Halloween-Inspired Tidbits

Here we go. Short little tidbits, sort of inspired by the Halloween season, but not necessarily directly related to them. Enjoy. IF YOU DARE . . .

Sexiest Monster Ever

About a week or so ago, I went up to the library, did my email stuff, did my blog stuff, looked at some of the other ‘must-check’ sites, and then logged into FetLife. I went to the ‘Groups’ heading and clicked around for awhile, seeking out some of the more interesting threads, choosing the SAVE PAGE AS option from the menu bar to load them onto my flash drive so that I could read them at home when I had more time than the library allowed for a single internet session.

One of these threads was “Who is the Sexiest Halloween Character?” It wasn’t a very large thread, a mere seven posts long. And three of those posts weren’t casting votes, but instead commenting on the posts of those who did. The remaining posters found the following monsters sexy: they cast three votes for vampires, and one for the seductress witch.

I was going to return to that thread on my next trip to the internet and post my thoughts on the whole thing, but by time that (once again very short) trip happened, posting on the thread skipped my mind.

Sexiest Halloween Character? Bride of Frankenstein! Wake up, people! It’s the Bride. Accept no substitutes. And I’ll explain why, right after going off on this little tangent.

I like “Frankenstein”. I think that Mary Shelley created something absolutely brilliant. I’ve read the novel, I’ve seen a bunch of the movies, and I just like the whole concept. One of the things that I like about it is how it’s so adaptable. It keeps getting reinvented. And it’s usually a reinvention of the source material, and not a reinvention of the most recent reinvention. I doubt that anybody saw the Mel Brooks movie “Young Frankenstein” and proclaimed that the Frankenstein mythos was now irrevocably destroyed. (More to the point, I doubt that anyone has tried to film or publish a reimagining of the Frankenstein mythos based on the elements as originally presented in “Young Frankenstein”)

Usually, when I say Frankenstein, I’m talking about the mythos. The books, the movies, the comics, and so on. But if I’m talking about characters, then if I say Frankenstein, I’m talking about the Doc. Sometimes Baron, sometimes Doctor, sometimes Professor, usually Victor, sometimes Henry, sometimes Charles, occasionally von, always Frankenstein. That’s the guy. That’s Frankenstein.

When I’m talking about the monster from the mythos, I usually refer to him/it as Frankenstein’s monster, or the Frankenstein monster, or something similar. Although, I admit, I’ll sometimes slip and refer to the creature as Frankenstein. It doesn’t cause the world to end, but it happens.

There are serious scholars of the work, however, who will jump up and down and pull out fistfuls of their own hair if you refer to the monster as Frankenstein. Sometimes if my OCD is in a strong upswing (or if I just want to be a jackass that day) I’ll actually correct people who get it wrong. But I’m not ever anything like the guys who take it seriously.

Which is why I wonder why I’ve never heard the term “The Fiancée of Frankenstein’s Monster”. Because wouldn’t the Bride of Frankenstein have to be a reference to Victor Frankenstein’s wife? It’s not. Everyone knows who/what we’re talking about when we say Bride of Frankenstein. But it’s just not technically accurate. And it’s not just the ‘Frankenstein’ part that’s wrong. The female monster – SPOILER WARNING – usually either rejects the original Frankenstein monster, or never actually gets animated in the first place (depending on what version of the story you’re reading/watching). She doesn’t become his mate, let alone stand with him before their gathered dearly beloved in a wedding dress.

Yet I’ve never been made aware that anyone has an objection to referring to the Frankenstein monster’s proposed mate as the Bride of Frankenstein. What the Hell?

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Sexiest monster ever. The fiancée of Frankenstein’s Monster. The Bride of Frankenstein. Now, I’m not necessarily talking about Elsa Lanchester sporting the Tall-and-Back fright hair with the almost electrical shock of white zig-zag at the sides from the original black-and-white movie. (Although, she is indeed kinda hot.)

No, I’m talking about the whole idea of the Bride. In the original novel, the first creature wanted companionship. Sure, he wanted it to be a woman because having a warm wet place to park the ‘little monster’ would be an added bonus, but he mainly just wanted someone like him to pal around with. But in nearly every other incarnation of the story, what the monster wanted was a mate. Which was code for someone to mate with. Almost universally, the Frankenstein monster possesses the following qualities: He is less than brilliant with base eat-sleep-fight-fuck-survive urges. He has can appreciate beauty. And he wants a mate.

What this means to me is that the ‘Bride’ has to have been built to be beautiful, horny, and also to be just an incredible fuck.

Unless they’ve made pacts with otherworldly patrons regarding their physical appearance, witches just run the sexiness gamut like regular humans do. Some are, some aren’t. I’m assuming that the same is true of vampires. Even if the bite and resurrection makes them all a little better looking, they still aren’t all going to be cover model quality. But the Bride? The whole purpose of the Bride was to appeal to the Monster. She was built to order, and that order was for sexiness.

Other things factor into her appeal too, depending on your kink/perversion level. She’s basically just picked and chosen from a pile of corpses, with some stitching, chemicals and a little electricity added. Much cheaper than a RealDoll, and actual flesh and blood. Sure, she’s (arguably) a soulless abomination, but is this something you really care about when you’re balls deep in her, ready to explode?

Depending on how you look at it, the Bride can be considered all about body modification, if that’s your thing. Sometimes the Bride has the classic Frankenstein monster bolts in her neck, which I think might appeal to the piercing and implantation aficionados. Sometimes the Bride is all pale skin and scars, which should cater to today’s goth and emo crowd. Drifting away from the classic renditions of the character, you can do all sorts of interesting things. Depending on the nature of the women whose corpses were used in her construction, you could end up with a Bride who was ‘born’ covered in tattoos. And for those who don’t really like the scars, the bolts, or the tats, there’s always the modern day versions of the story that use plastic surgery techniques to make her ‘perfect’.

It seems like there’s a version of the Bride for every sexual interest. I’ve never seen this, but it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine anthropomorphic fetishists drooling over a version of the Bride where the Doc included both human and animal parts in her construction. And adapting the Bride for a cybernetics story isn’t just easy, it’s pretty much automatic once considered.

Sometimes she’s Jennifer Beals with not a mark on her. (“The Bride”, 1985 film starring Sting as the Doc, and well worth the price of rental just to see the original Monster played by Clancy Brown. After Beals’ Bride rejects the monster, Doctor Frankenstein looks her over and decides, “Hell, if you don’t want ol’ ugly, how’z’about hookin’ up with me?” It’s been ages since I’ve seen it, but I recall it having a weirdly happy ending that you don’t normally get from the mythos.)

So, to reiterate . . . sexiest Halloween monster? The Bride of Frankenstein. [Also quite possibly the poster girl for objectification of women, but that’s not the topic at hand.] Now: Does anyone have contact information for Doctor Frankenstein?

Ghosts and Dirty Panties

A couple of months ago, I was over at my sister’s apartment, and the television was tuned to the Discovery Channel or something with similar programming. I was busy looking up stuff on the internet (All Hail the Mighty Internet!), but I was sort of half listening to what the TV was talking about. And what I (sort of half) heard was some parapsychologist type talking about how what we call ‘ghosts’ are actually the psychic imprints of extreme trauma suffered by humans left upon a physical location.

I’ve heard the theory before. I don’t necessarily disagree with it. Although I’d like to think we’ll eventually discover that we’ve been throwing a bunch of stuff into the ‘ghost’ category that are actually several completely different things, Psychic Trauma Imprints being just one of them.

I stopped internetting for a few minutes to listen to him talk. And upon discovering that he had nothing to tell me that I didn’t already know (I used to be really into the more interesting aspects of parapsychology), I decided to get back to what I had been doing. So, I tuned him out, thought about dirty panties for a few moments, and then cleared my mind of the topic of ghosts and returned to my internet to-do list.

Are you wondering why thinking about ghosts made me think about dirty panties? Okay. I’ll see if I can explain it to you.

I always wanted a pair of CJ’s dirty panties. I know, I know . . . every stereotypical pervert wants a pair of dirty panties. On the occasions that I’d actually ask her if I could keep the pair that she’d worn to that particular meeting of ours (these oh-so-rare, accidentally platonic, third base but never home plate, full frontal nudity-to-full frontal nudity, secret trysts), she’d tell me, ‘No.’ And then, after making sure that I understood that the answer was no, so that I didn’t misunderstand her next question as her considering my request, she’d ask, ‘Why do you want them?’

The problem with answering her was . . . I honestly wasn’t sure. I KNEW I wanted them. I wasn’t 100% certain as to why. I’d spout impromptu verbal essays about why ‘guys wanted dirty panties’, then went back through point by point, explaining that most of those reasons weren’t mine. Did I want to sniff them? No, I don’t have a working sense of smell. Did I want to wear them? No, and couldn’t even if I wanted to, because I was like seventeen hundred sizes larger than her. Did I want to use them to masturbate with/in? No, . . . well, okay, maybe. But only halfway. I could see me wrapping them around my cock and stroking them up and down over it until I was nearing the point of no return, but I didn’t want to actually cum in them. I wanted the ‘dirty’ in ‘dirty panties’ to be hers . . . if I ejaculated into them, then the primary ‘dirty’ would be mine.

Yeah, I couldn’t really explain why I wanted them. Not to her. Not to me, either. I just did. Then came the day when I realized that not only did she not realize why I wanted them (not her fault), but she also didn’t realize exactly what it is that I wanted.

She was going to be housesitting for a friend of hers for a week or so, and decided to have me spend the weekend with her. She’d already been living there for a few days when she drove out to pick me up. Once we arrived at our destination, she gave me a tour of the place. There were a few (presumably dirty) articles of her clothing on the floor next to her bed, including a pair of panties. She saw me notice this, and said, “No, you can’t have those panties.”

I looked at her and rolled my eyes. “I don’t want those panties. But assuming that we’re going to fool around later on, I’m going to want the panties that you’re wearing now.” At which point, she looked all sorts of confused. So once again, she asked questions. Starting with . . .

“What’s the difference? Once I take the ones I’m wearing off, they’ll just be dirty laundry, the same as the ones that are on the floor now. I don’t see the appeal in either pair. What am I missing?”

I tried to explain it to her, and at the end, she still didn’t seem to understand. I didn’t want panties that she’d simply worn. I wanted panties that she’d become aroused in. More specifically, I wanted a pair of panties that she’d been in when I had done things to arouse her. Panties that she’d worn while I was playing with her nipples and rubbing her between her legs while whispering naughty things in her ears. Best option yet, I’d want a pair of panties that she been wearing when I’d brought her to orgasm. Or inspired an orgasm. (I would have been fine with a pair of panties she’d been wearing while rereading lust letters I’d mailed her. Reading with one hand while sliding the other down inside her panties to play with herself.)

What I wanted was an object (an article of clothing serving as a physical location, if you will) that contained something akin to a psychic imprint of extreme pleasure / emotion / sensation left behind by a sexy human female. An idea along the same lines as a Psychic Trauma Imprint, but with vastly different input parameters. I wasn’t exactly after a sex ghost. I wasn’t looking for a pair of haunted panties. But the stains of dripped (or gushed) biological female arousal were of lesser importance to me than other parts of her that she might’ve left behind while wearing them. Saying that what I wanted was the remains of the feelings she’d had that I’d aroused in her, now trapped in the fabric of her underwear A.) sounds kind of weird; and, B.) still isn’t exactly why I wanted them. (But it’s close.)

The eyes see and the ears hear. But neither comprehend language. Eyes and ears are just input devices for the brain. The mouth speaks, but it doesn’t come up with clever dialogue. The mouth is just an output device for the brain. Ah, that wacky brain!

They say that the most important sexual organ is (once again) the brain. And I concur. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the only true sexual organ humans have. Is the vagina simply an input/output device for the brain? (Yeah, I know, the clit is probably a more important input device, but the vagina still does have some decent input function, so pipe down out there.) When I’m laying on the floor coming out of seizure activity, my brain sends dumb jokes to my mouth. Output. When a woman becomes sexually aroused, the brains sends lubrication to her vagina. Output.

Okay, so there isn’t an actual pipeline of lube from the brain to the pussy. It just sends commands to lube up on it’s own. Lube up, expand, and so on. But is that all it does? Or is that just all that we’re aware of? I don’t know. All I know is that there’s a chance that it’s screaming weird soundless sex noises or flashing invisible sex auras or who knows what into the panties covering it while arousal takes place. And if the panties retain it, then I’d kind of like to have those panties as a souvenir. That’s all.

The Sex Lives of Skeletons

I used to pose action figures all over the place. Bizarre little scenes, rarely in character. Often sexual. (I had lots of Spider-Man figures for some reason, and between me and visitors who’d stop by, it was firmly established that even if Spidey wasn’t gay as far as other men were concerned, we was certainly gay with himselves.)

But the best spot in the house, action figure-wise was the video shelf. Built for paperbacks, I used it for videotapes, and there was a small section always left open where a couple of action figures would stand right at the edge. I’d write up some witty dialogue on blank sheets of paper, cut out word balloons around them, and attach them to the bottom of the shelf right above the figures with thumbtacks, and Ta Da!, I had a funny little scene. (Yes, this is indeed how people with no lives spend their time when they can’t get laid.)

One year as it was approaching Halloween, I’d picked up a big handful of five inch tall bendable rubber skeletons. I also grabbed a Frankenstein monster from the same line. When I got home with them, I got out the scale model dining room table and two chairs (dollhouse furniture someone found for me in the discount bin of the local craft store), and sat two of the skeletons down, then propped the Frankenstein monster into a standing position nearby. The two balloon conversation between the Monster and one of the skeletons went like this:

Frankenstein Monster: “Why . . . Friend . . . Sad . . .?”
Skeleton: “Because I don’t have anything to fuck with, and she doesn’t have anything to fuck!”

Oh, those poor horny skeletons!

Of course, those rubber skeletons also found themselves in poses much the same as Spider-Man’s. So, I don’t know. They either decided to simulate it, or figured out something that I still can’t quite fathom.

Time passes, I get internet access, and I eventually find animated .gifs, and some pieces of Flash animation, and even still images that pretty much all qualify as skeleton porn. One of my favorites being what looks like an X-Ray of a blowjob. (Skull down in front of the top of a pair of legbones, mouth open. Vague outline of muscle and flesh on legs, vague outline of cock in mouth.)

Most of the skeletons-having-sex pieces are sight gags that end badly for at least one of the participants. Doggy style from behind, bent over a table until he thrusts so hard that her skull pops off. On his knees erecting a massive bone boner until it over balances him, and ends up crushing his skull. This sort of thing.

I’ve got some skeleton characters in stories that I’ve got well planned out but, like the vast majority of my work, is as-yet unwritten. One is straight fantasy piece, categorized as a sword and sorcery tale. The skeleton character therein (Rion) doesn’t really understand the desire for male/female interaction. But he does find something appealing about one of the women he meets. And as near as he can tell, his attraction to her is based on her long hair. When he eventually decides to experiment with male/female interaction among his own kind, he has a necromancer raise up the bones of a medusa-like creature. The skeletons of the snakes mounted in her skull serving the purpose of long (flowing?) hair.

The other main skeleton character I’ve got is Boney. Boney’s stories also take place in a D&D type fantasy realm, but the actual literary category that I’m shooting for here is erotica. Or porn. Whatever. Boney’s schtick is his dick. He’s got a harness carved from dragonhide, that holds his bone. Carved scrimshaw-like from a long thick legbone into the shape of a long, thick penis, Boney’s phallic part was then taken to an alchemist for treatment. Did you ever do an experiment in science class where you soaked chicken bones in vinegar overnight, giving the bones the consistency of rubber? Yeah, Boney’s got a strap-on cock that’s much like the strap-on dildo of modern times, and it’s made of the same thing he is. I’m on my way toward eventually giving the skeletons some real action.

Enough of all this craziness. I’m off in search of candy corn.