I had holes in the bottoms of my brown and white pumps when I arrived at the theatre today. The police had arranged for us–I speak of the dancers in the show that closed–to meet them here to give us more information about one of the girls from the revue who had been murdered.
She was bitten on the neck, they said, the main artery severed while she gasped for air, her arms flailing wildly around her, her nude breasts heaving, her nipples hard, her soft white flesh shivering while the murderer reveled in making the sex act sadistic, abstract.
The police investigator said the murderer needed the blood from the innocent girl for him to achieve orgasm while he raped her.
Listening to him speak, I imagined the pink wool unraveling from her stocking when the murderer ripped it off her as she lay dying, her skimpy, cheap yellow taffeta costume quickly turning the color of a blood-red sun.
Lustmord, the Germans call it. Lust murder.
A phenomenon oft associated with Weimar Berlin because of its wild sexual diversions.
Floggings, erotic asphyxiation, girls lured into becoming submissives then choking on their tight leather collars, beatings, burning the skin–acts of sexual frenzy that all contributed to death.
Plied with liquor, the victim had no idea she was about to experience her last moments only to be cut or dismembered after she’d drawn her last breath.
Lustmord lulled the perpetrator into a dimension riddled with insanity: the mutilation of the female body to satisfy the murderer’s insatiable taste for this vampire-like seduction.
When I left the theatre, I saw the streetlights flicker on, their pale dirty haze no comfort to a girl walking back to her pension alone.
“No doubt the murderer will strike again,” the police investigator had told us.
I walked faster but the threat remained.
Lady Eve Marlowe