The Necrophiliac Read Online Free PDF

encountered such an unusual sex as hers, living in this death with a tremendous, autonomous, unfathomable life. Sometimes it dilated itself like a fishbowl to the point that I thought I had lost myself in a sort of abyss, other times it seized me subtly, held me, fed off me with a gluttonous lapping. Another disturbing particularity: my sperm disappeared into her without leaving a trace, mysteriously absorbed by this blotter-woman, by this carnivorous plant.
    For several days I let myself give in to the temptations of the turbulent Ivry virgin, even if it wasn’t without fear, as if, faking death, she would suddenly be able to open her eyes and, reanimated by my substance, devour me. What’s more, her agitation grew as the days went on, but, thankfully, the reassuring odour of the bombyx augmented proportionally.
    One evening, my mistress suddenly opened her mouth, just as Suzanne had done before. But not having had an education, the Ivry virgin did it with a lion’s yawn, revealing at the same time an irregular and badly-cared-for set of teeth. Another time, while avoiding her malicious sex, I searched for passage in her backroad; she omitted a series of incongruities that discouraged me. Without attaching an excessive importance to this type of accident, I prefer from now on that it doesn’t repeat itself. But the Ivry virgin had many pleasant sides, and I am far from forgetting the pleasures she gave me.
    Nevertheless, all good things come to an end. Mademoiselle, I thank you for your visit and your company. You are very nice, but all your artifices and your different forms of femininity won’t be able to extract from me that which I no longer possess. Absolutely drained, I ask myself if you aren’t some sort of succubus. . . .
July 24, 19...
    I am strarting to miss my Ivry virgin, my living-dead woman whose palpitating flesh knew how to surround mine and inhale my substance. Something that isn’t encountered twice in life, nor twice in death . . . Melancholy over not even knowing her name. Magic that escapes from me. Nevermore.
    I didn’t appreciate that woman enough.
    Was I ironic — behaving with the sort of irony that’s nothing more than the bad coat of the shameful poor? Did I forget — to forget is to omit from feeling again, it’s a folly of the soul and the body — did I then forget that I fall in love each time? One day, by chance, I was walking behind two German students and I heard one say to the other, “Denn jedesmal, verliebe ich mich heillos . . .” I could have said the same was true for me. Ich auch, leider, ich auch . . . The truth is that I was cowardly enough to blush to myself over the unusual moustached virgin, over my Kirghiz princess with the retractile, recitative vagina. Of course I loved her . . . Unless certain words shouldn’t be used, for it seems that the necrophiliac, as he’s presented in the twilight of the popular imagination, doesn’t have the right to claim them.
    Otherwise, a nice episode a few days ago. A Petit mort pour rire , around eighteen or twenty years old, alas quite demolished by an accident. But serene, fraternal. A friend I call “Peachskin,” even though he had another name and the peach skin in question, far from being his, was merely a vehicular adjuvant.
September 2, 19...
    A traumatic, unexpected adventure.
    I was going to spend the day in the Fontainebleau forest because the weather was splendid and I had little desire to remain shut up in the store. I stopped at Barbizon for a few minutes. Passing by the bakery, I noticed an announcement: “Closed due to death.” My black clothes and my stranger’s ways had attracted the attention of an old woman leaning at the window. Without doubt, she thought I had come for the funeral. Actually, she was hardly mistaken; I always come for funerals, for a perpetual mortuary festival, for a wedding funeral. The dead draw me from quite far by