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How Would You Like It?

This is a sample chapter from Supervert's book Necrophilia Variations, a literary monograph on the erotic attraction to corpses and death.

Inevitably there came a point at which I had to pause and ask myself: How would you like it? How would you like to be lying there on the autopsy table having the coroner slice you up into a variety of sexual aids? The femur bone makes a fine dildo. Intestines are natural prophylactics. The heart, that organ of romance, can be used as a four-chambered pocket pussy. Whatever remains of your body afterward can be filled with KY instead of embalming fluid — or vice versa, perhaps a horny little necro nymph will come along and leach the embalming fluid from your body to use as a "personal lubricant." Who knows? The possibilities are endless. Do you prefer your corpse to be a waste product or a sex object?

When you put it that way, you would think that people would naturally prefer to be a sex object. After all, to say that your body becomes a waste product is to say that when you die you become excrement. The cadaver is a parody of you made out of shit. Who wants that? Wouldn't it be better to be a sex object? Your cerements become lingerie, you could do a striptease with your death shroud — and if you can't move or dance, eventually your shroud will rot away or be eaten by worms, so in that sense every cadaver ultimately becomes a stripper anyway. You could install a reverse periscope in your headstone so morbid voyeurs could come and ogle you. Sure, they'd leave cum stains on your grave marker, but it has to be better than decomposing in the ground like a human turd. You could even charge a quarter for each look through the periscope, and in your will you could stipulate what to do with the funds — maybe hire a man to scrape the sperm from your stone every spring.

You would think that at least a few people would see how reasonable this is. Preferring to think of their remains as seductive rather than repulsive, they would take an open-minded attitude toward necrophiles coming to disturb their rest. Maybe they would even want to mark their graves so that necrophiles would know how to find them. An inscription might suffice, an epitaph that titillates like dirty talk. And yet for the necrophile it is a time-consuming task to read all the stones in a graveyard, especially in the dark, and oftentimes these inscriptions are eroded by rain and wind. A better solution might be to transform the gravestone itself into a powerful visual icon. For example, the tombstone of a necro-friendly man could be carved in the shape of an erect penis, and then his coffin could have a little padded hole in the bottom to facilitate a sick sort of sodomy. (Instead of a "glory hole" you could call it a "gory hole.")

Opponents to this vision will no doubt argue that accommodating necrophiles would encourage sexual deviance and social malaise. And yet, might it not just be the reverse? Is it not possible that necro-friendly cadavers can serve the social good? Think of it. If you repress a sadistic individual, he only gets worse — meaner, crueler, more vicious, to the point where he just might be headed down the road toward that ultimate act of sadism: murder. But what if you provide a release for his pent-up penchant? Send him to the cemetery to find necro-friendly graves. Let him put handcuffs on the dead and beat them senseless with whips. Who cares? He's not hurting anybody — and you might just be saving a life by giving him a stiff. And perhaps the same applies to deviants of every type. Let pedophiles molest the bodies of dead children. If they're really hardcore and want younger and younger flesh, give them the medical waste resulting from first-trimester abortions. Why not? It's not hurting anybody — and you just might perform a social good by draining off the evil.

Here again the shocked and appalled will raise their voices in protest. It's not a matter of physically hurting the dead, they will say, but of inflicting emotional wounds on the living, the loved ones, the survivors and heirs. Who wants to think of a guy in leather pants beating grandma's cadaver with a whip and a dog chain? Even if there's no heaven and granny doesn't know the first thing about it, it's still upsetting for the rest of us to contemplate. Certainly this is a valid objection, and yet you have to remember: you can't prevent it anyway. What are you going to do — stand watch on granny's grave? Bury her in an assault-proof coffin? About the best you can hope for is that the necrophile might respect something like the sexual equivalent of a living will. Specify how you would or wouldn't like your body to be utilized when you're gone. If you're lucky, the necrophile will be sensitive enough to respect your last wishes. Maybe he'll refrain from tying you up and giving you forty lashes, if that's what you don't want. On the other hand, maybe he'll wipe his ass with your will and whip your remains with a cat-o'-nine-tails. At that point, there's not much you can do about it — unless you were buried alive, but that's even more unpleasant than a posthumous flogging.

How, then, would I like it? Would it bother me to think of my body having sex without me? Or to imagine my ass giving pleasure when I'm gone? In a way, this is a funny question for a necrophile to pose himself. A pedophile cannot become a child, a shoe fetishist cannot become a shoe, but a necrophile can and does flip over to the other side. Eventually — nay, inevitably — he becomes the object of his own weird brand of perversion: a dead body. So what then? What does the necrophile want done with his body? Of course the necrophile spends a lot of time contemplating death and therefore may have some variation on it that you wouldn't anticipate. He may not insist on being preserved in a pristine condition, for example, because he knows that a cadaver does not have to be a perfect but inert replica of a living body in order to be exploited and enjoyed. You could cook a severed limb and eat it as part of an erotic game, much the same as bored suburban couples lick whipped cream off each other's genitalia. It may not be outrageous hardcore cadaver-fucking, but is it any less an act of necrophilia?

After thinking about it, I have decided I want to be cremated — not because I want to deprive other necrophiles of my body, since that would be hypocritical. Rather, I would like to have a tombstone where people could come to pay tribute to me. And at that site, I would like to have my ashes in a dispenser of some kind, like a bubblegum machine. And from that dispenser I would like my loved ones, my survivors and heirs, my fans and followers, as well as random passersby and genealogists of the future, to take a thimbleful of ashes and sprinkle them inside their underwear. I'm particularly thinking of girls here, so that my ashes would be disseminated in panties of all kinds — cotton, silk, and satin — pink, blue, and cream. Every vagina would be my grave, every clitoris my headstone, and by way of tribute perhaps you could even shave my epitaph into your pubic hair.

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