I’m on a horror kick after seeing It yesterday. I didn’t find it particularly scary–although in its defense I am hard to scare these days, since 20ish years of consuming horror media has desensitized me to a lot of scary stuff.
But I did like it, for the most part, and there was enough of a taste of true scare to it that now I’m craving more.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever said this to anyone, in writing or otherwise, but being scared turns me on. That swoop in your stomach, the black hole-ish sensation of all the organs in your abdomen falling away? I love it. I also love seeing people scared, nearly as much as I love watching people go shaky and incoherent with sexual bliss. Which makes seeing a horror movie, or reading a horror book or whatever, a pretty strong erotic experience for me.
So here I am back to that “Does it really matter?” question. It feels like it should. Like I should be apologizing for being aroused by (fictionalized, not only expected but enthusiastically consented to) terror, or making excuses for the deviancy. But at the same time, I feel even less inclined to actually do it than when I wrote the post linked above.
I’m older now, I guess. Even though the year between 30 and 31 isn’t typically associated with rapid mental or emotional development, I feel like I’ve grown a lot in that regard. For all I know, I could die next Thursday, and then what will it matter that I got turned on by the physical sensation of my own fear?
Why shouldn’t I muck about in the greywater, the rotting rubble, and the detritus of my own smutty mind? There’ll be enough time to float above it all when I’m dead.