Link Proliferation: 'Cause it takes different strokes.

Your Cold, Cold Heart

And I thought horror fans argued about weird crap . . .

Anil Aggrawal, a multi-degreed professor of forensic medicine, has published a paper in the Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine that attempts to establish a definitive taxonomy of necrophilism.

I kid you not. The paper's available for free online, if you dare.

Curiously, the prof saves the first three categories in his ten-tiered system for pseudo-necrophiles. As the prof would have it, Class 1 necros are role players who enjoy sex with live folks who pretend to be dead. The prof says that this should properly be called "necrobiophilia." The prof includes this salacious little tidbit under the description of Class 1 necros:

Certain Parisian brothels cater to this perversion: the prostitute is made up like a corpse with a pallid appearance, dressed in a shroud, and lies in a coffin (often known as casket sex).

Ah, the City of Lights. What don't they do in Paris?

Horror fans might want to take note that the prof pathologizes vampire fantasies in which "the lover simulates a killing by biting the neck." Fantasizing that your lover is a zombie falls under this category.

Class II psuedonecros are, in the prof's terms, "romantic necrophiles." The prof describes these somewhat tragic figures:

These are normal bereaved people, who cannot bear separation from their loved ones. They do not seem to agree that their loved ones have died. They mummify their loved ones' body parts (or parts of them) and continue to relate sexually to them much as they did in life.

That's what normal bereaved people do?

Finally, Class III psuedonecros fantasize about making the beast with two backs, one back of doesn't move much, and will go to places like funerals and graveyards to get it on. The good professor states:

Some may be seen masturbating during funeral sermons or dirges as they sit in a crowd of mourners.

Classy.

Anyway, essential reading for fans of Clive Barker.

Your New Least Favorite Thing

The Australian newspaper The Daily Telegraph introduces us to the Australian giant burrowing cockroach. How giant?

"Native to western NSW and north Queensland, they can reach 30 to 35g and more than 85mm in length," Sydney University senior biology lecturer Nathan Lo said yesterday.

For us Yanks, that's roach that's 3 1/3 inches long and weighs about 1.2 ounces.

Aside from their grotesquely enormous size, these roaches exhibit numerous behaviors that are almost unheard of among the insect world.

"Giants can live up to eight years, which is pretty amazing for an insect.

"When they give birth it's to live young, not eggs, and they leave the babies in their burrows, come out in the evening to collect leaf litter and bring it back to the burrow for the young ones to eat.

"They look after them for several months."

So they're excellent parents, apparently.

Not weird enough? Okay. People keep them for pets. One roach can fetch $100 and people say the roaches make excellent pets.

Go figure.

What Baby Wants, You Better Damn Well Want Too

So, Lauren Bacall has Twittered about her hatred of the Twilight franchise. From her feed:

Yes, I saw Twilight - my granddaughter made me watch it, she said it was the greatest vampire film ever. After the 'film' was over I wanted to smack her across her head with my shoe, but I do not want a (tell-all) book called Grannie Dearest written on me when I die. So instead I gave her a DVD of Murnau's 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu and told her, 'Now that's a vampire film!' And that goes for all of you! Watch Nosferatu instead!

Which makes me think, "Holy crap. Lauren Bacall is still alive? And she Twitters?"

(Though, as soon as I write that, I remember Dogville and Mandalay, so I guess I somehow knew that she was still kicking around.)

More importantly, what an astounding way to make sure the younger generation learns to hate classic cinema. "You like crap. Watch this on assignment and become a better person who is more like me."

Elsewhere on her feed she tells readers that they must watch 8 1/2 or they will burn in hell.

Stuff: Let's talk about (funeral) sex.

I don’t know which is weirder: funeral sex or a magazine dedicated to all things funerary. Mercifully, I no longer have to choose.

The latest issue of Obit magazine features an article on funeral sex:

On a Yelp message board, the question “where to flirt” in San Francisco provoked a vigorous online debate. Jason D. ranked funerals as the fifth-best flirting hot spot, beating out bars and nightclubs. “Whoa, whoa, back up,” objected Jordan M. “People flirt at funerals? Really? Huh. I'm not sure I could pull that off.” That prompted Grace M. to note that “the first three letters of funeral is FUN.”

The author discusses his own morticopulatory adventures – sealing a "busty strawberry blonde" at his friend's mother's shiva and, years later, having hot married sex after an open-casket viewing of his wife's friend who died of cancer – and then quotes sex advice writer Alison Tyler, author of Never Have the Same Sex Twice:

Post-funeral sex is totally natural. You need something to cling to -- why not your spouse, your lover or that hunky pallbearer? Post-funeral sex can be life-affirming in a refreshing way you just can’t get with a cold shower or zesty soap.

Now personally, my philosophy always been when it's right, it's right – but I understand some might not be quite ready to do the horizontal wake shake. Not yet convinced that a little after-doom delight is for you? Here comes the "science":

According to Helen Fisher, a biological anthropologist at Rutgers University and author of the new book Why Him, Why Her (Henry Holt), the neurotransmitter dopamine may play a role in boosting the libido of funeral-goers. "Real novelty drives up dopamine in the brain and nothing is more unusual than death.... Dopamine then triggers testosterone, the hormone of sexual desire in men and women."

"It's adaptive, Darwinian," argues Fisher, who regrets that desire after the death of a loved one remains verboten. "It's almost like adultery. We in the West marry for love and expect to stay in love not just until death but forever. This is sacrosanct. Society tells us to remain faithful during the appropriate mourning period, but our brain is saying something else. Our brain says: 'I've got to get on with things.'"