Mothman is Real, He's My Boyfriend

Title: Mothman is Real, and He's My Boyfriend

Description: An ethnographic study of the motivations of monster erotica

Ingredients list (mild spoilers):

2 cups monsterfucking

1 cup quasi-academic research

1/2 cup non-human anatomy

1/4 cup fear and reluctance (brief)

2 tbsp sloppy citation formatting

1 dash Netflix-And-Chill

Immense gratitude to Actingup, Nynah, SinclairGroupLLP, and EmilyMiller who each provided gracious feedback, encouragement, and beta-reading!

The compound word "monsterfucker," is somewhat a recent creation, a joking-but-not-really-joking term popularized by horny Tumblr girls in the 2010s. It can refer to the genre of monster erotica; to fans of the genre; or to the fantasized act itself.

In the last five to ten years, the genre has become tentatively mainstreamed, being discussed in popular publications like Jezebel (He Was a Minotaur; She Was A Human Girl. Faircloth, 2021.) Cosmopolitan (Well-Endowed Beasts and Dildos to Match, Dawson, 2024) and Electric Lit (What's Up With All These Stories About Women Having Sex with Fish? Posey, 2018) and Business Insider. But the sexual fascination with monsters is ancient.

In writing Dracula (1897) Bram Stoker uses vampire mythology to transgress against a variety of Victorian sexual taboos, and probably stemmed from Bram's desire to fuck Walt Whitman."Messy, but it'll work for a rough draft," I mutter to myself. "Julia's going to either love it or hate it."

Julia is my advisor and thesis supervisor, a classical lit professor who fancies herself an experimentalist. She's always telling us to take more risks in our writing... I'm not sure this is what she had in mind, though. I'll probably have to go back and re-write everything in the proper Academic Passive Voice, sanitize the naughty words, and take all the fun out of it. I still need a title too, something catchy to the left of the colon, dry to the right of the colon. The review committee is pretty anal. In La Belle et la Bête (Villeneuve, 1740) Beauty can only break the Beast's curse once she truly loves him in his monstrous form and takes him to bed.

A famous Japanese woodblock print, Tako to Ama (Hokusai, 1814) depicts a female pearl diver being pleasured by a pair of octopuses, and is widely considered the forerunner of tentacle erotica. In the anglosphere it's usually referred to as "The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife," obfuscating both the woman's dangerous profession, and her seemingly enthusiastic participation with her tentacled lovers.

Looking farther into antiquity we find lurid supernatural explanations for wet dreams and sleep paralysis. The demonic incubus, from the Latin incubāre, "To lay on top of," and his feminine counterpart the succubus, from the Latin succubare, "To lay underneath."

In Classical Grecian mythology we read of Queen Pasiphaë of Crete coupling with a bull, then giving birth to the Minotaur who ravished and consumed nubile virgins, both male and female. We see a variety of Greek, Norse, Sub-Saharan African, Celtic and other myths involving gods either fucking monsters, or giving birth to monsters, or turning into non-human creatures in order to fuck mortal men and women.

The human desire to fuck monsters seems deeply culturally ingrained. The purpose of this thesis is to explore why, and to develop a theoretical framework of monsterfucking. It's getting dark and the outside air is cooling, but my south-facing apartment has turned into a heat battery. Time to take a break from writing and get some air. I know I'm going to be living and breathing this dissertation until it's finished. I threw myself into my grad program after a bad breakup with my last boyfriend. Work on campus during the day, homework and writing at night, not much in-between. And now the end is in sight, I'm ABD -- All But Dissertation -- and I'm fucking burned out.

I shut the lid of my computer and put on some jogging clothes. Sports bra, a thin long-sleeve top, stretchy grey workout pants and running shoes. I take a quick glance in the mirror for a fit check. I'm nothing special, just another white girl grad student, but I like to think that I clean up well enough.

My chest isn't much to write home about, but I don't skip leg day, and my butt and thighs have developed a muscular thickness that I'm pretty proud of. If I haven't had many partners in the last couple years, it's more to do with my lack of time management than my looks. I grab a scrunchie from my dresser and put my mousy brown hair up in a ponytail, put in my ear buds, hit play on the new Rilo Kiley album and head out the door. Qualitative interviews conducted through anonymous online correspondence (n=34) found a variety of different psychological motivations among monsterfuckers. Results of those interviews were used to develop a categorization framework.

Exploring Identity & Otherness. One category of motivations described monster erotica as a channel for exploring the reader's sexuality and identity. A statistically significant proportion of monsterfuckers identify as non-cisgender in some way, and were drawn to stories of transformation and metamorphosis. Skinwalkers, shapeshifters, werewolves, amorphous slime creatures, and other entities that have the ability to reconfigure their bodies at will were appealing and arousing to many. The air is cooling quickly, while the sidewalks and asphalt radiate their stored heat upwards, creating a gentle temperature gradient.

The neighborhood is full of walkup apartments butting right up to the sidewalk, plus a healthy collection of mature street trees, making a cozy, tunnel-like experience.

The city installed DarkSky-compliant, shielded street lamps a few years ago to reduce light pollution. I actually went to one of the neighborhood meetings when they started the project, curious about what it entailed, and came away a believer. Limiting light intrusion and leakage reduces harm to migrating bird and insect species, actually improves sleep for city residents, saves electricity and maintenance costs.

And you can actually see the stars. The street lights create discrete pools on the ground at regular intervals, separated by relative darkness. Above me, past the trees and buildings, I can see the dim spray of the Milky Way, smeared across the southern sky. Physicality & Sensation. For some it's a variant of texture fetishes usually associated with clothing. But where a latex or silk enthusiast would fantasize about a human partner wearing those materials, a texture monsterfucker fantasizes about the feeling of running their fingers through the fur of a werewolf, or caressing the slick smooth scales of a lamia.

A subset of respondents in this category had very specific interests in temperature play involving living marble statues or ghosts, and were excited by the sensation of penetrating or being penetrated by a cold partner. I walk semi-aimlessly for a while, staying in residential areas away from the more traffic-filled streets, following a vague route toward the river, thinking I might follow the riverwalk for a mile or two before turning around and heading back home.

As I round a corner, I see a shape up ahead, just beyond the reach of a street light. A big guy is hanging out under a tree, hiding in the shadows.

I can't see any details, but he's tall and broad and seems to be wearing a trenchcoat or something. My internal alarm system starts to bleep at me, this is not someone that you want to meet in the dark, get the fuck out of here. I turn on my heel and go back the other direction, walking fast, not running, trying not to look like a scared grad student. Transgression & Taboo. Many respondents described the thrill of transgressive or taboo aspects of the genre. For some respondents, monsterfucking tickles the same part of the brainstem as the fantasy of having sex with a stranger, or with an inappropriate partner, but "turned to eleven," as one respondent described it. I don't dare to look behind me, but I take my ear buds out and listen for trouble. I don't hear anything, no catcalls or whistles, no clomp of heavy footsteps.

Maybe I overreacted, this guy isn't trying to follow me, he's just a big dude minding his own business. I decide to turn around again and keep walking for a while longer, taking a different route. I get to the riverwalk and start to relax. There are other people out here walking along the path. A woman jogging with a stroller. A couple with a dog. A gaggle of teenagers trailing clouds of vape behind them.

I let my thoughts trail and wander for a bit, enjoying the sound and sights of the languid river. I've been so focused on finishing my grad program, I don't really even know what's going to come next. There's not much you can do with a MFA in Literature, other than teach Literature, and I don't even like teaching. I could try my hand at writing for an audience, try to get published. Not that you need a degree to write, but at least I know enough about the rules to know when to break them.

I decide to call it a night and turn for home. I walk back toward my quiet residential neighborhood, and soon I'm alone on the street again. I keep my ear buds out, just to be on the safe side. It's practically silent, an occasional wuffing dog, faint traffic noise from blocks away.

As I turn a corner, I see a shape in the dark again. It's the fucking guy from before, still just lurking in the dark spaces between the street lights. He shifts his weight slightly, and for a second I think he might be walking toward me. I see a little glint of red light, like he's wearing reflective glasses. I slip between some cars parked next to the sidewalk and get to the other side of the street, trying to casually keep my distance, taking a left turn around a corner and making a detour.

I walk quickly for a few more blocks before turning right and heading home. But there's something up ahead, between a couple of trees in front of one of the single-family houses. It's the big guy again! That's not possible, there's no way he could have gotten ahead of me. Power Dynamics & Consent. Fantasies of control, domination, submission and ravishment were frequently reported interests among monsterfuckers. Several subsets of this category were identified. The desire to be forcibly taken by, or to willingly submit to, a powerful, inexorable partner is not an uncommon fantasy. Making that imagined partner something inhuman, something that can't be negotiated with, can't be resisted, perhaps can't even be understood, heightens the fantasy.

Although most respondents in this category identified as female, a subset of male-identifing respondents also described a strong desire to be dominated and "fucked senseless," by monsters. This phrase, "fucked sensless," was spoken verbatim by four different respondents.

One subset of respondents identified more with the dominant monster than with the human subject, and fantasized about becoming the overpowering creature, forcibly taking and claiming what they desired. Some respondents in this subset were aroused by themes of hunting, trapping, even consuming their human partner. This time I stop dead in my tracks, which is an obvious mistake on my part, but it does give me a better look at the guy. It's too dark to see details, but he's wearing something like a coat or a cape, obscuring his shape. His eyes though...

His eyes are glowing red, shining out from the darkness, much too large to be normal human eyes. My first thought is that they must be glasses or goggles with LEDs, some kind of weird augmented reality tech bro affectation.

But as I stand there frozen, staring at him as he stares back at me, I realize that the shifting glint of his eyes are more like the glow of a cat's eyes, the way they reflect light back from an external source. This isn't a tech bro. I don't think it's even human.

The hairs on my arms and neck stand up, and I feel the uncanny frisson of the fight or flight prey response. I finally force my legs to move, and I run as fast as I can towards my apartment, not looking back.

Logically I know this is a bad idea. If you're ever followed by a stranger the right thing to do is to get to a public location, a busy street or a business, and call emergency services. You don't run, you don't hide, and you definitely don't lead them back to your private residence. But my primitive mammal brainstem doesn't think it's avoiding a human creep, it thinks it's escaping from a non-human predator.

I get to the apartment entrance, frantically punch in the key code, sprint up to my third-floor apartment and deadbolt the door behind me. I fumble for my phone and I'm about to call the cops, but then I hesitate. What am I going to do, tell them I saw a monster while I was out walking?

«I'm very sorry for startling you, that was not my intention. »

"Fuck!" I blurt out, spinning around, looking for the source of the voice.

«I can see now that my appearance alarmed you. I wanted to assure you that you're not in danger. »

The voice is deep and rich, masculine, but placid and calming. I also can't figure out where it's coming from, my ears can't track its source. It seems to be coming from inside my head.

"Am... am I hallucinating right now?"

«I don't believe so. At least, I perceive myself to be quite real. I'm outside your window presently. »

I tip toe from my entry way toward my living room, and peek around the corner to look out the window. Perched outside on the fire escape is the big guy with glowing red eyes. Taking an ethnographic approach, I examined my own motivations and interests in monsterfucking. Speaking personally, I think my interest in the monster erotica genre stems from the fantasy of masculine danger, but compartmentalized from the mundane reality of actual masculine danger. I dread meeting a guy off of Tinder for the first time, not knowing if he's a creep or a potential stalker who could ruin my life. I love walking in the city at night, but fear being catcalled or followed or worse.

The discomfort of being stared at by a stranger when you're just going about your day. Or even the fear of being talked down to in a department meeting, of being treated like a child by older, less-qualified men. The background radiation of just existing as a woman.

But the fantasy danger of being devoured, heart and soul, by a werewolf? Of being invaded by a tentacle monster? Of being entranced by an incubus, possessed by a ghost, dragged to the depths by the Creature from the Black Lagoon? That's different. For some reason that I can't fully articulate, I don't scream at the top of my lungs and run out into the street in the direction of the nearest mental health crisis center. The dreamlike nature of the situation seems to be bypassing my instinctive panic.

"Who... what... are you?"

«I don't think I have a personal name in the sense that you would understand. As for what I am... Your kind has not yet classified my kind. For a variety of reasons, we rarely interact. But given your knowledge and interests in what you call monsters, you may know of me as The Mothman. »

"The Mothman. You're The Mothman? The cryptid monster of Point Pleasant, West Virginia? I don't believe it. Prove it." I inch closer into the living room, now having a full view through the window of this weird guy sitting on my fire escape. I still can't see any details, other than his huge frame and his glowing red eyes.

«How would you like me to do that, Melanie? I don't want to frighten you again. »

And he knows my name. Either this is a dream or hallucination; or I'm about to invite a deranged stalker into my house via the fucking window; or... I'm talking to a very polite, apparently telepathic monster.

Working up my nerve and accepting the absolute absurdity of the situation, I step closer to the window and unlatch it, push it open a couple of inches, then retreat to the middle of the room.

"Come in and show me."

Two sets of dark, shining, hooked claws reach under the window sash and pull upwards, and then he stoops down and squeezes his bulk through the window. The moment his feet touch the floor of my living room I can tell that he's not human. His legs are shaped strangely, more like a dog's than a human's, but with two sharp claws extending from his digitigrade feet.

He stands up to his full height, well over seven feet tall, I'd guess. He unfolds his moth-like wings and stretches them to their full span, bigger than a king-sized blanket, a dark charcoal inlaid with mesmerizing whorls of deep crimson.

The rest of his body is that same dark charcoal grey. Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. Muscular-looking arms that end in three-fingered hands, his claws gently retracted like a cat's. His face, though, is nearly featureless. No mouth that I can discern, no nose, just those huge eyes, redly reflecting back the lights in my apartment. Standing out from the top of his head are a pair of delicate looking, frond-like antennae that twitch gently.

«Now do you believe me? »

"Um... Wow. Yes, I guess I have to. Why are you here?"

«The light was on. »

I blink in confusion. "The light was..." His antennae twitch rapidly.

«That was a joke. Moths and lights... I'm sorry, I was trying to lighten the mood. »

"Ha," I say hesitantly. My brain is still playing catch-up, caught between wonder and fear, confusion and curiosity.

«The truth is... You called me here. Your mind drew me in like a beacon. The research that you've been working on, your endlessly spinning thoughts about monsters, your recurring dreams and unsatisfied lust. »

I feel my face and ears heating up, I'm probably turning as red as his eyes.

"What the fuck... You're saying I was so horny for monsters, I summoned a monster? ... No offense."

«In a sense. My kind isn't native to your plane of existence, we can only flit in and out of it when we find a connection, an energy source. »

I start backing up cautiously. "Energy source? Are you about to suck my blood?"

«Goodness, no. I would never hurt you, Melanie. But I do gain nourishment from strong emotions. And your emotions are... quite nourishing. Many humans have strongly amorous desires. A very few humans have deeply contemplative thoughts. You have both. »

For the first time since I found myself falling down this rabbit hole of weirdness, I take an inventory of my own body and emotions. My heart is pounding wildly, pulsing like waves in my ears. I think it started purely as fear, but the fear is waning and something else is taking its place. Excitement. Curiosity. And a warm little seed of...

I take a longer look at the Mothman. Alien though he is, his body shape is undeniably masculine, tall and broad and muscular. But at the same time, he gives off an aura of stoic calm, patient and thoughtful. His huge wings flutter slowly, opening and closing, creating gentle currents of air. As I stare, I start to notice a subtle shifting movement to the crimson pattern of whorls and spirals. His wings must have chromatophores like a cuttlefish. I wonder if he can control them consciously? They're actually quite beautiful.

What am I saying? This is a giant extra-dimensional psychic insect, not the cute guy at the coffee shop. Let's keep things a little more scientific, for now. This could be a pretty incredible opportunity to give my thesis a little extra oomph.

"Okay. Would you like to... sit down? Maybe I could ask you some questions? It's only fair, seeing as how you're in my head already. Also, I need something to call you besides 'Mothman,' I don't think I'll be able to take myself seriously if I have to keep saying that."

He peers around my little apartment living room curiously. There's a small couch that I scored at a yard sale; a tv on a cheap entertainment console, a hand-me-down rug and coffee table. He steps over to the couch with his strange inhuman feet, and settles himself onto one end of it, wrapping his voluminous wings around himself like a blanket. Then he turns and looks at me expectantly with those huge red eyes of his.

«What would you like to call me, then? »

"How about... Franklin? Franklin Mothman has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

His antennae twitch in what I'm starting to interpret as amusement. «Alright, Franklin it is. »

"Okay, Franklin." I sit down on the other end of the couch, a cushion-length between us. I put my hands on my knees, then I take my phone out of my pocket and put it on the coffee table, then I fidget with my hair nervously. Part of me wishes I was wearing something nicer than my workout clothes. It would probably be weird to go change into a dress, right now.

My tote is on the floor next to the table, so I reach over and fumble for a notebook and a pencil.

"So. Umm... you're... not from around here. Where are you from? Are you an alien?"

«I'm from... adjacent to here. Essentially the same place, geographically. The same river, the same mountains, the same stars. But no humans. It's not quite as warm. There are many more trees and animals. The plants and flowers grow much larger. »

"How many um... mothpeople are there?"

«Not many. We live for a long time, we reproduce rarely, and we aren't very social with each other. We don't really have culture, only instinct and ancestral memory. I can't speak to my kind the way I can speak to you. »

"That sounds lonely."

«Yes. » Franklin's eyes don't seem to blink, and with no mouth or nose, his face is neutral and placid. But his antennae droop subtly, and his broad shoulders stoop slightly. He seems sad. I set down my notebook and pencil.

"Would you... like me to stop treating this like an interview? We could just hang out, for a while?"

His antennae perk up immediately, and start to vibrate. «I think I would like that very much, Melanie. What does hanging out entail? »Romance, Connection, & Protection. Along with erotic desires and fetish elements, a significant number of interview subjects described monsterfucking in unexpectedly emotional terms. A desire to form a deep, romantic connection with an inhuman monster was common. To be the subject of care, acceptance, protection by a selfless, altruistic partner.

Some monsterfuckers first dive into the genre shortly after ending toxic or unhappy real-world relationships, struggling to reconcile their need for connection with the inherent flaws of human interaction.

«So this detective character, Benoit Blanc... He can sense the thoughts of others? »

"No, I think he's just perceptive."

Franklin and I are still sitting on my couch, but there's no cushion between us anymore. I'm snuggled up next to his big broad shoulder, idly stroking his thick, muscular arm. His entire body is covered in a soft, velvety fur. When I mentioned being chilly, he wrapped his wing around me like a velvety fleece blanket. He has a scent like dried sage.

We finished Knives Out and are partway through Glass Onion. Franklin is an ideal movie partner. He's attentive, he seems to enjoy my occasional commentary, he reacts to exciting moments in the story, he asks curious questions, but he's not too chatty. I haven't Netflix-And-Chilled in a long time, and had forgotten how much I missed it. Just relaxing in the presence of another person is precious. When it's with a nice guy who likes hanging out with you without worrying about sex, it's even better.

Of course, Netflix-And-Chilling does traditionally lead to something less platonic.

"So, Franklin. How do you like hanging out so far?"

«I've enjoyed it very much, Melanie. Movies are wonderful, I don't know what's going to happen next and can only try to intuit the motivations of the characters through observation. And your physical presence is delightful, I've never been this close to another sentient being for this long. But I sense that you have more in mind than simply watching films together. »

I feel myself blushing. No beating around the bush with a Mothman, no waiting for him to take the hint. He always knows what I want.

"Well... usually at this point we'd make out. Kiss. But..."

I've been sneaking glances at his anatomy all night. And from what I can tell he doesn't have a mouth, nose, or genitals of any kind.

«Well, I don't have lips or a mouth that would accommodate kissing. I'm not sure that I can mate with you, or if our genitals are compatible. But perhaps I could do something else to give you pleasure? »

He turns to face me, his huge, unblinking red eyes gazing at me. Something gradually emerges from the center of his featureless face. A pale pink tendril, coiled in a spiral, swaying gently in front of his face. My immediate reaction is to gasp in shock and pull away, but curiosity draws me back.

Franklin's proboscis seems muscular and dexterous, a bit like a tongue but thinner, and much longer. As it uncoils, I can see that the tip has an opening like a tiny mouth.

«My mouthparts are made for sipping nectar from flowers much larger than those in your world. I believe they could be put to intimate use, if you're interested. »

"W- what um... what did you have in mind?" I stutter. I feel blood rushing to my pussy, a sudden warm wetness forming between my legs.

«May I touch your body as you've touched mine, Melanie? I must admit that I'm curious. »

"Yes Franklin, you can touch me," I say, nodding slowly, my excitement building. "Do you... need some guidance? I could walk you through the finer points of touching a human woman?"

«Just think about what you'd like me to do, and I'll be able to follow along. »

Well, that certainly makes things easier. I lean back on the couch, head propped up on a pillow. I take off my top and my jogging pants, but leave my sports bra and underwear on for now.

Franklin approaches me, looming over my body on the couch, his huge eyes taking in the details of my body. He gently reaches a three-clawed hand toward me and touches my hip just above my panties, slowly tracing his fingers up my side, over my bra, along my shoulder and arm, raising goosebumps on my skin.

He brings his featureless face close to mine, which is both unnerving and strangely arousing. His feathery antennae flutter across my hair, my forehead, my cheeks. His proboscis uncurls and probes the sensitive space between the back of my ear and the side of my neck, giving me literal butterfly kisses. I don't really see a way to reciprocate, so I try to just relax and enjoy his attention.

After carefully touching and exploring my upper body with all of his strange appendages, Franklin begins to move lower. He carefully hooks his claws under the band of my panties, and slides them down my legs. I spread my legs shyly, revealing my nearly trimmed, curly brown pubic hair, and my increasingly wet pussy.

Franklin seems to study me closely, then leans forward. He gently places his large hands on my thighs, and slowly opens my legs wider. He's exceptionally patient in his movements, but I know that he could effortlessly overpower me if he wished. I'm completely at his mercy, a thought which generates a tenuous thread of apprehension intertwined with a thick cord of desire.

His big grey head approaches the cleft of my legs, and his antennae twitch rapidly, brushing the inside of my thighs and making me giggle. Is he feeling my body heat? Smelling my pheromones, my lust? I have no idea how his sensory organs work. Now's not the time for a lesson in entomology.

His proboscis unfurls from his face and begins probing my feminine flower. His flexible tendril pushes into my slick tunnel, extending deeper and deeper, creating indescribable sensations within. Not thick and hard like a cock or dildo, not short and targeted like a finger or tongue, but exploratory and alive, tickling places inside of me that don't often get stimulated. I can feel it coiling and twisting inside of me, applying varying levels of pressure and friction, making me shudder and clench involuntarily.

"Oh my God, what are you doing to me?!" I moan raggedly.

«I'm adapting my touch to your emotional reaction. It's quite enjoyable, observing and feeling the way you respond. I think your body is approaching an inflection point of some kind, Melanie. »

"Yesss, I concurrrr," I let out a guttural cry, throwing my head back as a deep, internal orgasm rips through my core, nearly giving me a muscle cramp in my abdomen. I've never felt anything like it. I'm practically hyperventilating, struggling to catch my breath... and Franklin's proboscis is still moving.

"Wait, stop, please!" I gasp, wiggling my naked hips, my body trying impotently to get away from this implacable creature. The stimulation is almost unbearable. Almost.

«I will if you truly wish it, Melanie. But I can feel that you're still enjoying this, and I believe that I can give you another enjoyable climax shortly. But only if you want it. »

His calming voice in my head cuts through my overstimulated panic. I open my eyes and stare into his red, reflective gaze. Suddenly, compulsively, I want more. I nod my head silently.

Franklin renews his probing contact with my intimate spaces, pressing against my walls, expanding and contracting in unexpected ways. The tip of his proboscis doubles back and out of my tunnel, slipping past the petals of my labia and finding the sensitive pink nub of my clitoris. It starts sucking at it with its tiny mouth.

"Oh fuck Franklin, don't stop! I'm going to..." But I lose my ability to speak as another orgasm floods my consciousness. My legs lock up and my hands grab the couch cushions. My vision goes grey for a moment, like I stood up too fast and too much blood drained from my brain. I feel my consciousness untethering from my body for a moment, briefly disoriented before returning to my senses. And I'm still cumming.

"Okay stop! No more!" I squeal, and the Mothman finally relents, releasing my thighs from his grasp and withdrawing his proboscis from my pussy. I curl up in a fetal position and catch my breath, feeling the aftershocks of Franklin's ministrations in the muscles of my pelvic floor, contracting and releasing, contracting and releasing.

«Are you alright, Melanie? » Franklin's placid face remains inscrutable, but his antennae twitch uncertainly.

"Yes... yes, I'm alright. I just need a minute." Eventually I uncurl myself and slide back over to his side of the couch, resting my head on his soft, fuzzy chest. "That was incredible. Have you done that before?"

«No. Never. You are my first intimate partner. »

"Huh. Not bad for a virgin, Mister Mothman," I muse. "What should we do now?"

«Whatever you'd like, Melanie. Perhaps we could finish the movie? »

His voice in my head is... well, it doesn't have a tone exactly, so I can't say that it has an edge. But it gives me a sense of urgency, of need.

"Franklin, what would you like? Is there something that I can do for you? It's considered good manners to make sure that both partners get to enjoy an orgasm, you know."

His antennae shake violently, a gesture that I haven't seen yet. Excitement? Frustration? Anger? For that matter, do Mothmen even have orgasms? Suddenly, he stands up from the couch, stepping into the open space of my living room. He reaches up to his full towering height, stretching his massive wings widely.

Instinctively, I shrink back in fear as I'm reminded again of his size, his strength, his inhuman nature. My eyes are drawn by movement to the space between his long digitigrade legs. Something emerges from his soft grey fur. A tendril, the same pale pink as his mouthparts. It's roughly penis-like, though larger than most men that I've seen either in real life or in porn. It's more pointed than a human cock and seems muscular, flexible.

I'm not sure why he was worried about genital compatibility, I can definitely work with this!

«I must admit that the emotions of your climax make me hunger for more. I've never felt this way before, it's very confusing. I have the urge to mate, but you're not of my kind. It would serve no purpose. »

I can't help but laugh. "Franklin, I don't know how your kind does it, so I don't want to make too many assumptions... but my kind mates all the time just for fun. It can be very enjoyable, with the right partner."

Franklin looms over me silently, his tentacle-like member twitching. I stare at his eyes, his shoulders and muscles, his beautiful wings, his exotic organ -- I don't know what they're called on Lepidoptera, probably something Latin -- and I come to a conclusion. I want to be fucked senseless by The Mothman. Implications and Future Research. Based on my literature review, interviews, and ethnographic research, I believe there could be potential therapeutic applications for monsterfucking. Monster erotica could provide an outlet for exploration of dysphoria and gender identity. It could be used to help process negative relationship experiences, perhaps even grief or trauma.

Future research in this area is outside the scope of this thesis, but may be explored in future work. I stand up and finally remove my sports bra, now completely naked, vulnerable. I approach Franklin, timidly at first but driven by desire, and reach out to grasp his alien cock. It's warm and muscular, and responds to my touch by releasing a dollop of pearlescent, sweet-smelling liquid from the tip. Impulsively, I bend down and lick it, discovering that it tastes sweet and earthy and herbal, like honey infused with sage.

I hold onto the base of his cock with both hands and take the remaining length into my mouth, his tapered shape making it much easier to take in than a human penis. I apply pressure with my tongue and push it against the roof of my mouth, sliding back and forth and using a bit of suction with each pass, feeling and tasting a steady stream of his nectar pour down my throat.

«Melanie, that feels incredible... Please, may I mate with you? »

I release Franklin's cock and stand up. I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck and he responds by grasping my waist with his powerful claws, effortlessly lifting me up to meet him face to face. His wings wrap around me like a cocoon, enveloping me in his earthy scent. I'm completely at his mercy, held in the air like a doll.

"Fuck me, Franklin Mothman," I say with a shuddering breath.

He lowers my body slightly, and I feel the mobile tendril of his cock questing at my pussy. His tapered head slips between my labia and enters me easily. He lowers my body a bit more, inch by inch, and I feel a pleasing stretch as he pushes farther into me with an ever-increasing thickness.

"Oh my God, yes..." I moan, "Now... pull back out slowly and then push back in. Take it slow, big guy."

He follows my direction patiently, lifting my body up and down, dragging his cock in and out, using me like a hand-held sex toy. His big claws firmly grasp my hips and butt, it's almost-but-not-quite painful. His wings flutter against my back, softly but insistently, adding to my tactile stimulation. I wrap my legs around his midsection, hanging on for dear life.

«Like this? » He asks, not stopping his work.

I try to respond, but when I open my mouth no sound comes out. The strange fullness of him, the total surrender of my body... It's too much. I cum unexpectedly, a gush of aroused wetness pouring out of me, dripping down my thighs and matting the soft fur on his legs.

Franklin isn't done, though. Grasping me tightly, his mind embedded in my mind, sensing my limits and keeping me right on the edge of what I can handle, he continues his task without stopping or slowing. He's not simply giving me pleasure now, he's taking pleasure for himself.

«Something is happening, Melanie. I think I'm going to climax. »

I try to say something like, "Please do it, cum in me," but I'm so overstimulated I can't properly form the words.

Silent as always, he thrusts into me with greater urgency. I wrap my legs around his fuzzy hips and take him to the hilt. His muscles clench, his claws digging into my skin slightly, making me yelp. I feel his cock erupt inside of me, warm and slick, and my fourth orgasm of the night joins the first orgasm of his life.

Less intense than the first two, less shocking than the third, but more intimate and connected, it washes over me like a pulsing wave. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, savoring the afterglow, burying my face into Franklin's fluffy chest. He wraps his wings around me like a comforting hug.

Once I can stand and speak again, I head to the shower to wash off the sweat and bodily fluids of the most intense lovemaking of my life. Franklin doesn't seem keen to get wet, but he watches me curiously, perched on the toilet seat, his bulk taking up most of the bathroom.

«Thank you, Melanie. I have never experienced anything like this. Being with you, mating, absorbing your emotions. It's all somewhat overwhelming. » His wings flutter rapidly, vibrating in sync with his antennae.

"Sounds like you've got a crush on me, big guy," I quip from behind my shower curtain. "So um... It's already almost morning. Not that I'm complaining, I've pulled all-nighters before, but I'm going to have to go to work soon."

«Yes. I will need to leave you before the sun rises. It has been an honor spending the evening with you, Melanie. Thank you for everything, I will not forget you. »

I stick my head out of the shower. "Wait, hold on, what the fuck. You're talking like you'll never see me again!"

«We have mated. My instincts tell me to leave you, to give you space. »

"Listen, Franklin. Maybe Mothwomen eat their lovers' heads after fucking or something, but that's not how humans operate. It's not how I operate. I don't want a one-night stand, I want to see you again. Besides, we have to finish watching Glass Onion. And then there's Wake Up Dead Man, and..."

«You wish for me to return? To mate again? »

"Yeah, I do. And not just mating. I want to talk to you, get to know you better. Cuddle with you, fall asleep with you, wake up with you. I'm not sure how a real relationship between us would work, if it could work... But I'd like to try, if you're up for it."

«A relationship? You have different classifications of relationships, yes? Which classification would we claim? »

I stare at this strange cryptid sitting in my bathroom, watching me shower. He's huge and strong, powerful and a little scary, but innocent and sweet, curious and open. I've done worse.

"Why don't we start with girlfriend and boyfriend, and see where it goes from there?"Mothman is Real, and He's My Boyfriend: Motivations of Monster Erotica

A Thesis Submitted by Melanie Mallette In Partial Fulfillment Of The Requirements Of The Degree Master Of Fine Arts In Literature

Abstract. This thesis explores the phenomenon of attraction to monstrous subjects in erotic literature. It provides historical context for "monsterfucking," in mythology, literature, and art. It then describes a series of qualitative interviews with 34 self-identified monsterfuckers, seeking to develop a theoretical framework attempting to categorize their interests and motivations. Finally, the thesis examines the personal experiences of the writer, including a first-hand ethnographic narrative. Further participatory research is currently underway.