I write this from the cold comfort of a mausoleum bed. The lock is set; the gate is barred. I fear the folly of my choice—the location of midnight tryst—will this time lead to my doom. The quiet figure beside me stares with eyes which are lovingly empty, that calm me and set my shaking hands to rest. My fears abate. If I should die, herein will be my last words, the very key of my existence. Hence, I shall entitle this final missive:

On Ye Loving Of Ye Deceased

I know. How well I know it. The stigma associated with necrophilia is well known, seemingly in all cultures and across most of the Ages of Man. In quick, unfair words, it is ‘frowned upon’. But there are many benefits, nay, many positives that to my mind outweigh any risk associated with in flagrante delicto mortis.

Why would one, nay, should one limit oneself to only one being, with an already discernable past and personality? With the recently dead, the creative drive can be brought to bare. An imagined past and personality is often much more compatible, I find, than a real one, and leads to much less hassle in the long run. I imagine that my current lover is a French nun who has escaped the convent and is being pursued by a militant arm of the church. The firey passion that we feel in each others embrace due to this imagined circumstance seems to quicken her limbs with a blaze of new life. How could one not become feverish at the very thought?

That awkwardness of a first meeting, as between a lady and her courtier, can be foregone. That moment of initial gracelessness, the bumping of heads as two future lovers reach for a hastily dropped kerchief or the rosy blushing of a cheek that reflects some courtship faux paus, can be avoided. All that remains is the love between a man and a post-woman. I myself do no selecting of the beloved. Nothing so crude as that. Nay, they pick me: in the naughty curving of their lips, the tempting of their subtle features, in their come-hither reflecting glances. To be sure, their haunting gazes hide no other meaning.

The usual sweat, grunting and the general messiness of the sexual experience are no longer a necessity. In fact, the eerie quiet is quite pleasing to the ear. When a lover is fresh and, for the most part, unharmed, little fluid is present as long as the rigor has not set in. To be exact, the rigor is de rigueur. Too soon and there are issues of… hygiene, too long and the relationship quite literally falls apart.

Alas, I must abruptly end this epistle where it stands. The cold comes on quick at this late hour and ice is quickly forming. I will not make it to the morning. If I must die such a misadventurous death, I die entwined in my true love’s eager embrace. It is indisputable that the last wish of this passionate woman be any other than this.


[1] In flagrante delicto ,”while [the crime] is blazing” – is a legal term used to indicate that a criminal has been caught in the act of committing an offense but now used as a euphemism for a couple being caught in the act of sexual intercourse. Mortis, more obviously,  is Latin for death.

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