by Weston Ochse
At that time in my life, I did not see my arousal as abnormal. After all, who would? Society has long carried on a love affair with the late Ms. Monroe, so my little obsession hardly seemed strange at all.
At around the same time, I did realize I was different than most males my age. Someone would point at a girl who was the universally attractive one of the school, commenting on how bad they wanted to have sex with her, and the things they would do if they were given even minutes alone. I could see what the other boys saw in her, yet when it came to a sexual attraction, I would feel nothing at all. Even though I could appreciate her in a certain aesthetic sense, the actual hormonal aspect seemed to be dead.
Instead, I found myself obsessing over the photographs of long dead starlets. I would place them around my teenage body and then pleasure myself, their black and white faces drifting through my mind like ghosts. There was little guilt on my part at the time, as I did not fully understand my fetish. I did not realize I was attracted to them sexually because they were dead.
I came to that realization in my senior year. Growing up in the heart of Georgia was not easy when you were as eccentric as I was especially back in the late eighties. There I was all dressed in black, in a sea of people who considered me an outcast. They weren't all cruel, of course. There was Megan.
Megan Hunter was a girl who was often kind to me. Although I was an outcast, she always went out of her way to treat me like I was no different than anybody else. While the other classmates called me names like Ichabod Crane, she told me I was handsome and to shut my ears to such close-mindedness.
Though I found Megan attractive in a visually pleasing sense, sexually she did nothing for me. Near the end of the school year, she gave me her senior photograph and signed it:
"Oliver, you have something special about you. Someday, I know the rest of the world will see it too. Love, Megan."
In the photograph, she was sitting on a porch swing, a single red rose in her hand, her blonde hair sweeping sensually down onto her shoulders.
Two days later she was dead.
She was killed in a car accident along with three other girls. That night, I stared at her photograph, my brain numb from the stunning news of her death. My world had suddenly become surreal; I just could not imagine myself without her company. There were so many things I wanted to share with her. I never really got to tell her just how important she was to me. Megan kept me sane at a time when I needed it most and I will always love her for that.
Later that night, while rubbing my fingers lovingly over her photograph, my perceptions changed. Suddenly, the photograph became sexually arousing to me. A feeling of guilt and fear followed that stimulation, leaving me confused and frightened. I quickly buried the photograph in a book, too afraid to stare any longer. Megan was my friend. It felt profoundly wrong to think of her in such a way.
That was the first time I understood the full extent of my fetish. The realization that I was only attracted to the dead was not an easy one.
Since that day over ten years ago, I have managed to keep my obsession down to an acceptable level. Over the years, I have become quite comfortable with it. After all, I don't actually hurt anyone, so it's a harmless sexual fetish.
As one can imagine, it's a lonely lifestyle to be only attracted to the dead. I never feared my fixation until I met Audrey.
I was sitting on a bench in the park as she moved by. I held my breath, her presence causing an eerie silence as she moved. She seemed to glide by as I watched her in stunned serenity. A brightly colored sundress covered her lithe figure as she moved. She tossed her dark red hair back over her shoulders and then noticed me sitting on the bench.
My body froze under her powerful gaze as if she were a lovely Medusa. I felt a smile push my sharp cheekbones up in my face. She nodded at me and moved up the hill where I was sitting. My heartbeat seemed to be the accompanying noise to her every footstep.
"Hello," she said, offering me one of the most strikingly beautiful smiles I had ever seen.
I had to struggle to speak. "Hello, can I help you?"
"No, actually," she said, her light voice dancing through the air like musical notes. "I'm not even sure why I came up here. You just seem so sad. Are you okay?"
Ouch, she penetrated me so damn quickly. "Do I really look that desperate?"
Her lips were full and sensual, covered with bright red lipstick. There was a sparkle in her dark eyes I simply could not look away from. Her eyebrows arched in such a way it made her beauty all the more incredible. She was tall, looming over me like a goddess. Her accent was southern, probably from further west of Georgia.
She had completely charmed me in just less than one minute. She smiled exposing her perfect white teeth and I almost fell off the bench. She was simply a dream.
"Well, I wouldn't call it desperate exactly," she said, moving closer, not realizing the effect she was having on my respiration. "More like melancholy, or morose. I'm not usually this forward. I felt drawn to you for some reason."
I sighed and tried to look happy, but I guess that probably made me look even more desperate. I ran my hand over my shaved head, and for the first time I thought I might look like a cancer patient. "You must be an angel, my dear. Women as incredibly lovely as you don't simply walk up to men like me and say they 'feel drawn'."
She smiled again. "I can leave if you want me to."
"No. I don't want you to leave."
She offered her hand. "My name is Audrey Raines."
Her skin was soft and warm. I never wanted to let go. "Oliver Shaw."
That's how easy it was. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in a coffee shop getting to know each other. I was infatuated with her the second I saw her in the park, but as I watched her speak I knew it would move light years beyond a simple crush. She terrified me on so many levels it was like sitting in front of a ticking bomb. Why this was so, was an enigma to me. To fear something that appears harmless is a bizarre feeling, it feels schizophrenic.
"To be honest that wasn't the first time I saw you," she said, pausing momentarily to catch her tongue on the white foam of her cappuccino. "I've seen you many times over the last few months. Always sitting on that bench, lost in your own little world."
I nodded. "I often lose myself in my own thoughts. It's a curse I've suffered since high school. I'm surprised I didn't notice you before, though."
She smiled sympathetically. "Lost is a good description. So what do you do?"
I studied her face to see how genuine she was. As far as I could tell, she seemed sincere. "I'm an artist. I paint on canvas."
"Really? You make enough from your art to make a living?"
"So far," I said.
She blushed, her cheeks glowing red. I found it painfully beautiful. I was mesmerized by the way she carried herself. She was elegant.
"I didn't mean to be so forward," she said. "That last question was none of my business."
I put my hand on hers and then pulled away as if burned. I had never done such a thing before. To touch someone was something I had not imagined. I was all the more uncomfortable by the fact that she seemed amused by what I had done.
"Don't be embarrassed, Audrey," I finally said. "I don't find the question uncomfortable. To answer you more clearly, I make a very good sum of money. I have one client who continues to buy from me monthly. He's not my only client, but he pays me enough to stay in my loft. Would you like to see my work?"
"I would love to," she said.
Twenty minutes later and we were opening the door to my place. My artwork was scattered about and the wooden floor was splattered with paint. I watched her reactions quietly as she walked about and studied my work.
I guess the only word to describe my paintings would be macabre. No violence or blood, but an insidious quality that can be felt as soon as one looks at them. Something sinister always seems to be lurking about. I use stark colors, sometimes breaking the darkness with a sudden burst of brightness. Anyone w
ho looks upon one of my paintings should instantly feel repulsion, followed by confusion. This is because they cannot understand why there is a sense of something wrong within the painting.
Of course, there is a beauty about them as well. One critic has aptly dubbed my work "Beautifully ugly." I always use the most lovely of women. I also paint them in very erotic poses, though I am never lewd or pornographic. There will always be at least one thing awkward about their limbs, perhaps a limpness in the hand.
With all of the paintings there is the insinuation that the women are dead, but I make it uncertain. Some people assume they are sleeping. It is fascinating to watch a person's face when they first see my work—the confusion is delicious.
The faces and flesh of the women in my paintings are often lit up in pale, almost blue colors, a hint of purple around their full lips. I also will often add a touch of pink blush on their cheeks, giving them a more lifelike appearance.
I truly believe a woman is most beautiful by the milky light of the moon.
Almost always the women have their eyes closed, but sometimes I will open them, never allowing their gaze to appear fully alive. I let them look off into nothing, like the eyes of a doll.
My favorite painting is of Megan. In it, I have her lying nude on a slab of concrete, her arm dangling off to the side. Blonde hair hangs off the slab as well, shining with luxuriant vitality. Her eyes are closed and there is just the whisper of a smile on her bluish face. This was the painting Audrey was staring at now. As I watched, she leaned in and stared into Megan's face, her head tilting to the side curiously.
"Your work is amazing, Oliver," she said, turning to me and offering her ravishing smile. "It's utterly creepy on one level, yet somehow curiously alluring. Do you use models?"
I knew this one was going to come. "Well, I use photographs often. Some of the women I knew personally, some of them I found in magazines or books. A few of them I made up in my head."
She walked ahead a little and stopped at a painting of a young woman sitting on the steps of a dark Victorian house. The woman was sitting against the edge of the stairway—her eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly. This particular girl had been murdered a few years back. I had obtained her photograph from the newspaper.
"Some of them are strange without an obvious reason," Audrey said. "Like this one for example. She looks almost…dead."
"She is dead," I said softly, watching her shoulders stiffen. "All of them are dead. Please don't be offended."
She shook her head. "I'm not offended, Oliver. It's just odd you told me that. It's like admiring a photograph and then realizing the woman has been dead for over ten years. It's very disconcerting. I think what you have done here is quite incredible. You have made them beautiful, even in death."
I stared down at the floor, unwilling to look her in the eye. "That is my goal, I suppose."
She moved closer, putting her hand on my arm. "Have you ever seen David Lynch's Twin Peaks? There is a scene where they find a dead girl down by the river, her body wrapped in plastic. When Lynch first shows her face, she looks oddly beautiful, almost like a decaying flower. Your work reminds me of that. Seeing beauty in what most people see as dark and disturbing."
I knew exactly what she was talking about and looked up, staring right into her eyes. I felt a glimmer of arousal for the first time in my life towards a living being, but it danced away as quickly as it happened.
"I am so glad you feel this way," I said. "There are many people who feel very different about my work."
We spent the next two months glued to each other's side like symbiotic twins. In Audrey, I found someone for the first time in my life I communicated with. Just making her laugh touched me on profound levels. We shared a love for many of the same things. How many women in all of Georgia would have as obsessive of a love for Italian horror films as I? Argento, Fulci, Bava, and their ilk were all a huge part of her vocabulary. There were many nights we stayed up until dawn, not realizing the hour until the sun stabbed through the windows of my loft.
For the first time in my life, being alone did not feel normal. I was never so happy. We hit the metaphorical brick wall soon after that.
"I love you, Oliver," Audrey said, as she ran her hand down my chest and into my waistband. I redirected her away. Lately, she had gotten more sexually aggressive—tonight was probably the height.
"Please, Audrey."
"What's wrong?"
I looked into her hurt eyes and sighed. "I'm not ready."
Although I loved her deeply, I did not find her sexually arousing. It was maddening to an atomic level.
"I just want to get closer to you, Oliver," she said. "Why aren't you ready? Is it because it's your first time?"
I wanted to tell her the truth, but to do so would mean the loss of her. I wondered how I would feel about her sexually if she were in one of my paintings. I had never painted the living before.
I dreamt about Audrey that night. In the dream she was lying on a bed, her body surrounded by red velvet sheets. Shadowy men and women were walking by her as she lay peacefully. Each one gently tossed a long stemmed black rose and moved on, letting the next in line view the bed.
Within minutes, most of her body was covered with roses except for her radiant face. Her knees jutted out from the roses sensually, giving just a teasing hint at what lay between her thighs.
It was not until that moment I realized she was dead and the men and women were mourners.
I awoke with an erection and rushed to paint the vivid image of the dream. I painted until the dawn. It was one of my finest works. She was absolutely gorgeous on the canvas. I had captured her at her most beautiful. At least for me, anyway.
For the first time I was able to look upon her and feel the stirrings of sexual attraction. That realization brought me great fear.
When she arrived at my apartment, I led her to the painting, which I had turned to face the wall. "I've made something for you, Audrey."
She seemed excited as I turned the painting around. She studied the canvas, letting the image sink in. Her face was flushed as she turned back to me. "I'm dead in that painting, Oliver."
"You don't like it?" I asked, my heart falling.
She turned to look at the painting again, as she seemed to struggle for the right words. Her eyes were tearing up. "I wouldn't say I don't like it. It's just a little bit disturbing, to say the least."
I sighed softly. "I didn't make this to disturb you. I wanted to capture your beauty."
She turned to face me, her eyes haunted. "Yes…but why do you feel my beauty can only be captured in death? Can you not see beauty in life?" She turned back to the painting and moved closer. "Not only that, but this painting is erotic. Is this the only way you can be attracted to me? In death?"
She pierced me with that last sentence and I was unable to cover up my reaction before she caught it. I saw her body visibly shake as she watched me.
"You're attracted to all of these women, aren't you, Oliver?"
I nodded, seeing no reason to lie.
"Do you know how sick this is?" she asked. "It borders on necrophilia." She took my hand in hers. "I really do love you, Oliver. But I'm not sure I can take this, it's too creepy for me."
She exited the loft, leaving me to stare at her painting in numb pain. I could still feel the touch of her hand. I wanted to die.
I was losing the only person who ever meant anything to me over my obsession.
I fell slowly to the floor and pulled myself into a fetal position.
A few hours later, I sensed her standing above me. I could smell her perfume lingering in the air. She knelt down and ran her fingers over my scalp, kissing me on my temple.
"We'll work through this together," she whispered.
That night we just held each other fiercely in the dark. I never wanted to let her go.
The next morning we were sitting on the bed facing each other. "You need to be honest with me, Oliver. How long has this
been going on?"
I told her everything, going all the way back to my first obsession with the picture of Norma Jean and moving up to the story of Megan. It felt almost climactic to finally be able to tell my story to someone.
"Have you ever thought about why you can only be attracted to the dead?" she asked.
"Yes, sometimes. I've never been able to find any good answers. At first it scared the hell out of me, but I have long since come to terms with it."
We decided to try something that, in hindsight, I should have known would be a disaster. But I was so afraid I would lose her I was willing to try anything.
"I'm only doing this because I love you, Oliver," Audrey said, removing her clothing as I watched uncomfortably.
"You don't have to, Audrey," I whispered as she lay back on the bed and became still. "I don't want you to lose your dignity for me. It's not worth it."
Her eyes still closed, she said, "Dignity has nothing to do with it. If this will help us somehow, it will be worth it."
Audrey decided to portray her "corpse" while I ran my hands over her nude body. As I moved my fingers gently over her still breasts, I watched her face for a reaction. She looked so much like she did in the painting, so exquisite and peaceful.
She was very careful not to react to my touch, and thus, break the illusion of what we were doing. I then traced her skin down to her thigh and delicately brushed her soft flesh.
I really did not think it was going to work. I thought it would be a failure. However, as I touched her, exploring her body with the edges of my fingertips, I gradually became aroused.
It was the first time I had become stimulated by a physical person and the feeling was absolutely joyous. She opened up her legs and I entered her carefully, her warmth devouring me. It was the most exhilarating feeling I had ever experienced.