The Frankenstein Monster Was A Stud

And I’m not just talking about those bolts in his neck…

I love Halloween. It has always been my favorite time of the year. Even though the trick-or-treaters at our house have dwindled away due to the pandemic and evolving social behavior, I still love this season. Every year I love to sit down and watch horror movies — and Boris Karloff in Frankenstein has always been one of my favorite movies to watch. So here is the first horror story of the season for your enjoyment. I hope to have a new tale every day this month.

Enjoy!

They call me the Frankenstein Monster, and all that I am looking for is a little bit of love.

I mean, is that too much to ask?

Look, I’m eight feet tall. Sure, that’s one hell of a climb, but that didn’t stop Magic Johnson, now did it? Six foot seven inches, and he reportedly shtupped about ten different women daily.

Not to mention my enormous schwanzstuek.

Woof!

In theory, I should be very popular with most eligible females, but I have yet to find a woman who might actually be interested in engaging in any form of extra-curricular coitus with a creature Lego-blocked out of the cobbled-together remains of a wagon-load of illegally excavated cadavers.

So imagine just how excited I was after I’d finally managed to coerce and convince my creator to construct a suitable companion for me.

All that remained was for me to await the strike of a suitably-sized bolt of lightning to kindle the tinder-box of my true love’s stitched-together remains.

Then I heard my creator calling out the two most wonderful words that my two borrowed ears have ever heard, “She’s alive! She’s alive!”

So I came downstairs and I saw her standing there in my Creator’s laboratory, flanked by my Creator, Dr. Henry Frankenstein and his mentor Dr. Septimus Pretorius.

What kind of parent would name their kid after the membrane that separates your two snot-hole nostrils?

I just don’t get it.

I was too busy being absolutely entranced by my new bride’s radiant beauty.

She was absolutely beautiful to me.

One part Katherine Hepburn, one part Marge Simpson.

I couldn’t wait to get her out of those bandages!

I decided to take it slowly. I approached her carefully.

She had not yet learned how to speak.

In a way, she was almost a child, really.

Yet she was all-woman to my bleary corpse-lit eyes.

“Friend,” I said, being a man of few words.

The old Gary Cooper routine hadn’t failed me yet.

She tried to speak, but her vocal cords were stiff and rusty following her lightning-inspired resurrection.

I touched her gently upon her arm and she uttered a single shriek, that pierced my heavily-stitched heart.

My Creator, my father, lead her away.

I tried to follow but that sleaze bucket, so-called scientist Septimus stepped into my way.

“Stand back, stand back!” He warned me.

I brushed him aside, growling impatiently, striding across the laboratory and I sat beside my true love.

I took her tenderly by her hand, patting the back of her hand reassuringly.

And then she screamed again.

She hated me.

Like everyone else whom I had ever cherished — she hated me.

I reached for the way-too apparent self-destruct lever, jutting prominently from the wall like an enormous schwanzstuek.

I mean, come on, set designers.

Could you make this any less obvious?

I mean, what kind of laboratory has a self-destruct lever anyway?

“Don’t touch that lever!” old Septimus screamed in alarm. “You’ll blow us all to atoms!”

Atoms?

Really?

I mean, I know that John Dalton announced the existence of atoms in 1800, not much more than a couple of decades ago, but would anyone, scientist or not, think to use such a term when discussing the possible implications of a self-destruct laboratory lever like this?

I would have said “smithereens” myself, but I’m just a peasant at heart.

At least I think that’s where my heart originally came from.

“Henry, Henry!”

Oh great.

That was my Creator’s one true love, Elizabeth. She must have run in from off-set, climbed down the cellar stairs to my Creator’s basement laboratory. I could see her reaching futilely through the barred door.

“Come away, Henry.”

Damn it.

Even my Creator had someone to love him.

Someone who would reach in through a locked door and beg him to come.

(All right, even a monster appreciates a good, juicy, double entendre.)

I looked at her reaching helplessly through that locked laboratory door.

Yes, she loved him.

“Get back, get back,” my Creator begged his love, trying to scare her to safety.

Yes, in his own spineless manner, he loved her back.

“Yes, go!” I barked, still settling for my strong and silent pigeon-English. “You, live.”

Oot, grunt.

Fucking scriptwriters, always short-changing the monster.

My Creator opened the door, grabbed his love and the two of them ran into the night.

Septimus was still frozen with fear.

“You, stay.” I told him.

Shit.

That glorified pool-jock, Johnny Weismuller had better dialogue than I ever did.

I picked up Septimus in my arms.

He clung to me fearfully.

For a single moment I closed my eyes, trying to imagine that perhaps this weird twisted little man with the nasal-inspired nomenclature may actually have felt some slight facsimile of tenderness for me, rather than the far-too-obvious terror that he displayed.

Four simple words passed through the screenplay of my mind.

“We belong in bed,” was what I really wanted to say to Septimus.

And I could have easily taken him to the castle bedroom and had my way with this weird little mad scientist, but I knew even then that forcing love would only be a mockery.

I gazed one last time at my bride-to-be, still shrieking at the sight of me.

And I said three little words…

“We belong dead.”

And then I pulled the switch and the huge phallic castle erupted into the night.

Ginger Bangs is a complicated lady. She is as changeable as a prairie fire. She writes erotica, horror, recipes, slice-of-life, movie reviews, and EVEN poetry! Please follow her today. Believe me, once you’ve read one of her stories you will DEFINITELY want to stay on her tale!