The Devil's Sperm Is Cold (15 page)

Her speech had lifted her to her feet and propelled her to the middle of the room, where she stood swaying and declaiming like an actress in a film from the late forties. After she finished, the echoes of her voice hummed softly against the walls, and she rocked back and forth for a moment, almost embarrassed at having grown so passionate in her declamation. But Lou was looking at her with open admiration, which for him meant lust. His eyes shone like those of a proud father watching his teenage daughter graduate with honors, contemplating the virgin body beneath the scholastic gown. He smiled into her confusion.

“The idealist,” he said, mocking gently.

She sniffed and walked over to the cocktail shaker and poured another drink. “I’m going to get smashed,” she said.

“Charming,” he replied.

“And you’ll have my drunken body and my feverish mind completely at your mercy.” She nudged him in the ribs as he sat. “Hey,” she yelled. “You’ll like that, won’t you? You can strip this dress off, and reveal my helpless form. You can fuck me while I’m half asleep. You can whisper things in my ear and get me to perform all kinds of degraded acts. The new publisher of Centaur, the chic sophisticated Margaret Hayes, being drooled on by the ex-champion, the former pornographer to the empire. How’s that, Lou? Does that get your cock hard? Do you think that will satisfy your imaginary readers?”

Lou only smiled.

She picked up the tumbler and downed the drink in a gulp, then turned and walked away from him to look out through the glass door onto the terrace and over the city beyond. Lou watched the way her buttocks stretched the cloth as she moved, and his cock did get hard as he pictured what would happen before the evening was over. He would have his fingers inside her. He would have his fist in her cunt, and then he would have her lick it dry of her own secretions. He would shove his cock slowly the entire length into her ass, feeling the hot tight hole widen and receive him, and then clutch his cock, and her buttocks would arch as she silently begged him to fuck her. Then her words would disappear and her mind would be empty, and he would be able to take unimpeded pleasure with her, the way he liked it, the way she too, despite all her protestations, liked it also.

She turned to face him. Her face was a mask of questioning. “I love sex,” she said. “I love writing about sex and reading about sex. I think pornography is the most beautiful of all the arts. Why can’t it be understood for what it is? Why don’t people see that it’s not only as good as any other art form, but better? Why can’t we have novels as profound as The Brothers Karamazov that make your cock hard and your cunt wet as well? Why this separation? Great literature on one side; great erotic writing on the other? As though sex and life weren’t the same thing. As though life didn’t come from sex, and sex didn’t come from life. Why, Lou?”

He stood up, walked up to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. Although he didn’t perceive it as such, something in him realized that Margaret was feeling her first waves of insecurity. Now she no longer had the excuse of impotence to keep her from attempting to realize her dream, which meant that she had to articulate it, and then make it real. And there would be no Lou to lean on. For, despite all his obtuseness in many areas, he was a thorough professional who knew how to run a business, how to deal with the crises and personalities and complexities. Now all this was hers, a heavy burden for her shoulders. And she was just beginning to wonder whether she would really be able to manage it.

“Maggie,” he said in a low voice, “out there, in the city, in the world, it’s a dormitory. Those people are all asleep in their shoes. You and me, we’re no great minds, but we at least are honest about a few things that most everyone else pretends doesn’t exist.” He put his hand under her chin. “Do you know that the president of the United States doesn’t have a cock?” he asked.

She smiled, half unwilling to be pulled from her mood.

“It’s true,” he said. “Do you think the people of this great nation would let into the highest office a man who had such a nasty thing as a cock hanging between his legs?” He stepped back a few paces, fished for a cigarette, lit it, and continued, “The machine is taking over. People are turning themselves into machines. They are trying to pretend they don’t secrete. They hate the fact that they fuck. They want to kill fucking. They are the ones who keep pornography where it is. They want it to stay dirty. That way they can suppress it, and point to it and say, ‘See how dirty sex is.’ And I learned all this before you were born. And I’ve made my peace with it. I published the way I was forced to, and I thought, ‘It’s all right. Somewhere people read these things and they remember that sex is our most extraordinary gift, even if they can only have it in their fantasies.’ And I tell you, if you think you can make it otherwise, they will fight you and step on you. Beginning with your new patron, Mr. Albert Leeds.”

“God, I hope you’re wrong,” she said.

“Look inside yourself. You’ll know whether I’m wrong. No, the only question is, are you going to get hurt too badly in the process of trying, that’s all.”

He stepped forward and put one arm around her and drew her to him. Like a kindly uncle, he kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a nice lady, Maggie,” he said. “I hope you don’t get your ass kicked too hard.”

Abruptly, he stepped back. His mood fell away instantly. He had said what he wanted to and expressed what he needed to, and now she was on her own. He would never have presumed to intrude into her emotional state any further than the concern he had already exhibited. He had made the decision a long time ago that each human being was alone in the world, and that there was no point in getting sticky about it.

“So,” he said, his tone light and brisk, “you want to have a farewell party for me?”

She looked at him quizzically.

He smiled, a kind of teasing leer. “I’ll invite a few people over, and we’ll drink some more, and smoke a little bit, and…well, you know, we’ll have a party.”

She narrowed her eyes and tried to pierce through his sudden ebullience.

“Why can’t we just have it by ourselves?” she said. “I can’t go through with it if it’s that impersonal.”

“These will be people you know,” he protested.

“What’s the matter, Lou, are you afraid to be alone with me? Are you afraid we might actually look at each other while we’re fucking, and maybe make love to each other?”

“Sure I’m afraid,” he said gruffly. “And I’m not ashamed that I’m afraid. I know my limits.” He paused, and then added, “And you’re still looking for yours.”

She stood there for a long minute with her eyes closed. She was tired, and she didn’t want to do anything but lie down. The refrain, “I want to lie in my lie,” went through her head again and again. She couldn’t fight or resist. It was easier to be swallowed by another debauch.

“Sure, Lou,” she said. “Invite them over. And we’ll have a party.”

Joan saw him standing on the corner as she spun through the revolving door and out onto the street just five minutes past five o’clock. She was in a rush to get home, for she had only three hours to shower, wash her hair, and nap, before going to see Margaret.

Margaret had not arrived until after lunch that afternoon and had called Joan into her office. She looked haggard and worn, but her eyes glowed with an irrepressible excitement. After locking the door behind them, she took Joan’s hands in her own.

“It’s happened,” she had said quietly.

Joan had smiled. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“Centaur Publications is mine,” Margaret told her. “Lou told me last night. By this time next month, the whole place will be in my hands.”

Joan’s mouth had dropped open and Margaret took the opportunity to plant a light kiss on her lips. “Yes, I know,” she said, “it kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“But how…?” Joan had begun to inquire.

“I can’t tell you now,” Margaret said. “It’s too long a story, and this isn’t the place to talk about it.” She pulled Joan toward her, embracing her tightly, and ran her hands up and down her back, her fingers tracing the space between her buttocks, her thighs pressing into her own, and then stepped back and walked briskly behind her desk. She paused dramatically for a moment and then announced, “This will be your office when I move into Lou’s.”

Joan shook her head in astonishment. It was all coming very fast.

“I have a thousand plans,” Margaret went on, “and you figure in all of them. I want you to be my secretary, but you’ll really be more than that. You’ll be an extension of myself, you’ll help me run the whole show.”

Joan let out a sharp exhalation of breath. “Wow,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”

Margaret sat down in the wide leather swivel chair. “Are you free tonight?” she asked.

“Why, yes,” Joan replied.

“Why don’t you come to my place for dinner?” she said. “Say about eight o’clock. And we can discuss the whole thing. And have champagne to celebrate. And then celebrate some more.” The implications of sex were barely hidden, and for a second Joan flared with anger that the other woman should assume physical intimacy so easily, and tie it in so neatly with the offer of a new job and a raise in salary.

But Joan had agreed, if for no other reason than that she was unbearably curious as to how Margaret had pulled off the coup, and what it would mean in terms of changes at the office, and whether there would be a means for her to take a new position without being put in a situation she would find restrictive. At worst she would have an interesting evening of gossip and a night of extraordinary sex.

“Don’t say a word to anyone,” Margaret had cautioned.

Joan had worked the rest of the day, barely able to sit in her seat. She found herself squirming a lot, going to the water cooler often, and running to the ladies’ room a number of times, until Bill, the art director, had called out, “For Christ’s sake Joan, you’re going to deplete the city’s water supply in one day, drinking it in and flushing it down like that.” But it didn’t bother her, for that was the sort of remark that was always being made in pornographic publishing houses.

At five sharp she left, and was hurrying out of the building when she caught his eye. Leaning against a truck, looking dark and serious, Manuel was scanning the three doors that opened onto the street from the building. It was obvious that he was looking for her, for when he saw her, he pushed himself upright and took a step in her direction.

She was seized with a blind unreasoning impulse to flee. It took practically the entire weight of her inhibitions against acting peculiarly on the street to keep her from gasping with alarm and running as fast as she could in the opposite direction. She was not afraid of anything specific, but could not completely suppress the anxiety that was manifest by the sudden rapid beating of her heart. She had a fleeting insane image of Manuel’s leaping on her, tearing her clothes off, and fucking her violently on the concrete, while the passersby, in typical New York fashion, would walk on past without noticing.

There was nothing for it. She waited until he came up to her.

“I have to talk to you,” he said.

“I’m in a hurry,” she told him. They stood for a few seconds, neither able to say a word nor to break contact. The awkwardness mounted, and she added, “I hear you’ve been sick. You haven’t been in for almost a week.”

“I haven’t been sick,” he said. “You know why I haven’t come in.” And then he looked sharply over his shoulder, as though expecting to catch someone watching him, and added, “Although I guess you don’t know the whole story.” He pulled her aside, away from the stream of people pouring out of the door.

“I’m quitting,” he said. “And I’m going back to Puerto Rico. I came to see you to say good-bye.”

Joan relaxed. And at the same time felt a pang of disappointment. She was relieved to hear that he was leaving, for she didn’t know whether she could manage to keep working in the same space with him if he continued to smolder over her. But at the same time she remembered poignantly that she had, not more than a few days earlier, been spread apart in front of his eyes, and had covered his cock with her ass, imploring him with her actions to fuck her. And that he had not fucked her, and that somewhere inside her she was still curious, and hungry for his cock. No, for more than his cock. What she wanted was to be overpowered by the brute masculinity of the man, to surrender herself to his strength.

“Good-bye?” she repeated.

His eyes were liquid and filled with what looked like pain. He seemed to have trouble in continuing what he wanted to say. Joan felt a pang of sympathy, mingled with a low lustful vibration, for she saw in him what had always captivated Alma, the mixture of the lost boy with the powerful man. She had the sense of wanting to simultaneously suckle him and have him fuck her.

She relented in her resolve to push him away at once. She made a few calculations and reasoned she could forgo her few hours of refreshing herself before going to see Margaret.

“But this is so sudden,” she said, “isn’t it?”

He rubbed his chin with one hand, and hung his head, not looking at her as he spoke. “No,” he said, “I’ve been planning to go back for a long time, saving money to buy land. And now, well, I met an old friend who wants to do the same thing, and we’re going back together. Probably next month. And I wanted to see you once more before I left.” He swallowed, as though something were caught in his throat. “You know, I really liked you,” he added. “I mean, I thought maybe you and me…” He paused, and laughed to himself, and then lifted his head and stared into her eyes. “But that was crazy, wasn’t it? I mean, we live in different worlds.”

Joan was suddenly aware of people passing, some of whom were from the office. Without thinking out all the implications, she said suddenly, “I have to go home and change, Manuel. I have a date at eight. But maybe you want to come with me, and we can talk a little, while I’m getting ready. I think I have some wine, or maybe I can make you some coffee.”

He appraised her for a long instant. He knew at once that her invitation was both innocent and seductive, that she was offering him simple hospitality, and a chance for them to be in private, and that she was putting them both in a situation where their latent passion could spring forth. He was torn in two, for he boiled at the mere thought of being able to fuck her, and yet he knew what a danger that was. He understood that his emotions would drown him once more, and also, it would mean being unfaithful to Alma, and while such a consideration would not faze him if all that were involved were a casual lay, he realized that fucking Joan would create a split in him, a split he would have to pay the dues for later.

But he looked at her eyes, which held a plea she herself wasn’t fully aware of, and her mouth, which he suddenly saw wrapped tightly around his cock, and without hesitation he brushed aside all scruples and said, “Sure. I think that would be fine.”

They rode over in a taxi, the vehicle lurching slowly through the rush-hour traffic. They did not speak, for they were both becoming increasingly aware of the bare bones of the situation. As in many social contexts, the verbal message was a mask for the real transaction. And while their conversation had been carried in such a way that it would pose no challenge to even a censor for a family television serial, its esoteric content had been something else again. For if they had spoken their subliminal intentions their dialogue might have gone like this:

Manuel: I’m leaving soon, and I’ve wanted you for almost a year. Before I go I want to find out what your pussy tastes like.

Joan: After you rubbed your cock against my ass, I was so hot I couldn’t sleep, even after I masturbated three times. I want to feel you between my legs.

Manuel: I’m going back to Puerto Rico and I won’t see you again, and I want to have more to remember than dry-humping you over your desk. I want to shove my cock in your mouth and watch you lick my balls and swallow my cum.

Joan: I don’t want to get involved with you, so I’m glad you’re leaving, but I want to feel your manhood again, have you on top of me, pressing me down, making me moan, making me crazy to give myself to you, making my hole hot to have you.

Manuel: I want to feel your hands all over my body, pulling my cock.

Joan: I want your fingers in my cunt.

And so on. But such a conversation could not be held, given the people, the circumstances, and the nature of the civilization they shared. And so they were suspended between the spoken and the unspoken, caught in a space which was exciting because of what was implied, but frustrating because of what was repressed. And in the small space of the cab, with the driver sitting less than two feet away, they could make no small talk at all.

At her building they entered hurriedly. In her neighborhood, the presence of a Puerto Rican dressed in jeans and an army jacket was often cause for thoughts of calling the police. Joan, despite her liberality, was riddled with the same prejudice as the people in her neighborhood; indeed, that’s why she lived in the neighborhood, although she never would have admitted that truth to herself. Manuel, having been in many such situations, when middle-class white girls had taken him home from some bar, understood perfectly, and was willing to play the game according to those rules. After all, he didn’t want the police to be called either. They went quickly up the two flights of stairs, Joan leading, and Manuel watching her ass as she climbed, holding off an impulse to slip his hand under her dress and feel the shifting of her buttocks and cunt lips as she moved.

When they stepped in to her apartment and she closed the door behind them, they both felt as though they had crossed the border into Switzerland.

“Well,” she said brightly, “can I get you something cold to drink?” She bustled off towards the kitchen and waved him into the living room. “Why don’t you take off your jacket and have a seat, and I’ll get you a beer.”

Manuel walked inside like a cat in a new space, tentatively, gingerly, looking about sharply, almost smelling the air. He had the feeling of déjà vu. The succeeding three hours appeared to him in a compressed flash, then disappeared, and he returned to ordinary reality. Joan entered with a bottle of Heinecken’s and a tall glass.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said cheerfully, her voice slightly higher than usual. “I need to get out of these office clothes.”

He looked at her suddenly, and the hidden import of her words hummed between them. It was an odd instant, in which all their subconscious desires were strung out like beads before their eyes, and yet their bodies continued to play out the scenario of polite encounter. She backed away from the eerie quality of the ambience of the room. Manuel was indistinct to her, a hulking dark shape that loomed over her consciousness. She had already lost her sense of center and was incapable of coherent thought.

“I guess he’ll fuck me,” was all she was able to communicate to herself.

Manuel saw the look in her eyes and smiled to himself. He felt enormously strong and self-confident. The mystique of Joan’s hold over him was losing the last shred of its power. After having her in her office, he had dispelled his sense of impotence before her. And after being reunited with Alma, he had regained his sense of what it was to have a real woman make love to him. And now he was seeing Joan in a perspective that put her on a par with a million other young white office workers in the city, pathetic creatures without a real home, without a man, pretending to be sophisticated, but hungry to be had. And he was going to have her. He was going to fuck her until she was weak, and then he was going to leave. For an instant a voice inside him tweaked at his conscience, condemning him for treating this woman as an object.

“Let her alone,” it said. “Go back to your woman and leave this creature in peace.”

But his cock was already tingling, and its dictates, as usual, were given supremacy over any other aspect of his being. It short-circuited the hard-won knowledge, that in the battle between men and women there was no final victor. And if he was now able to take a position of strength and superiority in relation to Joan, he would pay for that, one way or the other. Either while they were fucking, or afterward, when he might discover that once again a woman had slipped in while he was being distracted by her cunt, and copped his soul.

Joan smiled, a brittle nervous smile. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” she said.

She whirled away from him and went off into the bedroom, leaving him to contemplate the odd assemblage of furniture that represented a compromise between Joan’s taste and her salary. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard. Her mind was awash with conflicting images.

“Why did I invite him up?” she said to herself. She pictured the tongue-tied mail-room worker in the next room, and admitted that despite his physique and the magnetism that vibrated around him, he was not someone she could relate to as an equal. “Maybe I am frightened,” she thought. “But I just can’t find anything to talk to him about.” She frowned, pursed her lips, and resolved that she would talk politely to him for a half hour and then send him on his way, wishing him well in his plans. But even as she did so she began to take off her clothes, shedding the dress and brassiere and stockings and panties and shoes that served as her cover at work, and went to the closet where she picked out a nylon dressing gown, one which was neither transparent nor translucent, but which clearly indicated that the body underneath it had nothing on. For as she moved, her breasts could be seen swaying, and the thin fabric caught between her legs and outlined the crack of her ass. She stood naked for a moment, her decision indicating one course of action, and her choice of dress indicating another, thus delineating with perfect clarity the split between thought and deed which is indicative of the human condition.