WEBVTT

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I am Stoya

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and today we'll be reading
a section from

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Supervert's <i>Necrophilia Variations</i>.

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We were at a party, you and I,

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in celebration of
a long-forgotten cause for joy.

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There was raucous drinking.

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The party pushed on into
the darkest hours of the night.

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Somebody brought out a video camera
to tape the merrymaking.

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Your boyfriend was seated
at a table with some other men, drinking.

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And you were there beside him,
with your hand on his thigh.

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The camera came and exhorted you
all to be witty for posterity.

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Jokes were made.

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Funny faces and obscene gestures
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,
slipped his face into mine,

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put the cheap rubber band
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
—performing for the camera—

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pushed your tongue through
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
—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,
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,
gargling cry.

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The men at the table laughed and jeered.

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Finally you managed to extract
your little muscle of love,

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but not without cutting it
on the sharp edge of my lips.

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Afterward the videotape clearly showed
sweet blood on your tongue.

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If you’d been sober,
you mighthave found it symbolic.

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You can kiss somebody else’s spouse
and get away with it.

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You can kiss a member
of the same sex with near impunity.

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You can give an incestuous kiss
on the sly.

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You can tongue-kiss a dog
or exchange raptures with lab rats.

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But you can’t kiss death
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
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
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
with your clitoris in its mouth.

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Death is mad about you.

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Death loves you.
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
in my inert visage.

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I like to feel your eyelashes
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
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
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,
it’s forever.

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And why shouldn’t you love me back?

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I know that sometimes
you fantasize about me.

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[gasp]

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You lie in bed at night wondering
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.
I promise.”

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[gasp]

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I pull back the curtain to reveal
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
on the arm of inevitable doom.

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Life is short!

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Seize the day! Go ahead, darling.
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
and make merry too.

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I dance with skeletons and
make goblets out of skulls

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—to drink from the cranium,
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
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
<i>Necrophilia Variations</i>.