It’s me again—your old pal Lexxx with a blog about the slightly disturbing genre of horror erotica. I am going to reveal a disturbing, if not surprising, piece of myself. I’m into sex and violence. I think the two go hand in hand, actually. Think about it—in horror movies, the hero and heroine almost always get busy just before the monster jumps out and annihilates their naked flesh. It’s always been a rule of slasher films that the first big kill is some girl showing us her white underwear and/or gratuitously large breasts while she runs from the axe murderer that hacked up her lover in the previous frames. Let’s face it—sex and fear have a lot in common. Your pulse races, you get short of breath and then at the peak—complete exhilaration. As I sit here writing this article, I’m watching the movie “Pet Sematary,” based on Stephen King’s brilliant novel. King is a master of turning the ordinary into the EXTRAordinary. Love is the most ordinary thing around, sex even more so. As they say, the birds and the bees do it. So it only seems natural that love and sex should have starring roles in horror stories.
My release, “Dollface,” from No Boundaries Press, is about the horror of obsessive love. We’ve all been there, right? We’ve all had that person who knew just how to push our buttons in all the right places. We want to be with them every minute and hang on every word they say. But what if that person doesn’t return our affections? Perhaps they just don’t like us “that way,” or aren’t really looking for a relationship. Maybe it’s because they were an old love whose time has passed, never to be recaptured. Or worse, your ultimate mate doesn’t even acknowledge that you’re alive. No matter how you slice it, it hurts. The pain of unrequited love can turn even the most normal of people into angry harpies that blow up your phone with disturbing text messages. But what if it was more sadistic than that? What if the lover was a bit… unbalanced. That, my friends, is the stuff of erotic horror.
In the genre, over the last several years, we’ve seen a huge surge in blending horror and romance. Yes, this is the Twilight portion of our little discussion. Ah, Twilight, a sweet little YA novel about necrophilia. New girl at school meets popular boy, falls in love and discovers that he’s a bloodsucking creature of the night (or as Corey Haim so aptly put it in “The Lost Boys,”—“A goddamn shit-sucking vampire!”). Indeed a tale as old as time. Stephanie Meyer may take credit for it, but Bram Stoker did it back in the Victorian era. The difference is, Stoker realized the true metaphor of the vampire. When Dracula says, “The blood is the life,” what he meant was “the blood is the sex.” And I think that’s what fuels the hatred of Twilight among oversexed adults like me. Meyer cut Edward Cullen’s balls off and stuck them safely down in her purse. He doesn’t drink blood—he may as well be impotent. Vampires are romantic heroes. They always have been. Their powers of seduction are necessary to their survival and to take that away so that they can be “the good guys,” just undermines their power as horror figures. One reaction to that has been erotic horror featuring badass vampires that have no problem fucking your brains out then sucking your blood. And it gets stranger than that. I’ve heard of erotic horror featuring zombies, demons, ghosts and witches. Coming soon to your bookstore: The Secret Sex Lives of the Loch Ness Monster.
So what’s the point? We all feel like a bit of a monster every now and then. Love makes us do crazy things and we find ourselves relating to the creatures of the night. So when you think about it that way, it really isn’t all that strange, this love of all things both erotic and macabre.