Last night, my boyfriend went “Specter Mode”.
When he had first said it, I assumed he was going to moan like a ghost, or maybe tie a sheet around his neck and flap around during sex; he’s always been a silly, light-hearted kind of guy, so it wasn’t exactly odd of him to say. In response, I said, “alright, just don’t get too spooky”, to which he replied, “You can’t even begin to imagine how spooky things are gonna get.” I laughed, mostly at his devilish expression and not the cryptic message itself. Something irrelevant to this story then happened that brought our attention to another topic, and the subject was forgotten—by me, at least—for the remainder of the day.
But that night, while we were getting into things, he reminded me of his earlier statement: “I’m going Specter mode, tonight. I’ve read this book, Phantoms, Revenants, and Other Fleeting Figures of Fright, cover to cover. I know I’m ready. Are you ready?” I said sure, mostly to hurry things along—I’d grown pretty horny by that point in the night—and he smiled, although this wasn’t exactly the playfully devilish smile he’d had before; this one was darker, less whimsical—as if there was truly something inhuman or paranormal about the alleged “specter mode” into which he planned to go.
Things got underway, and for the first few moments all was fine; expectedly, normally lewd. We went through our usual motions of foreplay, full of perfectly tactile, physically tangible activity—no fits or periods of bizarre insubstantiality; but then, in an abrupt and silent shift in demeanor, he gripped me by my bare shoulders, locked eyes with me, and said, “It’s time. I’m going specter mode. Prepare yourself for the spiritual transition.”
I would’ve laughed, had anyone else said such a thing to me; or had he even said it with his usual air of whimsy—but his crazed, manic eyes bespoke of true, disconcerting sincerity; of a belief that he could, somehow, actually achieve the thing he intended to do. His expression was wild, obscene in a monstrously vulgar way, and this coupled with the tightness of his grip ruined any pleasure I might’ve derived from the almost feral sexual intensity.
I muttered out “what?”, clearly uncomfortable, though not yet discomforted enough to withdraw consent from the unusual turn of events. Despite the circumstances, he asked, quite plainly, if I wanted to continue—if I was ready for the “spiritual transition”; and despite the awkwardness—at least on my end—of the moment, I said yes; overtaken by a morbid curiosity, most likely born of a long-suppressed desire for kinkier sex.
He smiled, a lasciviously wicked smile more befitting some kind of sex-starved imp than a twenty-four-year-old Comp-Sci major, and then I felt a sudden and paralyzing sensation of cold—followed by a sense of what I can only describe as bodily dispossession. I felt myself, in a spectral or spiritual sense, somehow evacuate my body; as if my soul had been unshackled from my bones. I was then sent hurtling through what could’ve been the illimitable gulf of outer-space for an indeterminate duration of time; and then, just as abruptly, I felt myself be re-oriented by some invisibly guiding force, and unceremoniously launched headlong “downward”, if such a direction could even exist in that ultra-spatial domain.
This unnerving, featureless, and horribly dizzying plunge lasted for what could’ve been seconds or hours—I could not tell, in my ever-deepening delirium—but ended rather smoothly, compared to the jarring abruptness of the previous transitions. Finally, I found myself inhabiting a new body, viewing the world through a new perspective. Where before I had been staring up into my boyfriend’s maniacally slanted eyes and uncannily crooked smile, I was now looking into my face—but, even more perplexing, I saw not the shocked, startled, or fear-stricken eyes you’d expect. No, I saw eyes that were eerily reminiscent of my boyfriends! They were of course my eyes, but they carried within them that same subtle, nascent malevolence; a glimmer or luster of…sorcerous occupancy, of aged eldritch knowledge unfit for meek human minds.
“So, what do you think?” My mouth, twisted into the sneer of some triumphant incubus, had spoken the words, though they were undeniably the words of my boyfriend’s mind. Beyond shocked, stupefied by the sheer, mind-boggling unreality of it, I stammered out some half-articulate response I can’t even remember; and then recoiled at hearing the words leave my lips in the voice of my boyfriend. He laughed, clapped his hands, and smiled a broader, even more unwholesome smile, then gestured for me to sit up. I did, relaxing and removing “my” hands from “his” shoulders.
He then spent the next few moments calming me, whilst gradually lessening his outward expression of that unnerving demonian glee. He reassured me that the process was entirely reversible; that upon exiting specter mode, he would re-occupy his own body, and I mine. This calmed my fear-fried nerves, although I was still obviously a little jarred by the whole situation. When I had settled down enough, and had grown as accustomed to his body as I could, he asked if I’d like to continue—and after a moment of consideration, I agreed.
I won’t waste time relating the specifics of the subsequent activities. We experimented, and there was of course plenty of awkwardness—but it was also fun, incredibly, almost embarrassingly fun! To be in someone else’s body, to use their...equipment, to please not just them, consciously, but my own body, physically, in a sort of pseudo-third person way—it was wild, ultra-immersive stuff. Ordinarily, we’d spend maybe half an hour from start to finish, and that’s if we’re both mutually in the mood. But that night, we lasted for over an hour; and only stopped because he said that maintaining his spectral state was extremely taxing on him “spiritually” - whatever that meant.
So, after speed-racing to a mutually enjoyed climax, he initiated the same phantasmal process of spiritual dispossession and repossession—only this time, something went wrong.
As I hurtled through some far-flung, paradoxically imploding sidereal void, I felt a tingling, stiffening sensation, not locally, but distanced—in a physical state I hadn’t yet achieved, or had previously occupied. I ignored it, focusing primarily on maintaining my sanity as I was whipped to and fro through a cross-cosmic nexus. In an inverse of the original plunge, I was instead thrown upwards through a lacuna in this torrential microcosm of space, until I finally emerged, with pleasant smoothness, into my own body.
I shuddered, as if suffering a minor residual effect of the physically and spiritually disordering process, but otherwise felt fine. I laid back on the bed, breathing heavily, and swooning a little—though I attributed this to my post-orgasmic state rather than some unmentioned side-effect of the transition. But then my boyfriend cried out, and upon turning toward him I realized why I had felt so odd—even setting aside the decidedly odd circumstances.
I saw my boyfriend’s still-lingering erection, and knew, without having to confirm from him or through any other means, that it, remotely, vicariously—however you’d like to put it—was my erection. And my boyfriend, looking down at my crotch, knew—terribly, darkly, unspeakably—that the all-too-familiar activity therein was his. And the ultimate realization floored us, terrified us; brought me to tears and him babbling madly, incoherently—crying out in what could’ve been agony or ecstasy.
Somehow, we had gone back to our own bodies, and yet the spiritual linking to our genitals had not transferred over. In that specifically localized area alone, we were still in control of the other person’s behavior; still susceptible to—and receptive of—any stimuli focused there.
We tried the whole procedure twice more—to no remedying effect. We decided not to try a third time, both because of how tired my boyfriend had grown, but also because we feared that repeated attempts would bring about some new and potentially worse predicament. So, we stopped, and after downing a few shots of whiskey, decided to try and forget about the whole affair and get some sleep. I desperately hoped that a good night’s rest would somehow reverse the inexplicable problem, but upon waking up the next morning and sensing, quite intensely, his morning wood, I knew that my hopes and half-hearted prayers had been in vain.
So, this is our life now. Let this be a warning to anyone who dares tamper with the sexually arcane. It’s not worth it. The price is simply too high.