her onto him, amazed at her weight. She lay limp but surprisingly heavy against his chest, her cold lips brushing his neck while he bucked up and down, fucking her cunt again. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him while he fucked her, knowing that he would cum soon. He wrenched her head back with one hand, staring at her empty dead eyes and let go, his semen pouring into her cold insides. He lay there for a while, relishing the feeling of her on top of him, the contrast of hot and cold, the strange taste inside of her dead mouth. He finally pushed her up, gently maneuvering off the table so she wouldn’t fall off it. Stared at her again, wishing it wasn’t over. He pulled out a camera from his coat pocket (something he hadn’t and wouldn’t tell Calvin about) and started snapping pictures of her face, her eyes, her spread open legs, her cunt with his come dripping out of it.
He took hundreds it seemed, every angle and inch of her. When he was finished, he leaned down and kissed her lips, sliding her eyelids closed as he did. He covered her back up, pulled his clothes on again and left a scrap of paper reading “Thanks” on top of her.
He left before Calvin came out, not wanting to have to validate his love to a man who’d never understand. Mike drove back to Pennsylvania, knowing that he’d never be able to speak to anyone about this strange, wonderful night of his. He hoped it would stay a secret, at least until he joined the ones he so deeply desired. Keeping the camera close to him, he smiled a bit as he drove home. He realized he was incredibly lucky, as most 14 year old boys never get to achieve their biggest fantasies, and even if this one took almost a decade to achieve, it had been well worth it.
Mike reminded himself that most 14 year old boys hadn’t had a thing for the Black Dahlia and her wide crimson grin. Mike felt his own grin widen, his fingers curling around the camera like a lover’s hand, a very cold lover’s hand.
By Nick Ransom