=my sexy murder=

My death fetish began in childhood as a way to cope with the anxiety of life with a violent, alcoholic father who I feared one day would lost control of his temper and kill us all. I lived with this fear for nearly twenty years: imagine the effects on a brain stewing in such a chemical broth for that long! 

I would masturbate compulsively to the fantasy of my father killing me and found this was a way to transmute the ever-present possibility of sudden violent death into something manageable—and, absurd as it may sound to say it, "pleasurable." It was an accidental discovery. In retrospect, it seems an unfortunate solution as the imprint has held to this day. Yes, I am, in a number of ways, irrevocably fucked-up.

In my erotic imagination my greatest fear is paired with the most intense physical pleasure. I often orgasm imagining the moment of my death—or the moments shortly thereafter as in the above drawing. This series was executed during the period of time when I was meeting men online & inviting them to my apartment for sex. I was aware how dangerous it was and—reverting to old patterns—I allayed my fear by fantasizing a sexualized murder. A part of me, I suspect, was courting death: suicide by sex-murder. Here I am the subject of a somewhat educationally challenged serial killer who preys on transgendered girls. He has murdered me and drawn a captioned picture of me in his journal.