The True ABCs of Death: V is for Venereal

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Suggested Audio Candy:

 

[1] Marvin Gaye “Let’s Get It On”

[2] Helen Moore “Eton Boat Song”

[3] Richard Band “Re-Animator”

[4] Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”

 

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venereal
adjective: relating to sexual desire or sexual intercourse.
relating to venereal disease.

 

Let’s tak about sex. Tell you what, I’ll go first. You see, my first sexual experience is as clear in my memory today as it was way back in 1991. Regrettably it didn’t quite go according to plan and I would liken it to my primary viewing of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre for two reasons. First there was nowhere near the amount of expurgated bodily fluids I was expecting and, secondly, it was an exercise in pure, raw terror. It is also worth noting that my suitor had previously seen more cock than a rooster warden. Alas, my recollections are far less fond than they are for Tobe Hooper’s exploitation classic and, while I am not looking to point the finger or single anyone out, it was entirely David Cronenberg’s fault. There I said it, may I become blighted with fungal genital parasites for my insolence. I’m not suggesting for a second that Cronenberg was present, imparting bogus advice and mocking my inept performance. However, it was his fault that I turned up for my rendezvous wearing a hazmat suit.

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Venereal horror is a sub-genre that he pioneered pretty much single-handedly in the mid-seventies with Shivers in 1975, Rabid two years later and The Brood in 1979. Also known as biological horror, organic horror and, most popularly, Body horror, this particular strain of cinema focuses on the graphic destruction or degeneration of the human body and often features any or all of the following: decay, disease, parasitism, mutation, and mutilation. His movement struck a nerve with cinemagoers and many have gone on since to offer their own interpretation of the concepts that he chose to explore. If you have already read P is for Pestilence then you will have a fair idea of where this is headed but I promise to mix things up some and keep this voyage of self discovery as fresh as it is ever likely to be.

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Thus, I shall begin with a movie that many of you may not be aware of. Shin’ya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: The Iron Man is a Japanese cyberpunk film from 1989 that has since gone on to attain a fair degree of cult status. It tells the story of a couple who attempt to cover up the death of a man bearing the ominous mantle, Metal Fetishist, for which they are partly responsible, and live to regret their actions. Less than enamored by their meddlesome antics, the recently deceased decides to punish them in the most unimaginable way possible, by possessing the alpha and causing his body to gradually metamorphose into scrap metal. While this begins innocuously enough, with a handful of harmless alloy shavings wired into the man’s epidermis, it isn’t long before the Metal Fetishist cranks things up a notch courtesy of a far more all-encompassing affliction. When he informs his expectant girlfriend that “I’m going to give you a damn good drilling!” I’m guessing she wasn’t prepared for anything quite so literal.

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With his member now resembling a gargantuan power tool and whirring its intent, the last thing she needs is to further his arousal so she battles valiantly to keep him flaccid. Alas, for all of her best efforts to rebuff her beau, her throbbing haunch eventually gets the better of her and this results in the kind of conclusive orgasm that she likely would have preferred not to endure. Desperate to rid himself of this cantankerous curse and feeling more than a dash of guilt for impaling his significant other on the tip of his Johnson, the man decides that the best course of action is to encourage a dash of rust and this backfires rather spectacularly, leaving him and the Metal Fetishist fused together perpetually as phallic two-headed metal Goliath. If you can’t beat them, join them right? This proves to be the case as the pair then proceed to consummate their joinery by marauding through the city in a unified bid for global domination. Only in Japan.

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The thing is, Cupid that I am, I believe I may have found the ideal fuck buddy for Tetsuo thanks to Mitchell Lichtenstein’s 2007 film Teeth. On initial inspection, Dawn O’Keefe appears no different from any other teenage girl preparing for her sexual prime but, as we all know, looks can be mighty deceiving. By day she is spokesperson for a religious group that encourage abstinence but, by night, she chomps off young boy’s genitals with her pussy.

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It turns out that Dawn suffers from a rare ailment by the name of vagina dentata which translates roughly into vadge with teeth. Now, while I’m sure that most men enter the field of gynaecology with the very best of intentions, there are unquestionably a few rotten apples in the bunch with far more selfish motivation. I’m not sure what category Dr. Godfrey falls into but, when Dawn places her legs in stirrups and he commences his fallopian foraging, it isn’t long before he wishes he had chosen to become an orthodontist instead.

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Speaking of which, I have found a flaw in my matchmaking plan. What is the one thing we fear most when sitting in the dentist’s waiting room? The drill right? Perhaps Tetsuo’s mechanized member would act as the kryptonite for Dawn’s masticating minge. It would likely end up a frantic race to see who comes first, leaving one helluva clean up job after those toes have curled. Regardless of any ominous orgasms, let’s be honest, it presents perhaps the most fascinating match-up since Godzilla took on Mothra and I would pay a princely sum for front row tickets. On reflection, perhaps second row back.

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Anyhoots, by now we should all be aware that engaging in sexual relations is not something to take lightly. There are a number of risks, from transmitted disease to carnivorous genitalia. No wonder there’s so much stigma attached to what is essentially the most primal endeavor we humans embark on. However, I’m not looking to scare you away from grabbing those well-earned oats and, thus, it is high time we look at the joys of sex and the benefits of sowing those seeds. There appear few better examples than Brian Yuzna’s satirical 1989 schlockfest Society to explore how much wholesome fun can be gleaned from good old-fashioned coitus. I feel duty bound to warn you in advance, things are about to get decidedly messy.

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On the surface, Bill appears to lead a rather charmed existence. If popularity was a contest, then he would likely scoop first prize, he drives a brand new Jeep Wrangler, has a cheerleader girlfriend, and lives in a palatial Beverly Hills mansion, the likes of which Jack Torrance could spend a whole winter in without once running into his wretched fishwife Wendy. All’s good right? Not exactly. You see, Bill can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t quite fit in with this particular high-flying clique and, what his therapist disregards as the usual healthy teenage paranoia, becomes progressively more justifiable as he starts to learn what really goes on at his folks’ swinger’s parties. Have you ever heard of shunting? Fret not if the answer is no and allow this next pictorial to part those clouds of confusion.

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Looks like fun right? Come on, don’t hold out on me. Leave your keys in the bowl by the door and jump right in. No need to grease up beforehand as there is more than enough lubricating jelly to go around. I think it may be advisable if we ease you in so slacken that sphincter and remember not to clench as this wrist watch cost me $300. Think of it like a colonoscopy with a twist of lemon and you won’t be far off. First I slide my digits inside you, then I navigate that pesky large intestine, bypass the kidneys, and keep heading northward until I reach the closest available orifice. No need to feel embarrassed if you feel the need to flatuate, it’s a common side effect from this procedure. Tell you what, let her rip and we’ll pick up where we left off afterwards.

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There you go. I can almost taste your relief, feels good to expel those stubborn gases right? Where were we? Of course, I was just about to reveal my hand. Don’t worry about the eyeballs, you still have four other senses at your disposal and I’m sure they’ll pop straight back in with little fuss. Now, you may feel a slight pinch in a moment or two but, great host that I am, I shall supply you with a little optical candy to keep your spirits raised during the interim. You ready?

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She’s a beauty ain’t she? Ambidextrous I hear and known for her ability to kick her own ass. What do you mean you can’t see her? My bad, I forgot your peepers are out of commission. On the plus side, we’re almost done now. Just one more grip and tug and it will all be over.

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1…2…3. Et voila. Welcome to your anus. I suggest you try to keep your tongue in your mouth at all times as we don’t want you suffering from any stomach upsets and I’m all out of Alka Seltzer. We get through them like M&Ms here. You are now part of a rather exclusive group of individuals and we’re always looking to recruit so, next time, bring your friends along too. One more thing, as our newest member, you’re on clean-up duties I’m afraid. Tell you what, since your initiation has likely been a bit of a baptism of fire and I can see that fatigue is setting in, let me find you a glamorous assistant to share your workload. Beryl? BERYL? Here she comes, deaf a post that one.

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By now we should have ascertained that there is no medication on earth strong enough to cure the sickness that blights Brian Yuzna. However, he’s a happy sicko and it takes all sorts so try not to be too hard on him. In 2000 he was at it again and, while Faust: Love of The Damned was not quite as titillating as some of his prior work, it certainly has its moments. One such standout involves the mysterious “M” and his conniving sidechick Claire. Here we go again.

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While “M” is predisposed trying to open the gates of hell and release a humongous reptilian by the name of Homunculus, Claire is surreptitiously scheming to relinquish her boss of his power and swipe the throne from under his nose. Needless to say, “M” is wise to her skullduggery and decides to teach this rapscallion a harsh lesson she will never forget. Some women hanker after larger busts and more voluptuous booties and Claire is soon granted her wish to the tune of a fair few cup sizes. With two shakes of a jackal’s tail and, in the interest of vanity (and showing this bitch who runs shit), “M” commences his correctional surgery procedure and Claire’s dreams of possessing a body to die for come true.

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She should have known better than to place her faith in the Wishmaster and, while her bosoms are unquestionably ample and butt way more voluptuous than J-Lo, gravity is no longer Claire’s ally. If there is a moral to this story then surely it would be to be careful what you wish for, particularly when dealing with such a dastardly genie as “M”. Frantically searching for reasons to be cheerful, she has admittedly saved herself a small fortune in push-up bras and a bright future lies ahead in twerking.

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Yuzna may well be something of a deviant, but he learned the tricks of the trade from the master. Stuart Gordon’s Re-Animator introduces us to the irrepressible Herbert West as he attempts to patent his new reagent, thus making death little more than a temporary hindrance. He finds himself some digs, recruits an assistant, and things appear to be going as per his best-laid plans. That is, until his nemesis Dr. Hill starts sniffing around. To apply further salt to his slug, the girlfriend of his new wingman, Megan, is not sold on his research and, when her beloved cat shows up stiff in his refrigerator, next to his half-eaten baloney sandwich, makes his business very much her own. Time for two birds, one stone.

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Dr. Hill doesn’t pose too much of a threat and a swift decapitation soon takes care of this irritant. Meanwhile, Megan is strapped naked to a gurney while he works out what to do with her next and, in typical West fashion, an ingenious plan comes to light. Herbert is nothing if not a congenial host and ponders what a woman would desire most when stretched out on a cold metal slab with legs akimbo. Then it comes to him like a bolt of cranial lightning. She’s a pretty young thing and, with her boyfriend sidelined by paperwork, her sexual needs are surely not being adhered to. Time to give her some head, Herbert West style. After suggesting this rendezvous to Dr. Hill’s bumbling torso and receiving an excitable nod of enthusiasm from his top box, it’s time to dim the lights and provide the head that Megan clearly desires.

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Reluctant would be the word and another would be downright horrified. The course of true love seldom runs smoothly and Dr. Hill tries his level best to settle any initial nerves while the remainder of his cadaver eggs him on from the sidelines. However, while his cunnilingus skills are considerable, it doesn’t help that he is dead from the waist down, and poor Megan comes away rather dissatisfied once their brief union reaches its end. Not that Dr. Hill gives a solitary hoot whether or not he has catered for her sexual gratification, he’s far too busy trying to assist his headless corpse in unzipping its pants and still wears that winning smile as he is placed affectionately back in his petri dish. Bless him.

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Despite her resistance, Barbara Crampton gleefully signed on to play Dr. Katherine McMichaels for Gordon’s next macabre outing From Beyond and this time had to fend off the advances of another mad scientist, the similarly flawed Dr. Pretorius. This rascal has developed a machine which affords its user sight beyond perceptible reality and has come up with the rather catchy mantle The Resonator for his technological tour de force. While Katherine is curious to see this beast in action, she soon rues her curiosity as Pretorius reveals his pent-up feelings and soon all those painful memories come flooding back in one fell swoop.

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Once you can put down to rotten luck but TWICE? I’m starting to see a trend here and, heaven forbid, Pretorius is feeling fertile. The mind boggles at the potential offspring that this pair would parent. Breast-feeding would be a freaking nightmare. Think I’d stick to the bottle Barbara, best start expressing that milk now before you reach full term. Which reminds me, Veronica Quaife is about to go into labor in the next theater along. I wonder how that is turning out? Alas, the father doesn’t figure in her birth plan as Seth Brundle was last seen vomiting into a pile of dog feces on the lower Westside. I wonder whether they opted for pink or blue for the baby’s room? I’m not altogether convinced that ascertaining the sex of this particular infant will be a doddle. I can almost hear the midwife already. “Miss Quaife, you have a beautiful baby larvae. Come on team, let’s leave them alone to bond.”

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Seth has some explaining to do if you ask me. If his telepod is all that it is cracked up to be, then he should have no excuse for not being present for the delivery. If you ask me, the whole sorry debacle reeks of negligence and a man/fly negating his parental duties. It’s not like he was conspicuously absent when sowing his suspect seed. He should have all transportation privileges revoked for such thoughtless behavior. Heaven knows what kind of excuse he will come up with for his lack of support in Veronica’s critical hour. “I’m sorry Ronnie, almost made it to the infirmary but my ear slid off” or “My apologies, I spent the whole afternoon on the run as some idiot chased me through Chinatown with a rolled up newspaper.” Save it Brundle. You’re as guilty as sin. And that reminds me, Stathis expects full remuneration for the Rolex you ruined.

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You see, copulation is a mug’s game and should be avoided at absolutely all costs. I would say stick to masturbation but, even then, you’re dicing with danger. Take a quick peek down your pants and, if your penis resembles a power drill or your vagina has its own dental plan, then I would advise against any extracurricular activity for the foreseeable as it will inevitably end in tears. I don’t know about you but, after a skinful of venereal horror, I’m off to the local library to look into becoming a fully fledged eunuch. Apparently it is a rather costly procedure so I’m sending the bill to Cronenberg. And don’t even try blaming that shit on Rosemary’s Baby.

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