Malicious Intimacy

I refuse pretending


is chocolate truffles,

accompanying a flower bouquet.

I’d much rather prefer—

pampering you with a rodent,

victimized by road rage,

six days dead—

birthing blowflies

out of maggots.

I’d offer a bottle of Tequila,

undesirably aged.

Eat the soggy worm,

swipe its liquified innards

across my tongue,

while kissing passionately

psychotic in expression

of honorable adoration.

Most men act out

sappy sentimental charades,

in fear of not succeeding

despair in lonesomeness.

In this unsympathetic world,

scarlet madness

defines devotion.

Therefore, I’ve chosen

not to hide behind the deceitful

mask of assumed affection

most men cleverly sneak

into drinks on dinner dates.

Let us etch this night


forever lustful in our minds

by committing our dark hearts


low-budget pornicide.

Scream and I’ll yank

strands of crimson hair

clear from hidden lacerations

streaming blood out of fresh

life-threatening fractures

scattered across your head.

 By William Andre Sanders


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

Headless and The Groupie – Third Runner up in the Crimson Skull Contest

9:00 p.m.  And she giggles. 

The gutters moved from one end of its filth to the other and he raised his hand and cleansed her soul with a scouring pad laced in metal wool, masked by a fragrance of lavender and a hint of breathing blood prior to sticking his face between her monumental folds, his nostrils cavernously inhaling and exhaling as his tongue laced in soft thorns pricked her cleavage in long tender strokes just enough until the velvety of her flesh pricked and the wounds opened and debarred the scent of virgin jasmine mint blood. 

And the legs straddled high, parted in peace, riding the invisible stallion. Humping up, humping down, her ass bumping the soft rugged cushiony seat beneath as it grazed her maximus with rug burn. 

The stallion rode her deep, extending his bruised head longer, expanding her tiny womb greater before her orgasm, before his orgasm, the antiquity of his metallic sword then glistened against the moonlight, bright like a child’s smile, and curvaceous like a woman’s body, as it sensually grazed the smooth of her elongated neck until the shrill of her orgasmic cry forced the metal sheath to penetrate through her skin, erotically severing flesh from bone until there was nothing but her headless corpse convulsing in rhythm to her orgasm.

The Headless Horseman observed in absolute amusement as the body continued to writhe beneath him while her vulvanic muscles continued to contract around his mass up until the moment it seized into a dead end sex. Without warning her pussy turned abruptly cold.  Beautifully damaged she was in all her glorious naked glory, and in the back seat of his taxi, he observed, of all places. 

And the Headless Horseman sulked. The grisly scenario presenting more of a trajectory of dissatisfaction when the orgasmic flow of his hot juice reminded him that he was still alive and she was dead dead.  Now to dispose of her body remained the question as with the bodies before. He pulled his Victorian-esque trousers back over his hips and scratched the hallow of his head. Confused over his emotions he was as always before. He self-consciously stared over his shoulder, at the commuters commuting in costume for this dreadful Halloween night. He only picked her because she was standing there on a corner looking uninvitedly distressed and dressed like a period Maid in a sexy corset while her long lean legs pranced around in sheer black stockings. And the thin black line running up and down the backs of both her svelte thighs and vanishing within a pair of strappy black stilettos did not help his conquest in having her. 

The Headless Horseman originally wanted to fuck her, not fuck her then, while in the throes of his climax, sever her head.  It was fair to say, and to anyone reading this shit, that the Headless Horseman was in absolute distraught. Not because he killed, yet another beauty who dared flirt with him, but this was how he looked all the time: Headless with a dead head. A man, at some point in his life, riding a horse. And his MO: severing the heads of those summoned to beheadedness. But it had been years-centuries, it seemed-had he been summoned to carry out such grisly atrocities. . .that is. . . until he succumbed to becoming a taxi cab driver, solely to survive on the heads of others. But this beauty was different. There was something about her.  He felt a connection spiritually, as if she were a mate of some predestined past particularly when she glanced his way from having stood on a corner two blocks down had their eyes locked in factual unison. 

And now she was dead. . . or was she?  Because it wasn’t until the Headless Horseman began pondering on the convictions when her headless corpse unexpectedly sat up and began redressing itself in the same fashion as it first dressed itself late that afternoon. 

And it didn’t matter that there was blood red blood spilling from her flawless neck. Or that there were pieces of raw matter, like tissue and nerves and muscle pulsating with every move she made. It wasn’t until the strap to her second stiletto had been re-fastened had she turned her corpse toward the Headless Horseman and said: “May I have my head back, please?” 

The Headless Horseman who had been staring at the mutilated corpse in a state of shock and awe, and what seemed like for hours, through eyes paralyzed beyond belief, had to pick up his jaw from beneath his icy chin just to say, “Excuse. . .me?  Your. . . your what?”

The corpse quivered beyond a shake of a laughter heard fainted somewhere from within his taxi. 

“My head,” she said pointing directly at it.  It was on the floor, resting still, beneath his murky feet. 

The Headless Horseman swallowed a buffet of insects that had gathered at the very back of his throat; insects he had to drive to the pit of a soiree cumulating within the depths of his desecrated tomb.  Within a state of slovenness, the Headless Horseman reached beneath his seat and gently picked up the beauty’s head and carefully handed it back to her. 

“Oh, God,” the Headless Horseman balked within a sickened whisper, “This can’t be happening? I killed you. You’re supposed to be dead?”

The beauty’s head snapped back on, and the soiree of insects pinched at the Headless Horseman’s deceased nerves. He jerked.

“Death never becomes me,” the beauty stated as she reached into her purse and pulled a vanity mirror. Surveying her neck at first, then her lips still stained in rouge, she then looks at the Headless Horseman and smiles. “Yup!” She says slamming the mirror shut then gesturing with her hands here and there as if she had been speaking for the last five minutes. “In the undead world, I’m referred to as a Serial Groupie. . .you know, like those human girls who wait around after shows to bed the headlining stars. . . that’s me, only I wait around in dark places to have sex with the undead, such as yourself, whom can’t have sex with the living because they‘re always subject to death in some form or another.” The groupie, no longer a beauty, then smoothes the creases of her Maid’s costume skirt against her stocking thighs. She wants a cigarette. She bums a cigarette from the Headless Horseman who shakes his head. It too makes a snapping sound, and the groupie giggles. “You’re cute,” she says touching his chin. It’s warm to her touch. A sensation lingers between her legs. “You know, I’ll be available next Halloween. . .in case you get interested in chopping off my head again.”

“Halloween?” The Headless Horseman repeats amidst a sour note.

“Oh, I know,” the groupie sympathizes, touching the Headless Horseman’s face again, then his hands. They’re bone thin beneath the mask of human skin. The groupie doesn’t mind, as she squeezes, then leans forward and kisses the back of one of his hands tenderly.  She parts her lips. Her moist tongue swivels in circles, embedding a pattern the Headless Horseman can’t make out, but he’s genuinely turned on.  The groupie lets go of his hand and surrenders it back to him. She turns in her seat and reaches for the door handle.

“Wait!” The Headless Horseman calls out desperately. His hand on her frail shoulder.  “Where are you going?  Halloween isn’t quite over with yet. There’s still time. . . you know. . . to chop your head off again.”

“I’m sorry to fuck and run, Headless, but I do have other serial manly callers expecting me.”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

The groupie giggles again. “I’m sorry to disappoint your ego, Headless, but there are other undead killers out there.”


“You know. . . like Freddie, Jason, Michael-”


“You know, those other modern day killers, the one’s they make movies about.  You know, Freddie with his fingers of death. Jason with that devilishly hockey mask of his. Oh, and Michael with his loyalty toward our God, Samhain. They too need some form of pleasure. And believe me, just because they go around killing people, especially pretty young women doesn’t mean they don’t desire the comforts of a woman’s sex. . . they do, and as much as the next man does. . .only the movies tend to leave that part out. I guess the idea of women having sex with boogiemen on camera just isn’t proper enough, yet stabbing, chopping, slicing, dicing, and mutilating seems to be acceptable. In my opinion, murder and sex combined sells. Man, I just don’t get Hollywood. Do you?” The Headless Horseman shakes his hallow head.  His brain sways.  It sounds like slush. The groupie giggles and steals a kiss from his chilly lips. “Happy Halloween!” She then croons before slamming the taxi door behind her.  In the semi-dark, the Headless Horseman watches speechless backed by a hint of delusion as she storms off. A kick here, a swing of her hip there, until she disappears, literally, from sight. 

Before the Headless Horseman can ingest what has just happened, his radio beeps his next fare. He curses, and eventually hops into the front seat. He starts the engine and clears his fare box. After, he glances into the rearview mirror and slaps both sides of his mawkish face, chanting beneath his breath: “It was a dream. A dream. It was all a dream.” He then throws the gear into drive, yet the possibility of the dream lingers. . .

A mile down he picks up a young couple who squabble within the cab.  She’s pissed because he’s lost his edge for the bizarre and strange of what Halloween really represents.  He ignores her and stares out the window.  She sighs out and glances toward the front of the taxi’s cab and smirks at the driver through the rearview mirror.

“Holy shit!” The guy shouts.

“What?” Says the girl startled.

The guy picks up his hand. “There’s fucking blood on this seat!” 

The Headless Horseman turns a disbelief ear. . . Blood? He questions, blankly.  It can’t be?  He argues.  Then it wasn’t a dream!  She was real. The fucking groupie was real!

“Oh really?” Says the girl through a wicked grin, pulling the Headless Horseman from his party of arguable thoughts. “Hmm,” she then drones surveying the blood on her boyfriend’s hand.  She inhales the blood.  “It’s fresh,” she says in a sensual state of grotesque.  “Oh, Jimmy, I’m so turned on right now.”

“You’re sick, you know that!” Jimmy then yells, snatching his hand from his girlfriend’s face.  “Sir, are you aware that there’s blood on your seat?” Jimmy then drills the Headless Horseman.

The Headless Horseman ignores Jimmy but he doesn’t ignore the girl. He sees she has a beautiful neck. And a beautiful face. The stallion stirs within. 

“Sir!” Jimmy shouts. “S. . . ir” were the last words to then escape Jimmy’s mouth. He slumps forward. And the sound of metal retreating from flesh and the gurgle of blood seeping out from within a damaged cavity was enough to cause the woman to scream, only her screams now was of pure pleasure as the stallion rode her high, then deep, prior to beheading her once and for all.

For the next several minutes, the Headless Horseman waited in anticipation for the woman’s corpse to arise like the groupie’s, but it was to no avail-she was, without certainty, dead. And this, he realized, and without question, not a dream.

“Damn!” The Headless Horseman bitched after an hour. “Damn,” he then murmured holding the precious head of the dead girl within the palms of his pale thrashed hands. “Damn,” his words at long last echoed in regret.

And somewhere beyond that echo of regret, she giggles beneath Michael’s half naked brawny body. She then giggles louder, and the knife comes thrashing down hard over her bare breasts. Thump! Thump!  

By Devlin De La Chapa

DEVLIN DE LA CHAPA has been published here and there, and is scheduled to appear elsewhere.  She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was recently awarded Editor’s Choice at The Camel Saloon. Devlin edits at BoySlut.