The Devil's Sperm Is Cold (23 page)

“Aren’t we finished?” the woman said.

“Al’s finished with you,” Helene told her, “but I’m not.”

“But I didn’t agree to do any more than what I did with him,” she complained.

“You’re not really in a position to argue the matter, are you?” Helene said, and fastened the dildo under her, the tip at the center of the tiny anus. The woman felt the object and tried to squirm away, but she had nothing to grab on to. Helene pressed the button and the woman sank down an inch, the phallus sinking quickly between her cheeks and into her asshole.

The woman let out a cry.

“It’s like the one you were using before,” Helene told her. “Only this time you’re going to take it up your ass, the whole thing.”

“Oh my God, no,” the woman exclaimed, remembering the size of the instrument.

Helene pressed the button again and the woman began to rotate, her asshole sliding around the bulk of the rubber shaft. As she descended, she got to the thicker part, and she began to gasp with pain.

“It’ll go real slow,” Helene told her. “And you should be nice and open after that long warm-up with Al.” She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Poor Al. He thinks he’s the main attraction and doesn’t realize he’s only the introductory act.”

“Please, let me loose,” the woman pleaded. “I’ll scream.”

“Place is soundproof,” Helene said.

“I’ll go to the police,” the woman threatened.

“If you want to,” Helene said smoothly. “But when I’m finished with you, I don’t think you’ll want to do anything but get more of the same.”

The woman let out a loud keening wail as she spun slowly and descended on the immense dildo which was fastened to the cot. When she was six inches down she was close to fainting. But Helene urged her on.

“That’s a third of it,” she said. “And you’re just getting to the widest part.”

She descended inexorably, spinning. “It’s a real screwing,” Helene thought. The woman’s anus stretched beyond what seemed reasonable to encompass the surrogate cock. Like a spider gliding down a thin strand, rotating evenly, she swallowed the mind-boggling rod. And just when it seemed she must split apart, something in her gave way, relaxed, and what had been the edge of an excruciating pain transformed into the first rushes of heat and pleasure.

“Oh!” the woman said in surprise.

“That’s right,” Helene said. “Feels good, doesn’t it? And you want more, don’t you.”

Unbelievably, she did. And she said so, in guttural pleas.

Helene ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip, and pressed the stop button. The woman let out a gasp of disappointment.

“Turning into a size queen already,” Helene said. She reached up and slid her hand between the woman’s thighs. Her cunt was dripping.

“I have to do a little business with Al,” Helene told her. “But it shouldn’t take more than five minutes. And you just stay there, and feel how good that thing is lodged in your ass. And think about what it will be like when I come back and let you have the whole cock, all eighteen inches of it.”

The woman started to tremble.

“And then I can show you some of our other little toys,” Helene added. “Would you like that?” And tweaked one of the woman’s nipples.

“Please,” the woman said.

“Please what?” Helene asked her.

“Please, anything,” the woman replied.

Helene left her there, knowing that the woman would provide a few afternoons of interesting diversion, and then would have to be politely edged out. Unless she were serious, in which case some spot in the organization could be found for her.

And as she went out of the equipment room to see Al, he was slipping on his jacket, returning to his guise of businessman, and thinking, “I’ve got to have that other piece. I want to rip her so badly she’ll never be the same again. I’ll put her in that halter and leave her there for two days, and put a dozen men under her, and fuck her blind.”

Occasionally, as with Joan, when his passion was really aroused, he not only wanted to besmirch, he hungered to destroy.

“For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, so say all of us…”

The voices had that mixture of slightly drunken sincerity and raucousness which characterizes the ambience at office parties. Lou stood behind his desk, his face flushed, a champagne glass in his hand, as the twenty or so people who were in one way or another involved with Centaur Publications sang their trite toast. The announcement of his departure had been made two weeks earlier, and the celebration to see him off had been organized by Margaret, who took the opportunity to use her executive muscles for the first time on her own. She had sent around a memo giving the date of the party, and had appended a note which informed everyone that changes in personnel would be forthcoming.

Thus, the people at Lou’s farewell gathering were filled with a sense of relief, cut with a sliver of apprehension about their jobs.

It was late Friday afternoon. All work had been put aside, and the workers were giving themselves to alcohol and loose behavior, indulging in a faint unconscious imitation of an orgy, that social function which had always served as the escape valve for the repressions of civilization at large. For most of them, it was an insignificant flurry in a monotonous routine. But for some, it marked a milestone.

Lou was looking back on over thirty years as a pornographer. Through his efforts there had been born some three thousand titles, ranging from the most sleazy and badly written potboilers to astonishing masterpieces of erotic fiction which, due to the nature of the culture in which they were spawned, ended with their covers torn off, being sold for small change in decayed book shops in the unofficial red-light districts of a thousand American cities and towns. He had been responsible for films, for videotapes, for photographs, for drawings. He had staged hundreds of live sex shows, and served as caterer to very expensive, very private stag parties in the most respectable circles. And now, as he looked around the room, he had the same zest for uncovering the female body that he had had since he was a teenager and had learned that, for him, sex was the only thing worth pursuing as a way of life.

He had put all his affairs in the hands of his lawyer: selling his co-op apartment, storing his collection of books and records and films and tapes until he had a new house to keep them in, and liquidating his assets, the stocks and bonds and financial holdings he had amassed during his long career. Lou was going to go to Puerto Rico with a clear mind, a fat bankroll, and a small suitcase. He would drift until he found the exact spot he wanted, then buy land and build a house, and settle down to enjoying the virtues of the island and its inhabitants.

His glance fell on Alma, who stood in one comer, drinking quietly, watching the others the way people do when they feel themselves outside the general space. He let out a sigh of sexual appreciation that was the closest thing Lou Morris did to praying. A smoldering sensuality oozed from her very pores and it made him wilt just to contemplate actually having her body. Under her tight dress, every curve was caught in sharp outline. Her high firm breasts and full thighs sent signals to Lou’s brain that were as commanding as the scream of sirens on a fire engine.

“Dark meat,” Lou thought, and closed his eyes, flipping out into an image of himself on a hot beach, surrounded by bikini-clad girls lying from horizon to horizon.

He opened his eyes, and when he did, he saw that Manuel had come up to stand next to the exotic woman. Manuel caught his glance and returned it in such a way as to let him know that he knew Lou had been panting over Alma, and that it was all right because she was his, and the most any other man would have of her was a wish to feel her body, a wish that would not be fulfilled.

The two men had met in the men’s room of the office a week earlier. Manuel had returned to empty the mail room of his personal effects, and as he stood in front of the urinal, Lou had entered and taken the stand next to his. Following the unspoken ritual of that situation, each man had stared straight ahead and ignored the presence of the other, until Manuel had finished, zippered up and was washing his hands. Then Lou spoke.

“I hear you’re going to Puerto Rico,” he said.

“That’s right,” Manuel told him.

“Whereabouts on the island are you settling?” he asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Manuel said.

“Well, I’m retiring there next month,” Lou went on, “and I’m up in the air about which spot to try also.” He jiggled up and down a moment, shaking the last drops from his cock, zippered his pants and stepped back, indicating that he wanted to use the sink but that Manuel could take his time.

“Maybe we ought to get together sometime and talk about it,” Lou continued.

Manuel turned around and looked directly at the other man. Now that Lou was no longer his employer, the young man felt a surge of directness flow through him. “Well, I don’t think we got that much to talk about,” he said. “I mean, the boss and the mail boy ain’t going to get adjoining beach houses.”

Lou, unaccountably, was stung by the rebuff.

“Well, you’re not the mail boy anymore, and I’m not the boss. I guess we’re just two men now.”

Manuel heard the conciliatory tone in the other’s voice and modified his response. “I suppose you didn’t treat me any worse than you had to,” he said.

“We should stay in touch,” Lou told him. “I don’t have any friends on the island, and I’m sure you could tell me a lot about life there.”

“And what would you do for me?” Manuel asked, drying his hands on a paper towel.

“I don’t know, Manuel,” he replied. “I have money, and I have contacts. I might be useful to you in some way.” He stepped up to the sink as Manuel moved back. “In any case, call me Lou. And come to the party. After all, we’ve shared the same space for almost a year. We’re really probably more intimate than we imagine.”

“You mean that we have probably fucked the same woman,” Manuel said, stripping the euphemism of its cover.

“Probably,” Lou replied, glad, in an obscure way, to have held his own in the exchange without the weight of his status to help him. Manuel had looked at Lou with different eyes then, for if Joan had been to bed with him, there must be something about him that was worth relating to. Also, there was an overtone, however faint, of the camaraderie felt by two men who have met through a woman’s cunt.

Manuel had decided that, all things being equal, it would not be a bad idea to keep an open channel to Lou. In the depths of his street wisdom, he understood that a friendly acquaintance with a wealthy man was often as valuable as money in the bank. Besides, he had wanted to bring Alma to the office, to show her the faces and places that had figured in the stories he told her.

“Which one is Joan?” Alma now asked him.

Manuel pointed across the room to where Joan was engaged in conversation with an earnest young writer who wanted to discuss the plot of his next book. She was dressed modestly, with a wide skirt that came below her knees, a thick cotton blouse with a sweater over it. Her hair was rolled in a knot at the top of her head. She wore no makeup, and looked like an elementary school teacher in a Presbyterian town.

Alma evaluated her with her eyes. Manuel had, of course, told her of his long infatuation with the other woman, and had spilled the story of what had happened in her office the night he found her masturbating. But he had not revealed the happenings of the evening he went to her apartment, nor anything of the subsequent three days. Alma intuitively knew that there had been more, but was certain that it was finished. Now she was curious to get a feel of Joan, to find out what kind of woman could have such a hold on her man’s mind. And she was able to perceive at once that beneath the plain exterior, Joan was a blind pit of passion.

“It’s always like that with those nice types,” she thought. “Take off their pretty clothes and they are nothing but hot holes underneath.”

Manuel followed the arrows of Alma’s stare and looked at the woman who had almost owned his soul. His thoughts sped back to the previous week. After the phone had stopped ringing at Joan’s apartment, she had told him that she was expected at Margaret’s, and that the other woman might get worried and come over there.

“What are you doing with her?” Manuel asked.

“We’re lovers,” Joan told him.

Some chord in his atavistic reserve of machismo was struck, and he was both crudely excited and repelled by the notion that the woman he had just fucked was having a lesbian affair.

“You want to see her?” he asked.

“Not tonight,” she replied. “I just want to fuck you all night long.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” he said.

He took her to a dingy hotel at the end of Christopher Street, over a gay bar, and they rented a five-dollar-a-night room with a view of the Hudson River through a window that hadn’t been washed since the previous spring. In the following seventy-two hours they only left once, to stock up on food and cigarettes. The rest of the time was spent naked, on the bed.

The first night they didn’t speak, but exhausted themselves trying, it seemed, to strain their bodies into each other, yearning for that oneness which can only be conceptual, but never actual. Yet, in the same way that God has been defined as the search for God, so union may be understood as the attempt to merge into a single organism. When he entered her the first time, his cock did not leave her cunt for four hours. They fucked so long, so steadily, that they fell into the same euphoric state that allows long distance runners to move indefinitely.

It wasn’t until late the next morning that they talked, smoking, watching boats chug by on the polluted river.

“I have a woman I love,” he said. “Not like I love you. It is not so explosive. But it is rich. And we can make a good life together. We are much alike, she and I. And I don’t want to leave her. Because you and me don’t have enough to sustain us for a long time. You are a hot cunt, and an exciting ass, and I have never fucked with anyone like I fuck with you, not even with Alma. But I don’t want to get crazy about it. You understand? I want to fuck you until I’m filled with you, and then I want to leave, and never see you again.”

To his relief and disappointment, she complemented his feelings. “You are the first person who ever really touched me all the way inside,” she told him. “What I feel with you I’ve been hungry for all my life. And if you tell me to stay with you and be your whore and work for you and clean for you and be ready for you to fuck whenever you want me, I’ll do it. Because I’m a slave to what you do to me. But deep inside me I understand that it’s not you. It’s the feeling you give me. And one day I’ll have enough of that feeling, and then I’ll hate you and want to kill you.”

They spoke with that maturity often aroused by moments of deep surrender to another. As a wise man once noted, “Although there will always be a bell curve of distribution so far as enlightenment is concerned, with a few people who have realized themselves at one end, and a few who haven’t the foggiest clue at the other, and the rest of us knocking around in the middle, we can all come to know the truth through communion; for in communion, everyone is enlightened.”

And so they talked and ate and drank beer and smoked and fucked, and the entire universe was reduced to their single room, and their brief space and time allowed. As Manuel watched Joan at the party, he could not believe that the almost prissy woman talking so seriously was the same as the wild animal who had flung herself at him with such fury. The entire experience had been a single dance without parts, and the scores of positions and changes they had been through were not so much separate actions as aspects of a single expression. He saw her again with her clothes off, back in the tiny dark room with flaking green paint and a gurgling sink. He remembered sitting at the foot of the bed, nodding out from his third orgasm in four hours. Joan lay before him, and he looked up the curves of her parted legs and into her cunt, that powerful organ of feeling which had attained an intelligence of its own, and spoken to him in languages not conceived of in any written lexicon. Her hands were gently stroking the outer lips, pulling them apart, her fingers caressing her clitoris, and occasionally dipping down into the tiny opening itself, and half disappearing into the cave behind.

“Oh Manuel,” she was saying, “I feel so sexy, so cunty. Everything else has fallen away, my job, my apartment, my friends, even my name. I’m just this body now, just this moment now. All my flesh is tingling with your touch. I feel your hands and tongue and chest and thighs all over me. And I feel your cock. Your gorgeous enormous cock.”

She ran her hands down between her buttocks, which pressed into the soiled sheet, and over her hips and up the space between her thighs and her cunt, and onto her belly, and over her breasts, flattening them and rubbing her nipples with her palms.

“Your cock has made love to my mouth and to my cunt and to my ass. Your delicious cum is like oil on my skin and honey on my tongue. I’ll do anything for you now, Manuel. I will drink your piss and let you whip me with your thick belt. I am all open and flowing, my sweet. I am a flower filled with juice and you can enter me and drink deep, darling, drink deep.”

Despite his tiredness, Manuel had been roused yet another time, and with a moan, buried his head between her legs, his mouth gluing itself to her cunt, his nostrils filled with the intoxicating smell of her pussy. He licked her like a man would drink water after days on the desert. He sucked her as though the elixir of life flowed from her loins.

And she had cried out, “Oh baby, I can’t give you enough, I can’t take you enough. It’s too much, all too much.” And burst into loud sobs as he snaked up her body and plunged his cock once more into her hot wet center.

But they had reached the limitation they knew they would. Simple fatigue took its toll, and by the third night, they felt nothing more than the sour taste of overexhaustion. They were caked with secretions, and numb from nicotine. The rust-lined tub in the hallway outside the room mocked any notion of bathing. And at their ebb, they decided to leave, he to his place and on to Alma’s, and she back to her apartment.