The burden of living a luxurious life within the confines of morality is such great a burden that often the most cold-blooded serial killers come from such refined stature, as I do. Everything I need, I take for granted; everything I want, I have. Life is not exactly as doleful as that statement would imply. Life is not perfect either. Life is lacking an excess. Transcendence calls for me from beyond the border of control, and I look at the border with contempt at the way it mocks my current impotence and immobility.
Control and Patience; my father told me that those two things were the most important characteristics in a man. My mother hated him. My mother, the prostitute who would have told me all about the profane world which feels unknown to me, if only she is still alive today. My father told me of another pillar: experience.
Women, the prostitutes of our world. Not necessarily because they sell themselves, but because they seduce me so easily, and when they do, a violent impulse beats with my heart, coming from my aroused dick. They seduce, the take the first step, and then recede; they tease. Hallowed women. Images of rape and murder and pain come to me whenever vibrant flesh comes into sight. That hot alien body, thumping beneath me as its blood gushes on me, as its arms try to cast me off, as its screams and howls reverberate through my licentious world. But I compress and repress my urges and keep it all inside.
Maybe today I just couldn’t take it anymore. A hot summer day, she passed in front of the car, wearing a short blue dress wrapping tightly around her thighs, making them seem like highways for wandering hands. Her feet flapped against her flip-flops, her French pedicure and manicure glistened under the sun; the image was completed by violent fantasies of possessive force, the anguish growing more intense as I thrust myself inside her like an animal, befouling the beauty of her face, the tender cheeks and the petite nose, the small puppy eyes and the plucked eyebrows, but most of all, those luscious lips which open like a wet kiss, to smile, to seduce, to promise what is found in nakedness and beyond, the great jubilation after immense anguish. Pain imagined created enough desire for forceful love. Control and patience gave way to the complete experience of the taboo through the act of transgression.
It happened in a blackout. I lost myself in the act, as cliché as that sounds, but my blank memory can testify to that. Now she’s in front me, her love-pouch torn, blood, mixed with drips of cum, stain her thighs and legs. The ugliness of her torn animal femininity is contrasted by the pitiful, beautiful face. In a last rush of rage I smudge her body with the cum-blood mixture between her legs, painting her with the blood of the sacrificed. My dick relaxed, my heartbeat slowly recedes back to normal. I feel human again. She is dead between my feet, her face so solemn, so beautiful, like a consecrated statue of the martyr which sacrificed herself for my freedom.
She no longer exists, but I continue to exist. She is sacred, I am profane. I continue to exist as a separate being after the blackout which fused me with everything surrounding me, with the victim-turned-martyr, with the sacred. What if, for her, the act reached completion through death? Does not a religious life, the life of a prostitute, culminate in the inevitable death of the individual?
Life is not boring, only lacking, lacking in the leisure of spending the excessive force which I compress inside the borders of morality. It is no enigma that the most cold-blooded serial killers come from such refined stature; they feel the excess energy which I feel, which can only be wasted, lavishly spent through violence, through the transgression of the taboo and the transcendence of separateness. Rape and Murder become religious acts of transcendence, festivities for the people living in complete abundance.
My prostitute mother would be proud, and for her, I denounce my father. I am Dionysus, son of Semele, the infamous seductress of Zeus. My mother, the priestess prostitute for whom the sacred is a common thing.