Jeff Gelb - Seeds of Fear

We all have concrete examples from real life, too. For example, did you ever find a partner who liked to be bitten during sex? It may be something you're uncomfortable with, because it's too close to losing control of the rational mind. But you might eventually like it, anyway. That is the final aspect of the sex-horror connection. finding out things about yourself that you really didn't want to know.

Possibly, it was a bold stroke to write a bondage scene for myself in Teenage Exorcist. But you'll also see me tied to a pillar on the video box cover of Ladies of the Lotus. In Slave Girls, I was chained to a dungeon wall in black lingerie. A year later, in Warlords, I was bound topless to a cross. The director, Fred Olen Ray, cocked an eyebrow and queried, "What is it with you, Stevens? Do you ask for these parts?" No, it must be a mere coincidence… yet I can only think I've come to enjoy it a little too much, perhaps. We naively think we know ourselves, and we do not. The comfort of our identity is twisted by something that's beyond our control. The Beast is always there — it is a wild heat that stays in the veins. And supposedly, we take off our chains along with our clothing. In my business, I apparently look for others to put them on me.

Until about 1980, sex was definitely guilt-free. It was the era of Erica Jong's infamous "zipless fuck." Sex without fear, and often without much emotional commitment. Then AIDS reared its retroviral head. Once described as "the little death," sex could now be death for real. Sex became even more mythic, even more linked with the symbolism of death. All we had to fear before was rejection, or the occasional scary partner (the Date from Hell is another fecund horror theme, right?). Now we had real death confronting the threat of ego-death.

So the concept of a femme fatale — a beautiful, sexually aggressive woman — becomes very important to men. And because it is (quite frankly) uncommon, it makes the mind revolve around such cautionary-tale archetypes as lamias, vampires, succubi, and so on. Writer Hazel-Dawn Dumpert said: "Murderers, vampires, ghosts can be frightening, yes. A crazy dame? Now that's scary." She also suggested that family values define woman as a nurturing force. A woman is an element of the earth itself — they don't call it Mother Nature for nothing. She's the link to physical and emotional survival. If a kink throws the womanly works off kilter, if they're perverted in any way, the results can be catastrophic. We all know what horrors are unleashed when bizarre circumstances transform beneficent babes into creatures of evil.

In fiction, a feminine monster is generally not brought into the world in the usual way. Instead, her origin lies in some pagan effrontery — or in the release of an ancient malevolence, now free to violate the nubile bodies of innocent coeds. Consider that disastrous seance wherein I evoked a succubus in Night mare Sisters. And that ugly, vicious imp I accidentally freed from a bowling trophy in Sorority Babes. In Dark Romances, my own bloodthirsty immortality was the result of a vile pact with a demon.

In movies and literature, it's always a good idea to ask: Why is this gorgeous woman coming on so strong like that? If it's too good to be true, there must be a catch. In real life, I believe this is a major psychological difference between men and women: ego reinforcement. That isn't to say the majority of men will turn down sex when it's offered to them, even by strange women. But don't think men aren't suspicious of the situation. Even for the most testosterone-driven men, sex is scary. You are going off into the metaphorical dark with someone you don't know well, and getting as close to her as is physically possible. Vulnerable. Sex and death… as in Ramsey Campbell's cleverly titled book, Scared Stiff.

That is why sex is always more than simply sex. It ties in with all kinds of issues. It is a big deal. Remember what Woody Allen said about sex and death? "Two things that only happen once in a lifetime." We joke about it, but sex is scary. These concerns about sex and death, about the Beast within, are all throughout our popular culture: in songs, books, and films. In this decade of white-trash glamour, we even get it delivered to us daily by Hard Copy and Oprah inside our own living rooms.

Men's erotica is more broadly humorous, while women's erotica tends to be more philosophical and high-minded. Truism: different strokes for different folks. And it isn't just men, of course. Women have their own kinks in their psychological garden hoses, too. It reminds me a bit of the Victorian female attitude about sex, and why Count Dracula was so appealing both then and now. Victorian women weren't supposed to like sex, or to be wanton. It was control, then as now, that was important. Stephen King described the underlying theme thusly: The vampire was saying to these chaste Victorian ladies, "I will fuck you with my mouth, and you will love it."

He is right, too. For both sexes, the concept of losing control in romance is somehow very attractive. I couldn't help myself becomes a catch phrase. I was drunk. It is the most human of states: to want to feel good, to feel better, or to not feel at all. We learn secrecy, new definitions of the truth. And a certain sense of assault develops in whatever mirror we choose to look into. because we take off many thousands of years of civilization when we dive be neath the sheets.

I doubt women can appreciate how scary sex is for men. Perhaps this is why erotic horror pretty much revolves around a male readership. Since much of horror has gone the rather messy splatterpunk direction, that may be a limiting factor for some women's appreciation of the genre. But I think there are a lot of females who, like myself, enjoy erotic horror immensely. What about Camille Paglia, the bogeyman of feminism, admitting to a great love of bodice ripper novels, complete with the bare-chested man bending the gasping maiden near double over a stone bench! And THIS from a committed foe of the paternalistic, woman-bashing status quo?

Guiltlessly, I'll admit my obsession for these wonderful erotic horror stories. So it's my great pleasure to welcome you to another spectacular volume of Hot Blood. Right now it is time to dim the lights, pull the covers up to your chin, and delve into these little gems of exotic terror (and if you're in bed with a significant other, be sure to check for fangs first!).

The images on the screen were black and white, grainy with too many dropouts. The sound was bad, harsh and scratchy. The music was even worse, too melodramatic. The scene was set somewhere up in the California mountains: a lot of boulders, dry grass, and scrubby underbrush.

Ted Culman lay on the full-size bed, naked, his eyes glued to the nineteen-inch TV. The landscape was unremarkable, the backdrop for countless low-budget movies made in the fifties and sixties. The only distinguishing factor about the old flick appeared a moment later, rounding a boulder and walking up a dusty mountain trail.

Ted sunk into the pillows at his back, as if settling into the cockpit of a jet fighter. He was in control now. The hand that rested on his belly crept toward his groin. Soon it was fisted around him, stroking. He was already aroused.

The woman who appeared on the screen was a real beauty. Average in height, but noticeably buxom, her breasts swelling behind the cloth of her checkered blouse. She was platinum blond, much in the same style of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Her lovely face was partly obscured by too much lipstick, partly by a pair of white-framed sunglasses, circa 1956. Ted studied the woman's lower region: flaring hips encased in skintight white slacks, long shapely legs, and tiny feet slipped inside simple sandals.