Oxygen
12-16-05, 08:43 PM
Ah, yes. Memories are made of this…
I was rooting through a pile of stuff I’ve had since the late 80’s to early 90’s and found an old magazine that I used to love to read. It’s called “Carpe Noctem”, and I have the very first issue open to the very article that sold me. I remember those days, when I was into lurking through cemeteries looking for neat tombstones to photograph, hanging out in the seediest, most exotic bars I could find, listening to the darkest, loudest, most morbid music I could stand. No, I wasn’t a Goth. I was just into the bizarre. I’m still into the bizarre, but I play it low-key due to the nature of this town. Back in San Jose you could get away with it. Out here they’re liable to burn you at the stake.
Anyway, here’s some bits from the article you may find, uh, well, here. And for those of you who know who he is, this is the magazine that unleashed Johnny the Homicidal Maniac on the world.
DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME: TRUE STORIES OF AUTOEROTIC FATALITIES
B. J. Maccarillo III
(reproduced here without permission, but nothing in the magazine said not to ~Oxygen)
In Texas, a man is crushed to death by a Volkswagen. In California, a man is hanging from the shovel on his tractor. Although separated by hundreds of miles these deaths are, in fact, related. They share a common cause. They stand as final tragic evidence to the dangers of masturbating with anything more elaborate than a couple of magazines and your left hand.
Floor buffers, stereos, air and garden hoses- all have been used as props to fulfill erotic fantasies at which we can only guess. Those who practice this bizarre form of onanism keep silent, knowing disclosure of their dark unnatural lusts will lead to inevitable ostracization from society, or worse yet: good-hearted but useless and time-consuming attempts at finding a “cure”.
For paraphilia (the attraction to non-human objects for sexual gratification) is a harsh mistress; once in those cold arms all decisions over life and death are hers and hers alone.
Take the case of the Texan with the VW. Dubbed “The Love Bug Case” in forensic circles, it is perhaps the most infamous of all autoerotic fatalities. The victim, a family man and airline pilot, had a harness custom made, (not unlike those used for safety by rock-climbers,) which went around his waist, under his buttocks and up between his legs, attaching in front to a chain that was in turn, attached to the Volkswagen. The car was rigged, in low gear, to drive around in circles. Whether he was going to run naked behind the car or be dragged on the ground remains unclear to this day. What we do know is this: at some point the chain got caught on the revolving rear axle and began to reel him in like a fish on a line. Tripping and falling repeatedly, he struggled in vain to get to the ignition switch as the ever shortening chain pulled him towards his fate. In the final seconds, the chain pulled him into the rear wheel-well, smashing his genitals against the tire, his chest against the fender, and crushing the air from his lungs.
So many questions. What was he thinking? Was this his first time, or was this a kind of hobby? Were gladiator movies somehow to blame? Who put the bag over his head in the crime scene photos? Do you think his family kept the car? The answers either died with him or are simply too trivial for consideration.
A California father finds his 42-year-old son hanging dead from the upright shovel of his tractor. Further investigation found some of these interesting facts: The man had given the tractor the macho name of “Stone.” He had bragged about the rugged earth-moving machine to friends and family, enclosing a picture of it with his Christmas newsletters. He wrote it poetry, proclaiming the bond between man and machine. But perhaps the most telling was the length of plastic piping that had been taped to the vertical control lever of the shovel on one end and a piece of broomstick on the other.
The mechanics of this abominable consummation are as ingenious as they are disgusting. The broomstick was inserted into the rectum of the victim so that as the shovel went up, it put pressure on his neck, cutting off his air supply (this is rumored to produce a more intense orgasm of any kind, he passed out, the shovel continued to rise, and when they cut him down he was as cold and stiff as a board.
As for the tractor: it’s still in use today, plowing it’s way through bean fields and orchards, the memory of a love that few machines ever know fading along with its factory green paint job under the hot California sun.
Not as spectacular but equally puzzling are the hundreds of cases of autoerotic fatalities reported every year:
A 19-year-old discovered in the back-yard of his in-laws’ in a sitting position covered with mud, a garden hose wrapped around his neck and an ear of corn shoved deep into his rectum.
A New Zealand man was found dead wearing a brassiere, electrodes taped to his nipples, scrotum and anus.
A man in his fifties was found hanging by his knees from a tree, trapped in an elaborate set of bondage-style knots. The ground below him was strewn with pornographic photographs, the faces of the models had been covered with faces of members of the victim’s family. There were traces of semen on his thighs. Unable to free himself, he died of exposure.
You would think that the families of these people would be devastated by the manner in which their loved ones met their demise- the thousands of questions, the heart-ache and stigma attached to a fatal perversion. But no. As the father of one victim was quoted, “I don’t really understand what happened, but I’ve accepted it… it actually helped to find out that it was an accident and not a suicide… I would have a harder time trying to understand why he would’ve wanted to kill himself deliberately.”
Not me, buddy.
So there it is a nutshell. Can we add any more to this?
I was rooting through a pile of stuff I’ve had since the late 80’s to early 90’s and found an old magazine that I used to love to read. It’s called “Carpe Noctem”, and I have the very first issue open to the very article that sold me. I remember those days, when I was into lurking through cemeteries looking for neat tombstones to photograph, hanging out in the seediest, most exotic bars I could find, listening to the darkest, loudest, most morbid music I could stand. No, I wasn’t a Goth. I was just into the bizarre. I’m still into the bizarre, but I play it low-key due to the nature of this town. Back in San Jose you could get away with it. Out here they’re liable to burn you at the stake.
Anyway, here’s some bits from the article you may find, uh, well, here. And for those of you who know who he is, this is the magazine that unleashed Johnny the Homicidal Maniac on the world.
DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME: TRUE STORIES OF AUTOEROTIC FATALITIES
B. J. Maccarillo III
(reproduced here without permission, but nothing in the magazine said not to ~Oxygen)
In Texas, a man is crushed to death by a Volkswagen. In California, a man is hanging from the shovel on his tractor. Although separated by hundreds of miles these deaths are, in fact, related. They share a common cause. They stand as final tragic evidence to the dangers of masturbating with anything more elaborate than a couple of magazines and your left hand.
Floor buffers, stereos, air and garden hoses- all have been used as props to fulfill erotic fantasies at which we can only guess. Those who practice this bizarre form of onanism keep silent, knowing disclosure of their dark unnatural lusts will lead to inevitable ostracization from society, or worse yet: good-hearted but useless and time-consuming attempts at finding a “cure”.
For paraphilia (the attraction to non-human objects for sexual gratification) is a harsh mistress; once in those cold arms all decisions over life and death are hers and hers alone.
Take the case of the Texan with the VW. Dubbed “The Love Bug Case” in forensic circles, it is perhaps the most infamous of all autoerotic fatalities. The victim, a family man and airline pilot, had a harness custom made, (not unlike those used for safety by rock-climbers,) which went around his waist, under his buttocks and up between his legs, attaching in front to a chain that was in turn, attached to the Volkswagen. The car was rigged, in low gear, to drive around in circles. Whether he was going to run naked behind the car or be dragged on the ground remains unclear to this day. What we do know is this: at some point the chain got caught on the revolving rear axle and began to reel him in like a fish on a line. Tripping and falling repeatedly, he struggled in vain to get to the ignition switch as the ever shortening chain pulled him towards his fate. In the final seconds, the chain pulled him into the rear wheel-well, smashing his genitals against the tire, his chest against the fender, and crushing the air from his lungs.
So many questions. What was he thinking? Was this his first time, or was this a kind of hobby? Were gladiator movies somehow to blame? Who put the bag over his head in the crime scene photos? Do you think his family kept the car? The answers either died with him or are simply too trivial for consideration.
A California father finds his 42-year-old son hanging dead from the upright shovel of his tractor. Further investigation found some of these interesting facts: The man had given the tractor the macho name of “Stone.” He had bragged about the rugged earth-moving machine to friends and family, enclosing a picture of it with his Christmas newsletters. He wrote it poetry, proclaiming the bond between man and machine. But perhaps the most telling was the length of plastic piping that had been taped to the vertical control lever of the shovel on one end and a piece of broomstick on the other.
The mechanics of this abominable consummation are as ingenious as they are disgusting. The broomstick was inserted into the rectum of the victim so that as the shovel went up, it put pressure on his neck, cutting off his air supply (this is rumored to produce a more intense orgasm of any kind, he passed out, the shovel continued to rise, and when they cut him down he was as cold and stiff as a board.
As for the tractor: it’s still in use today, plowing it’s way through bean fields and orchards, the memory of a love that few machines ever know fading along with its factory green paint job under the hot California sun.
Not as spectacular but equally puzzling are the hundreds of cases of autoerotic fatalities reported every year:
A 19-year-old discovered in the back-yard of his in-laws’ in a sitting position covered with mud, a garden hose wrapped around his neck and an ear of corn shoved deep into his rectum.
A New Zealand man was found dead wearing a brassiere, electrodes taped to his nipples, scrotum and anus.
A man in his fifties was found hanging by his knees from a tree, trapped in an elaborate set of bondage-style knots. The ground below him was strewn with pornographic photographs, the faces of the models had been covered with faces of members of the victim’s family. There were traces of semen on his thighs. Unable to free himself, he died of exposure.
You would think that the families of these people would be devastated by the manner in which their loved ones met their demise- the thousands of questions, the heart-ache and stigma attached to a fatal perversion. But no. As the father of one victim was quoted, “I don’t really understand what happened, but I’ve accepted it… it actually helped to find out that it was an accident and not a suicide… I would have a harder time trying to understand why he would’ve wanted to kill himself deliberately.”
Not me, buddy.
So there it is a nutshell. Can we add any more to this?