I admit it. Keeping myself pure for the Great Cthulhu has been a daily struggle. But, now that I’ve enjoyed the pomp and ceremony of my very first sacrificial death, I have just one thing to say: I’m glad I waited!
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fended off an ardent suitor with the gentle words, “No dear, I’m saving myself for the Shambling Mountain,” while smiling pleadingly and crossing my legs firmly at the knee. Indeed, there were nights when I couldn’t wait, when I pressed myself against the chilly glass of my vestal window, dreaming of the Great Cthulhu’s welcoming maw, and cried out “When will the stars be right? When?”
Needless to say, when I received the Call, I was excited. My heart pounded. I began to hyperventilate, heaving my unbesmirched chest in a most pleasing way. Finally my long-cherished maidenhead would be put to its proper use! My violent death would appease the lust of He Who Slumbers, allowing my sacrificers, the members of Columbia University’s Science Fiction Society, to live! Perhaps months longer than they would otherwise!
And so, last night, at the appointed hour, I was brought to the tiny vestal chamber in Butler Library, where an attendant priestess arrayed me in the finest linen that can be stolen from Columbia University’s Lerner Hall storage. Stepping outside, I was immediately borne off by four strong and virile cultists, who hoisted me on their shoulders and paraded me throughout the study halls of Butler, so that the infidels might see my doomed purity, and know what dues are paid to the power of Great Cthulhu. They were sore afraid, I imagine. Particularly since the servitor had an octopus for a face.
A lot of thoughts ran through my head as the procession wound its way, singing and chanting, to the sacrificial sundial. “I wonder if they are planning to stab my heart or my chest?” “The High Priest’s fetish cuffs are digging into my neck.” “It’s drafty...is my sheet slipping?” But mostly, I was thinking, what would it be like? What would HE be like?
Finally, we reached the sundial, where the priests lowered me roughly onto the frigid marble and pinned me down by my ankles and my wrists. I looked up towards the cold moon and the dire configured stars. The masked and tentacled faces of the cultists loomed above me. I was a little nervous. All right, I was terrified! For a moment, as the High Priest drew his gleaming blade, I wondered if I’d done the right thing by consenting to die like this, so young, so unenjoyed.
But then the High Priest struck. As he thrust mercilessly into my inviolate flesh, spilling my blood across the stone, I knew. There’s nothing like the first time! My mortal screams rang out, all but overpowering the hypnotic chanting of the assembled cult, and I arched my back with ultimate joy, secure in the glory of a pure death. The High Priest continued to slash at my abdomen and throat in an orgiastic frenzy until the last few gurgles of life escaped my lips. My soul plummeted to Cthulhu’s slimy embrace while my ravished body was trundled off to Butler’s inner chambers, to gratify some of the High Priest’s darker desires.
And now that it’s all over, I couldn’t be happier that I waited! Sure, I missed a few of those fleshly pleasures enjoyed between a man and a woman, but now that I’ve had a whole day’s worth of experience as Cthulhu’s post-mortem slave, I’m beginning to realize that there are some things only tentacles can do. He Who Slumbers is the light of my afterlife. I am satisfied to praise Him and serve Him for the rest of eternity as best I can.
Finally, I’d just like to thank the wonderful people at the Campus Crusade, who gave me this unparalleled opportunity. May Cthulhu eat you last!
First published in Columbia University’s Federalist newspaper (The Fed) during Cthulhu Week 2000.