HELP! I Want To Fuck Beetlejuice!!
I know this is wrong, but I have a confession to make: I am attracted to Beetlejuice. Biblically. Carnally. Posthumously. I am horny in ways that would make the ghost of Sigmund Freud sit up in his grave just to jerk off. I want to say his name three times and keep on screaming it all night long. There’s something about his nasty, crusty self that makes me want to roll around in a shallow grave with no clothes on.
Why? Maybe I want a project. Yes, he’s been dead for who-knows-how-long, but I have dated worse. After two years of no contact, my ex from college sent me a link to You’ll Be Back—a song from the musical Hamilton. At least with Beetlejuice, I know what I’m getting from the start: a deeply broken man (ghost? demon? unclear) in desperate need of some emotional renovation. Lucky for him, I am exactly the kind of woman who thinks she can flip a haunted fixer-upper into the perfect soft top.
First of all, Beetlejuice is spontaneous. With him, I never know what to expect. He’s the kind of guy who would pull me into the bathroom of a Texas Roadhouse just because he had to have me. Sure, he might grab the waitress by her eye sockets and turn her breasts into two baskets of hot buttered rolls, but that’s part of his charm. That’s the thrill of letting him take control.
I, along with many other women with Daddy issues, have this deep desire to be told what to do. His reckless abandon and chaotic energy make me feel like I can finally let go of my carefully constructed life. And yes, he did try to marry a child, but that child was Winona Ryder. Winona Freaking Ryder.
I suppose the real question here is: Does this make me a necrophile? Beetlejuice is dead…there’s no getting around that. But he’s also talking, walking, and horny, which feels like it should disqualify him from the typical corpse category. So what does this say about me? Am I attracted to death itself? To decay? To the undeniable appeal of a man who literally cannot ghost me because he is a ghost? These are troubling questions, and the fact that I don’t have a solid answer should concern me more than it does.
At the end of the day, maybe this isn’t about Beetlejuice at all. Maybe it’s about my own desperate need to feel something, anything, outside the crushing weight of modern existence. Or maybe, just maybe, I need to go outside, touch some grass, and drink some water. But until that day comes, I will continue to wrestle with my feelings for this moldy, mischievous menace. And if loving Beetlejuice is wrong, then frankly, I don’t want to be right.
