Dating : OF DEATH AND WOMEN

I live my death in a very similar fashion as to how I lived my life. Naked. And peeping into ladies changing rooms.

Of course, I hear you, I understand. The notion of nakedness is preposterous when one finds themselves incorporate. I have no body anymore, so the matter of clothes is a silly one to contemplate. Regardless, should I have had the choice to touch and wear fabric again, I would most emphatically choose not to anyway. I have never held much love for the confines of human rule. My twelve police records of public indecency should attest to that, and now that I have been set free of those mortal regulatory forces, I need not ever heed them again.

I make a rather wonderful, happy ghost.

I have to admit though, that there are two very distinct bug bears with my new ghost reality.

One; despite peeping gleefully at the lovely ladies, I no longer have any cock to stroke while doing so. I still derive much pleasure from nestling out of sight inside innocent ladies intimate quarters, whether it be in their bedrooms, parlours, fitting rooms, watching them undress, staring at their delicious form as they bathe, just the pure thrill of watching them, believing to be totally unwatched, at liberty to be their feminine selves… Since my death I have even ventured inside the chambers of those foul ladies of the night, and I have now witnessed debauchery beyond my wildest dreams. Those encounters did not stimulate me quite as much though. I crave the purity. I like the cream cheeked, rose pout, breathless fluttery vulnerability of the good girls.

Now if only I had a cock to stroke! Oh, I do miss that appendage. I imagine that the doctors of the mind would be fascinated by me — if I still had lips with which to tell them of my experiences — that even without the chemical impetus of my brain, my ardour, my balls, driving me to do these frowned upon acts of peeping-tomness, that I am still doing them anyway, through pure choice and psychological want. I guess being a pervert is something stained on the soul after all. There is no praying this away. I should know. I have been through several asylums and reformation institutions. After death, I have even regaled of this matter to various Saints and angels. None particularly care for my addictive plight. Of them, they simply claim I have too much of the lascivious Satyr sprinkled inside me.

I have yet to see a Satyr.

Anyway, as to my second bug bear with eternal ghosthood, it is thus; I may have left all Earthly rule behind, but now I am subject to an even higher command… that of the Gods and Goddesses themselves.

It. Is. Dreadful. Oh, how they bicker! How they tear us about with their whims! There must be hundreds of thousands of the celestial beasts up here, all them whipping about in a frenzy of self-importance. And we are simply their grown and cultivated harvests, we are their slaves to obey. Who knew, eh? Earth was a mere breeding ground, a nursery, a greenhouse, for the raw simplicity of bare unclaimed souls, plucked ripe at death’s door to enslave for all eternity.

There are pagan deities made up of many species of animal squashed into hideous form, like chimeras. Indian goddesses, Grecian spirits, African titans. Gods of war and vengeance, Sun Lords and Moon Imps, centaur guardians and Inca monsters, Death goddesses and Valkerie warriors. Such beautiful, terrible supernatural might! Existing in dimensions and spectrums unfathomable. Power like you have never seen. I sigh and scream at the horror of it. I laugh and love at the wonder of it.

Yet, for all their might, they lack one thing. The ability to birth. The ability to birth true souls; of consciousness, of life, of intelligence, of holiness. The beings they create from their own hands, in their own realms, in their own universes, are disgusting things, nasty horrid creatures from our worst nightmares. No wonder images of zombies and mogwai and banshees plague our fears… perhaps somewhere deep inside us we remember these bastard siblings from our goddess mothers, those poor devils trapped in their various far away hells, too stupid to exist, too spiteful to die.

And so now, the Gods and Goddesses — how I laugh at how they are worshipped on Earth! — they use the physical worlds to seed our plaintive souls. No wonder I never felt truly comfortable in my own skin. No wonder, eh, that I used to dress up in my wife’s dresses, or paint my body full of tattoos, or that I always felt supremely itchy-tense all my life inside with aggression and desire, so uncomfortable I was to be mortal.

Do not worry, I am much happier now I am dead. Despite all the drama.

So please, my friends, by all means, die. You will anyway, whether you want to or no. But once you do, be prepared. You are about to fulfil your destiny. You are about to be a God’s plaything, a slave, a toy, for as long as the whole wide array of existences exist.

I have made my peace with this fate. I think so, that I have become accustomed to the thought of it. I was an odd fellow in life, and so I believe I have adjusted fairly well to the bizarre reality that the door of death has spat me through.

But still, I do admit though, that sometimes it hurts. This truth, it just hurts. The priests taught me my soul was divine when I was boy, and dear lord, how it burns when you find out just how far from the truth it really is. I have been knocked around by the supernatural elite for several millennia now. I have been a soldier in armies of monsters. I have been thrown across space and time. I have seen terrible things, I have done terrible things. I have seen amazing things, I have done amazing things.

It is almost too much for one poor little used-to-be human to contemplate.

In my advice, to keep your sanity intact, it is of paramount importance to maintain a hobby.

I like to hang around women’s bathrooms.

Good day.