Serial Sex & Murder: The Dark Mirror of Desire and Destruction
The Connection Between Sex and Murder
Since serial murder began to be systematically studied in the 1970’s, it has been seen that sex and murder are deeply, repeatedly intertwined. Composite data gathered over decades has shown that sexual motivation is the second most common motive among male serial killers. For many, the act of murder is not separate from desire—it is fused with it. Death becomes a substitute for orgasm. Violence becomes a perverse kind of consummation.
In both sex and murder, something is taken. Something is consumed. And often, in both, something dies.
La Petite Mort
In French, there is a phrase for orgasm: la petite mort—the little death. At its surface, it refers to the brief flicker of unconsciousness that overtakes the body at climax. But its meaning ripples deeper. It is not just the death of thought, but the dissolution of self. And sometimes, it is used to describe those moments so intense, so wounding, that a piece of the soul seems to fall away and never return.
The term first emerged in the medieval period, when physicians believed that each orgasm siphoned off the life force—that too much pleasure could drain vitality, weaken the body, even summon death itself. They imagined the spirit leaking from the body at the height of ecstasy.
In later centuries, poets and philosophers gave it new meaning. La petite mort became a metaphor for the sacred surrender of the ego—the spiritual collapse into oneness. Scientists now trace this sensation to the flood of oxytocin, dopamine, and endorphins that follows climax: a chemical eclipse of the self. The body softens. The mind blurs. Identity, for a moment, dissolves.
Orgasm, then, is not just a pleasure. It is a threshold. A rapture. A temporary erasure.
But what happens when this little death is summoned again and again? When the self is undone repeatedly, across countless bodies, without anchor, without meaning, without return?
What is left of a person when they die by inches—over and over—without ever being reborn?
The Spirituality of Sex
It’s been said that man is a mirror of the cosmos—a microcosm reflecting the macrocosm. But few realize this reflection continues inward. The lingam becomes a universe within a universe, the vessel of man as man is the vessel of God. Creation layered within creation, like divine recursion made flesh.
The recursion doesn’t end there. Just as man reflects the cosmos, the divine reflects itself as both artist and sacrifice—as creation cannot arise without destruction. The divine does not create from nothing—it creates from itself.
This is how sex is both creation and destruction. It is not only physical—but spiritual, energetic, psychic, and alchemical. It demands physical sacrifice from the feminine when she tears her hymen or gives birth, and spiritual sacrifice from the masculine when he gives of his life-force.
During sex you are exchanging the most intimate of fluids with a partner: blood, saliva, skin cells, biome, and other biological matters. Simultaneously, electromagnetic waves pulsing from the heart and brain of each partner deeply envelop the other, syncing the energies of their chakras from sacral to crown, anchored in the root chakra—the point of intimate merging.
At this level, sex becomes a kind of biological merging. Not metaphorically—literally. The self opens to receive another, and something of them enters you. When the act of destruction and creation is done with love, it can be divine. But when it is repeated with multiple partners, without grounding or integration, a kind of spiritual fragmentation begins.
As someone spiritually sensitive, I formed a psychic bond with every person I’d been with more than once—these psychic connections lasted for years, even after the physical connection ended. When cords like this accumulate without an exclusive alchemical marriage, they blur your sense of self, disrupt clarity, and leave you entangled in astral debris — their lovers, their longings, their shadows — without the sacred container of devotion and protection for your soul.
The feminine body both nourishes the weakest of our species at the breast and receives the strongest of our species in intimacy. She is the portal that brings life into the world and, when she chooses, the alchemist who burns away the impurities of her lover so that they can be reborn again through sacred union. But her capacity to receive is not infinite. To take in another being means to metabolize them. Their emotions, their karma, their desire. And when this happens over and over, without rest or reverence, the self becomes heavy with residue—spiritually full of what is not hers.
Some women, exceptionally evolved, may hold the power to love and transmute energy across a multitude of partners. But that level of consciousness is rare at this stage in our human evolution. Most people—women and men alike—cannot operate that way at this point in time on earth. When sexual intimacy becomes a revolving door, what enters the feminine does not transmute; it lingers. It clings. It depletes. It fractures. If love is present, the act becomes a ritual. If disconnection is present, the act intensifies the void.
This is where the body becomes confused. When sex is shared without meaning, it floods the body with sensation and emotion—but offers no direction for it to flow. Without love in the heart to guide the current upward, sexual energy gets stuck in the lower centers and it begins to decay. Instead of elevation, there is exhaustion. Instead of intimacy, there is fragmentation.
When fragmentation continues unchecked, when the self is diluted again and again, something begins to give way. One’s sense of identity thins. One’s will erodes. The ability to discern what is yours and what was borrowed from a partner—flesh, feeling, or soul—disappears.
In the spiritual view, this is not simply emotional confusion. It is existential. To lose the borders of the self is to become porous, vulnerable, and open to collapse. Each orgasm—la petite mort, the little death—is meant to be followed by rebirth. But when the death is multiplied and the rebirth is forgotten, what remains is a string of small endings. Pieces of the soul scattering, unrecalled.
Sex is meant to be creative. But like all forms of power, it has conditions. It demands intention. It demands respect. When reduced to performance, conquest, or compulsion, it becomes toxic—not just physically, but spiritually.
And over time, that toxicity becomes dangerous—to both self and others.
The Psychopathology of Serial Murder
Last autumn, I went searching through the blood-slick corridors of nonfiction, seeking the most incisive theories on serial killers—so that you wouldn't have to. I found myself drawn to a slim, clinical volume (title above) on A Theory of Violence by Stephen Giannangelo. It reads like pathology, not pulp—a scalpel, not a scream.
Giannangelo's framework isolates a specific breed of serial killer: those who murder for the act itself. He eliminates from his analysis anyone with tangible motivations—money, revenge, ideology, even cult allegiance. The true serial killer, he posits, kills for no external gain. He kills because he wants to. For pleasure. For power. For catharsis.
“The specific psychological phenomenon to be identified here is a development of internal factors, motivating someone to habitually kill for the implicit thrill, satisfaction, or satiation of the act... The ultimate control of another human being and the accompanying catharsis are the psychological hallmarks of the individuals to be discussed.”
The diagnosis is not singular. It is a constellation of disorders: Antisocial Personality Disorder. Psychopathy. Sociopathy. Narcissism. Borderline. Obsessive-compulsive tendencies. PTSD. Dissociation. Doubling. Giannangelo notes that many of these states share overlapping features and etiology. But the root is often the same:
“Mental, physical, and sexual abuse; organic damage or biological anomaly; emotional and attitude maladjustments; and sexual dysfunction.”
Childhood is where the fracture begins. Not just bruises and broken bones, but what he calls “systematic emotional rape” that harms their impressionable psyches. This injury prohibits them from developing a healthy sense of self, an understanding of intimacy, or feelings of personal esteem. As J.A. Apsche chillingly writes:
“In childhood, when manipulation and control is substituted for closeness, the child mistakenly learns that control is a substitute for intimacy.”
These individuals do not grow up with a sense of self. They do not know love as reciprocity. They know only power as transaction.
And here is where violence and sex entwine. A consistent factor in the development of a serial killer is what Giannangelo calls a “seriously dysfunctional sexual orientation.” To him, it is the bridge between inner fracture and outer action.
“In all of what we call senseless or aimless violence, there is a strong sexual element.” – Dr. David Abrahamson
Sex, too, becomes a kind of control. A way to simulate closeness through conquest. Their orgasm is not an act of union—it is a substitute for self. And so the killer mimics intimacy the only way he knows how: through domination, through death.
La Mort Finale
“A person in that situation is God. You possess them and they shall forever be a part of you.”
— Ted Bundy
The description he gives of taking life is indistinguishable from the surrender of making love. The act he describes is murder, but it sounds like sex. The desire to possess utterly, to imprint another into oneself eternally, to take them inside the self—is this the language of intimacy or of annihilation? In a fractured psyche, the two may not be separate.
Murder is the final rupture of the fractured self—the ultimate act of domination, separation, and annihilation. It is a distorted mirror of sex: the same build-up, the same release, but inverted. Where sex seeks union, murder seeks severance. Where orgasm dissolves the ego into ecstatic obliteration, murder eradicates the other to preserve the self. It is not simply the ending of a life; it is the desperate punctuation of an identity. But this preservation is an illusion—for each kill further fractures the sacred marriage of the divine feminine and masculine principles within, exiling the soul further from its divine origin.
In the psyche of the serial killer, we witness the monstrous twin of desire. The serial killer, unable to synthesize intimacy and control, externalizes the fracture. The orgasm becomes fatal. La petite mort—the little death—becomes la mort finale, the great and irreversible one.
Just as fractured women may compulsively seek dissolution through repeated erotic deaths—serial sex as ritual sacrifice—fractured men often enact a parody of power by taking life after life. Both are rooted in the same archetypal wound: a severing from the Self, a loss of wholeness. Their compulsions are inversions of the same impulse—the need to feel real by annihilating the boundary between self and other.
If sex is often called the little death, then murder becomes its grotesque twin: the final death. Not only of body, but of boundary. Of otherness. The serial killer and the sexual compulsive emerge as psychic siblings: both driven by internal ruptures, both attempting to fill the same void. But where one reaches for union in ritualized sex, the other seeks finality through ritualized death. One chases climax; the other chases conclusion.
There is a perverse symmetry in this. One dies to feel, the other kills to feel whole. They are mirror images of the same psychic wound.
As Giannangelo notes, the violence of a serial killer is not random—it is ritual. Repetitive. Symbolic. Like sex, it is choreographed release. A substitute for intimacy in someone who never learned its language. And yet: not all wounds create monsters.
Some of us survive the fracture differently. We sublimate. We create art. We write mythologies. We build rituals around mourning the self we once were. But for the killer, creation is impossible. Only reenactment remains. The fractured self becomes parasite. Predator. Repeating the first wound in new flesh.
What separates the erotic from the predatory, in these two expressions of death, is the direction of the force: inward or outward.
Here, the deeper mythic logic becomes visible.
The feminine principle is receptive: it receives. It draws inward, absorbing experiences into the womb of selfhood. When fractured, that receptivity becomes insatiable—an endless seeking of dissolution, a longing to be undone. Thus, the fractured feminine may reenact the wound through serial sex, each encounter a symbolic self-sacrifice.
The masculine principle is projective: it gives, penetrates, acts upon the world. When fractured, this force becomes invasive—violently asserting the self through destruction. Thus, the fractured masculine may express the same wound through serial murder, asserting existence by eliminating the other.
The petite mort and the mort finale are not opposites. They are gendered echoes of the same existential break. Both seek transcendence through obliteration—one through surrender, the other through domination.
This polarity—between the inward collapse and the outward eruption—will become crucial as we examine the rising violence in sex industries and the symbolic terrain where sex and death continue to blur.
When The Water Breaks
As the masculine Age of Pisces faded, serial killers captured the cultural imagination—saints of violence rising from the final, glinting scales of the fish. Now, as we enter the Age of Aquarius and the feminine pours forth her water, it is serial sex workers who rise in number and fascination—reflecting not a shift in pathology, but in paradigm.
Late last year, Pluto crossed into Aquarius for the final time—sealing the gates of hell behind it. (Capricorn is the card of The Devil in Tarot). In a recent blog post on the astrological ages, I marked this as the true dawn of the Age of Aquarius.
In the first spring of this unfolding shift, as the new age unfurled its petals, a strange bloom emerged—women attempting world records for the highest number of sexual partners in a single day. In an exact inverse to the masculine predator who extended his reign of terror by slipping from view, her conquests occur only when illuminated, pixel by pixel, beneath the most public gaze—forged through exposure to the most eyes and bodies. In Australia, Annie Knight claimed 583 men in six hours; in the UK, Bonnie Blue followed with 1,057 in twelve. Then came Lily Phillips with 1,113 in the same span of twelve hours. Each encounter was timed, filmed, and monetized—ritualized repetition replacing intimacy, spectacle replacing seduction, and compulsion replacing connection.
If the serial killer once revealed the shadow-self of a collapsing patriarchy, the serial sex worker now lays bare a culture ravenous for visibility, dominance, and the aesthetics of automation.
During this same season, just a couple months prior like a prophecy no one wanted to read, Maria Kovalchuk, a 20-year-old Ukrainian influencer, was found barely alive on the side of the road in Dubai after being abducted and abused by wealthy men.
Stories of what happened to her are conflicting. Some say she attended a Porta Potty Party—an underground event where influencers are paid to endure humiliating and degrading acts for the pleasure of those who attend. Other stories claim she escaped a hotel suite rented by a couple of young heirs to the Russian elite, only to be hunted down at a nearby construction site, tortured, and thrown from a height.
Regardless of the truth, her wounds formed a kind of spiritual topography: the spine—the channel through which divine energy descends—was broken. The crown chakra, our sacred link to the divine, nearly torn from her skull. And the left leg—the feminine, spiritual side of the body, always shown leading in ancient Egyptian art—was shattered. This is how they tried to desecrate the temple of the feminine. Yet they could not sever her connection to the divine. They did not take her crown.
The brain—and the psyche—is said to fully develop around the age of 25. Before then, identity is still fluid, permeable, unformed. Maria has yet to pass this threshold—she is spiritually porous. Her sense of self was still forming when she began merging with others, again and again. Without knowing thyself, repeated sexual merging doesn’t create intimacy. It creates fragmentation.
Each sexual act is more than physical—it is a spiritual merging, a DNA exchange, an energetic entanglement. When this happens over and over again—without containment, without purification—the soul begins to unravel, the individual becomes scattered, overwritten, lost…
The body becomes overcrowded. The aura becomes perforated.
The Self becomes a battleground of unfiltered archetypes and ancestral residues.
The projections women attract—already lunar reflections of the collective subconscious—become increasingly chaotic.
What is serial sex if not a mirror to serial murder? The chaos of repeated merging calls forth its natural reflection: annihilation. Though we are entering an era of divine remembrance—of oneness—we still live on a planet defined by individuation. Here, what becomes too entangled to separate must eventually be severed.
Shortly before Pluto entered Aquarius for the first time, two women in the sex industry—Charlotte Angie (Italian) and Anastasia Grishman (Russian)—were murdered by their lovers, who also happened to be their most frequent collaborators. These men had built identities through merging with them on camera, profiting from a false unity. In both eerily similar cases, the women were preparing to relocate and had already begun forming new bonds with other masculines. But before they could, the men violently erased them—and then impersonated them. Keeping their personas alive to feed from a little longer, they wore their digital skins, masquerading as a self that was never fully recognized or honored.
These was no ordinary acts of murder, but the spiritual silencing of fractured selves offered to a collective that demanded more than any one identity could bear. When a woman merges with many, her self becomes porous, dispersed. The man who might have shared a sacred marriage with her—had they honored the love and exclusivity such a fusion requires—find the cleansing powers of true union disrupted. His own fractured projections amplify without transmutation, often erupting as violence. In this distortion, the masculine principle, unmoored and hungry, presumes the right to steal, to impersonate, and to consume what the feminine has already sacrificed.
Swan Song
This isn’t a condemnation of the feminine. If anything, it’s a call to remember her sanctity—and the stakes of forgetting it.
I say this not as an outsider peering in, but as someone who has walked this line myself, in this life and lives past. I’ve participated in the sex industry, though always trying to honor my own boundaries and autonomy, protecting the edges of a self I’ve fought hard to preserve. I know how seductive it can feel when your body becomes your currency, when attention affirms a sense of worth—when being desired begins to feel like being real.
And I also know what it feels like when that power flickers—when you realize the self you built is feeding others more than it’s feeding you. That your soul is still whispering for something more sacred.
As an 8th House Sun and Venus (depending on the astrological system), I’m not calling for the end of the sex industry—but for a return to its sacred roots. To the lineage of the sex priestess, the sacred prostitute, the erotic muse who inspires from a place of sovereignty, not survival. Who doesn’t dissolve into collective trends or metrics, but remains anchored in her individuality, her mystery, her choice.
That’s why I moved all of my erotic content behind the boundary and offering of Divine Flesh. It’s not a performance, it’s a portal—an altar to the erotic as holy, powerful, and self-directed.
To anyone reading this who feels the tension, the contradiction, the ache of trying to be both soul and spectacle—there is a path between visibility and vanishing. The first step is remembering: you were never meant to be consumed—you were meant to be revered. Your body, your being, is not content. It is a covenant with the divine.
Become a patron of the arts, as they did in golden eras…
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