Unhealthy Attractions... PART I.

My libido and I have a love/hate relationship. It loves for me to think about sexy men and get all hot and bothered, and I hate to blush in calculus class.

I have a vivid imagination, and I tend to space out a lot and I'm sure you can see where this is going. So what could be better than making a little post about the mad men who would probably have sex with me and then later skin me and wear my lady bits as a hat?

I have a tendency to love things I probably shouldn't, and this tendency manifested its self early on. My first horror crush? Norman Bates. I was ten. Mother was not pleased.


But look at this face? What's not to love? I would go on to become a scooch obsessed with Norman when I was a preteen, and watched Psycho 4 over and over. And maybe over again.

You know what?
I was trying to write this "tastefully", and I realized how fuckin' stupid that is. This is an article about killer pretend people that I want to bone me; where does subtlety play into this? A warning to those of you who may be feeling a touch of the vapors: I'll probably be getting raunchy ahead.

Next on the list is a certain leader of a group of sadomasochists who live in a tidy wee box.



I'm speaking of course, about Pinhead. I'm not sure of the allure here; I think it's part his obsession for poor Kirsty, and part the frightening balance between pain and sophistication. When he talks you almost believe that he could rip you apart.. and eventually you might come to like it.

Of course, there are downsides to any relationship here. Oral sex would be difficult on my end, and I'm both curious and afraid to find out what else he's hammered nails into. Plus there's the want to rip me to pieces, and the fact that I'm quite firm on not having my skin perforated by hooks and chains. We're just too different; we want different things!


This next one is weird, even by my notorious standards. When I was about twenty, I had never seen any of the Halloween movies. For some reason these movies stayed off of my personal radar, which was good as a kid, since it would have just scared the piss out of me.

So does anyone want to tell me why the FUCK I had a series of bizarrely and startlingly erotic dreams starring your truly and Micheal Myers? Anyone? Anyone? You? You liked your hand was up--no? Yeah, me neither. I haven';t the faintest where this came from, but those dreams made me reeeeeeally happy, and I still get a strange residual twang when I watch these movies. So yeah, I guess I wanna jump Micheal Myers.

I have no idea what brought it on, but apparently it's here to stay.



Tony Todd has a voice that is pure, one hundred percent sex. He could probably get a nun wet by reading a phone book; and I know I'm not alone in this one. The next on my sick little list is, of course, The Candyman. I'm trying to be a tad classy here, and not make comments like "I got some candy for him!". Why? Because I'm a fucking lady, that's why! But seriously. I got some candy-- no, no, I'm stronger that that!

The Candyman is about seduction and obsession. I don't know about guys, but I know most girls have at least one secret fantasy of being the most alluring thing in the universe, the person that is absolute in a translation of need, both sexual and emotional. And the Candyman's seduction of Helen, coupled with that gorgeous, frayed velvet voice, and the promise of something worth being haunted by, is a potent combination for little old me.

The hook is problematic, I'll give you that, but I could tolerate the bees; I like bees. We need honey bees! Fuck I'm really, really sleepy. The turkey is kicking in, please send help, and stuffing. I think I need to wrap this up.


The moral of this post is that my psyche is a nightmarish, glitter-covered place to be. But what if it's not just mine? What if there are more of us out there who feel this way, about something if not this?

Of course, the reality and the fantasy are two entirely separate beasts, and I know that. Stalking is not sexy, and even if the stalker is harmless it's still irritating to have some jackass humping your leg. And I have no desire to become a victim to anyone. So I'll leave the box closed, and I'll never look in the mirror and recite a killer's name. (I actually tried after I saw Candyman for the first time, and my mouth froze up after the fourth time.)

But it's still fun to imagine.