The Thirty-Sixth Post

I renewed the contract yesterday. The one says I promise I’ll call my therapist all times of the day if I ever feel compelled to hurt myself. Or kill myself.

‘Cos if it was just the compulsion to hurt myself that was enough to spur a call, I’d call you almost every bleeding night, wouldn’t I?

No, really, it’s under control. Seen in glimpses, thanks mostly to a dark sense of humour. Funny to no one but myself, really.

By the way, I think autoerotic asphyxiators should carry a card on their person or amidst their personal belongings that say–

Dear Sir/Madame,

I am an autoerotic asphyxiator. If you are reading this card, there is a good chance you have or will soon discover my body. What appears to be a suicide by hanging was merely an attempt at masturbation gone wrong. I have not killed myself intentionally. There was no foul play. I apologize for the inconvenience and hope this explanation will satisfy the authorities, but trust that the matter will be reported with discretion for the sake of my family and loved ones.

Best regards,

The Deceased

I imagine it would help tremendously; the poor chambermaid whose job isn’t to discover naked swinging bodies in their rooms; the puzzled family members who’ll never know if it was a suicide or accident; investigators, and so forth. I guess you think about these things when you’ve been suicidal. The consideration you show to the people you leave behind, or the person who’ll discover you.

When I heard David Carradine was found naked and hung in a hotel closet in Thailand I immediately thought he’d died from autoerotic asphyxiation. A 72 year old movie star grandparent wouldn’t commit suicide 2 days into a film shoot with no note left behind, it didn’t seem plausible. Later on I heard he had a shoe string tied to his penis, with the other end around his neck. It’s no less tragic. Maybe more. I really liked watching him in movies.

If autoerotic asphyxiation was my bag and I travelled, I’d print that card in the native language of the country of my visit. I’m just not sure what Google’s translator calls an autoerotic asphyxiator in Tamil/Norwegian/Icelandic/Vietnamese/Pharsee. Or what Carradine’s card would’ve said in Thai.

Sex. And Death. Eros and thanatos. Dying to cum. Dying while you cum. Dying after you cum. Dying before you cum. I guess if you wanted to you could say it’s how we all leave this life.

It’s morning now. Almost dawn. And I can’t wait to sleep. It’s how I’d love to do it, really, all the time; live in the night. But well-lit, magical nights. The nights I want to live forever in are like Christmas nights. Cold, brittle, but full of carolers, hot chocolate flasks, insomniac writers in insomniac cafes and other denizens of the dark, all of us in it together. The night breed. We sleep while you’re awake. We’re awake while you’re asleep. We like it like that.

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Debauchette has been an inspiration to me and this blog in more than a few ways. She has, aside from being a writer I admire, worked very hard for a long time on a project that she and Kasia have finally released in the form of Filthy Gorgeous Things. It’s also where you can find some of both (aside from some other great writers’) of their newest writing. The site is drop dead beautiful. And reminds me of velvet, dark chocolate, and cognac. You must check it out when you can, because I think you’ll really like it.

And, sadly, if not tragically, Miss Inconspicuous has stopped posting, turning her blog private, and leaving behind a great void. But we can always hope for a return.