Funeral home fetish

The silence isn't finished being awkward yet

I have an inane fascination, a compulsion ludicrous in its morbidity, and one of which I have spoken to only the few, the beneficiaries of my drunk-speak, or individuals in possession of the capacity for unconditional acceptance, but now to the masses – or the few misguided souls mistaking my words for excellence. [Note: I am still turned on by self-deprecation.]

I have a funeral home fetish – a preoccupation with death by extension, or perhaps the reverse.

Far from necrophilia, the sexually perverse may now disperse. Images of cold flesh, sans vigor, past from this life, do not titillate, nor do I wish to procreate in the plush satin of a coffin.

I am brimming with fixations – men, mental instability, and potato chips, to name a few, typical, eccentric, and mundane, a conundrum like their possessor. This noteworthy unsound fancy is the more interesting of the lot and worthy of exploration, or at least exploitation. Foot fetishists and enthusiasts of S & M need relief from their high ranking on the freak list; of the existence I am sure. I have come to deliver.

The seed of fascination self-fertilized in my soil at a tender age. It was an open casket viewing, placed in the arctic ground of Iowa, removed from civilization, with me, clad in black, kid gloves, and a rosary gripped tight, standing antsy in line, fussy, tapping my feet and picking nervously at my bottom lip. What does death look like I wondered? I was eaten alive by my innate curiosity. My bob coerced into place with hairspray, face scrubbed clean with strawberry soap, I was high from the combined scent, sniffing the air like a starved hound.

There was my late horizontal great-aunt. I posed beguiled above her, the made-up face, artificial curls in the thinning hair, the puckered flesh, the bible glued to her hands. I nosed the adhesive, my feet lifted from the floor, beating the air, my freckled cheek climbed to touch the powdered deceased version. My grandmother instinctively swatted the suspended backside and pointed to Jesus hanging crucified above. I stared sheepishly back. Shit. A quick sign of the cross and I jumped from the line to let the others obtain a ghoulish fix. The day closed by munchies, smoked weenies, celery, and pudding, scouting the caverns of the funeral home, crumbs trailed the click of my glossy shoes.

And so it began.

Funeral homes became a sense of satisfaction, not the carnal, but the emotional. Court approved weekend visits to my father's house were accompanied by a red stop light perpendicular to our local chain mortuary. I stared from my position in the backseat with nose stuck to the glass, fogging up the window to etch cool into the resulting film.

When my mother, with kid in tow, skipped states in search of higher ground and financial independence, I inquired at the local corner store for the Colorado equivalent, conveniently located two blocks from our borrowed living quarters. Snacking on allowance purchased candy I stood on the corner after-school watching the rare commotion, but mostly inventing its internal scenes. This was before I acquired new friends, whose after-school activities were deemed normal and more suitable for the healthy development of a young girl – or so my mother put it over take out Chinese.

Elated by a glimpse of freedom at sixteen, I abused my legal appointment as operator of a motor vehicle and 1991 Volkswagon to quench my unwholesome obsession at the Horan & McConaty family mortuary. My mother led evening inquisitions to determine the current status of my infatuation, but adept at lying I thwarted her questions with ease. I practiced my violin in plain view and ran up excessive phone bills for a cover. Upon discovery of a parent friendly boyfriend the obsession entered into remission.

Five years of almost sobriety (and counting) a recent relapse caused me to obtain a bootlegged copy of "Six Feet Under", now tucked underneath the mattress for the next. Aware of the location of the local funeral home, I take great pains to avoid its looming white walls. I attend the meetings (with myself of course) and document my daily urges. The road to recovery is painted with the living.

I am under the guise of normalcy now.