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I am Stoya
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and today we'll be reading[br]a section from
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Supervert's Necrophilia Variations.
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We were at a party, you and I,
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in celebration of[br]a long-forgotten cause for joy.
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There was raucous drinking.
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The party pushed on into[br]the darkest hours of the night.
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Somebody brought out a video camera[br]to tape the merrymaking.
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Your boyfriend was seated[br]at a table with some other men, drinking.
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And you were there beside him,[br]with your hand on his thigh.
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The camera came and exhorted you[br]all to be witty for posterity.
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Jokes were made.
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Funny faces and obscene gestures[br]were directed at the camera.
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I happened to be lying on the table.
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Your boyfriend picked me up,[br]slipped his face into mine,
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put the cheap rubber band[br]around the back of his head.
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He and I mugged for the camera together.
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For a moment, he was death personified as a drunk man.
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Or was I an inebriated reaper of souls?
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You, my darling, leaned over and[br]—performing for the camera—
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pushed your tongue through[br]my plastic mouth and into his.
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You were tongue-kissing the personification of death.
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I could feel your breath, share your alcoholic saliva.
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Your friends all cheered.
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The kiss ended[br]—but then, sweetness,
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you couldn’t pull your tongue back out through my face.
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My plastic lips had caught it tight,[br]like a Chinese finger trap.
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You winced,
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pulled,
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made a sort of open-mouthed,[br]gargling cry.
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The men at the table laughed and jeered.
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Finally you managed to extract[br]your little muscle of love,
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but not without cutting it[br]on the sharp edge of my lips.
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Afterward the videotape clearly showed[br]sweet blood on your tongue.
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If you’d been sober,[br]you mighthave found it symbolic.
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You can kiss somebody else’s spouse[br]and get away with it.
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You can kiss a member[br]of the same sex with near impunity.
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You can give an incestuous kiss[br]on the sly.
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You can tongue-kiss a dog[br]or exchange raptures with lab rats.
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But you can’t kiss death[br]without death kissing you back.
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Death is a passionate kisser.
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I bite your lips, chew your tongue,
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leave a little taste of blood in your mouth[br]as a portent of things to come.
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If I were to kiss you between the legs,
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you’d see a little blood there too
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and think that your period[br]had come early.
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But it wouldn’t be your menses, lover.
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It would be your ruination,
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a death’s head[br]with your clitoris in its mouth.
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Death is mad about you.
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Death loves you.[br]Do you love me too?
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I’m not needy, but I enjoy intimacy
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—especially with you, darling.
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Go ahead. Slip your face into mine.
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I like to feel your warm lips[br]in my inert visage.
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I like to feel your eyelashes[br]tickling my empty old sockets.
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One day I’ll slip my face into yours too,
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and then we’ll experience[br]another sort of intimacy.
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I’ll be inside you, like a lover.
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I’ll kiss you from the inside,
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and it will feel like catching a chill.
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You’ll get goose bumps up your thighs
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and shivers down your spine.
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I’ll whisk you to my wormy bed
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and we’ll lie there nestled[br]in each other’s arms,
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or at least so long as you have arms.
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And even then, when you are hideous dust,
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I will remain true.
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I am death and when I love you,[br]it’s forever.
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And why shouldn’t you love me back?
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I know that sometimes[br]you fantasize about me.
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[gasp]
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You lie in bed at night wondering[br]how and when I will come,
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and what I’ll look like when I do.
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Am I a knight in shining armor?
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A fiery dog of hell?
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[gasp]
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Do I look like a vampire?
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A skeleton? A ghost?
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You imagine me taking you into my arms,
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embracing you, comforting you.
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“There, there,” I say, kissing your tears away.
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“I’ll make those awful things go away.
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Life won’t be a burden to you anymore.[br]I promise.”
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[gasp]
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I pull back the curtain to reveal[br]a wonderful new world
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—a party,
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a riot, a ball.
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It’s the costume affair, Mardi Gras,
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the Halloween festival, the Day of the Dead,
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and it’s enormous fun to prance around[br]on the arm of inevitable doom.
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Life is short!
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Seize the day! Go ahead, darling.[br]Slip me on. Pretend you’re me.
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See the world through my sockets.
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Laugh. Live. Love—while you can.
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Eat, drink, and be merry.
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What do you think I do?
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I’m death, and I laugh[br]and make merry too.
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I dance with skeletons and[br]make goblets out of skulls
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—to drink from the cranium,[br]you should know, is very fine.
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[sigh]
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When your brains are gone,
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what nobler substitute[br]could there be than wine?
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Oh!
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I'm Stoya
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and that was
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[laughing]
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and that was Supervert's[br]Necrophilia Variations.