The Gentle Degenerates (The Vassi Collection)

by Marco Vassi

  I moved up on my knees, put my head on the sheet, and let myself relax. I felt like doing nothing, like not responding at all, just letting the delicious cock work its wonderful ride into me. I slipped into a kind of haze where nothing existed except the fact of my ass exposed to anyone who wanted to fuck me. Paul pulled out and I felt a movement behind me, and another cock came in. I didn’t know which of them it was, but let him fuck me as much as he wanted. Someone gave me a fresh popper, and I drew the fumes deep into my lungs and sailed into my anal nirvana.

  I don’t know how long it lasted or which of them fucked me for how long. I didn’t care, I was all ass, all invitation. Someone came, and then someone else fucked me, and he came, and then a third person fucked me, and he came. I was sore and dribbling, but ready for it to go on forever.

  And then it stopped. I looked back and saw the four of them standing up next to the mattress. I slid forward and rolled over. My ass was full and brimming with sensation. I felt juicy and tropical. And then they grabbed my legs and began pulling me. I didn’t know what they were doing. They grabbed me under my shoulders and lifted, and the four of them carried me to the bathroom. They slid me into the tub. I looked up and saw the four gleaming bodies like giants over me. I became very small; very helpless. I took a final drag on the amyl nitrate and closed my eyes.

  As I fell back into the sliding, shifting grainy mood that the drug brings on, the four warm streams hit my body. I felt them playing over me, like a water dance, up my thighs and on my chest, and then all of them converging at once as I opened my mouth and felt the tangy urine splash in my throat. I went totally under and let myself drown, seeing my life flash before me, understanding everything in a glance, getting a preview of final meaning.

  The streams died down and they filed out of the bathroom, leaving me lying there. For a long time I grokked the feeling, letting all of its many complex elements sift into my consciousness, sorting them, understanding all the underbellies of motive and drama that the act implied. But more than anything else I felt peace, a great pervading calm that reached to the outermost edges of the universe. Whatever demons had been haunting me were now either driven oft or appeased, and I was totally my own person again.

  As I climbed up out of the tub and prepared to turn on the shower, I smiled a private smile to myself. I was still a Catholic, expiating my sins through some form of communion. But this came closer to what a group of decadent witches might do than anything that ever happened in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. No wonder church attendance is falling off, I thought. They don’t know how to put on a good show anymore.

  This was one of my crazy moments, when I was free of all context. I could see all the historical postures and social roles, and how I played them and who I was in relation to them, but none of them was me. Me was the flow, the movement, the unformed being which constantly gives life to manifestations. Me was life, and life has no labels.

  I showered and then went out. They were back on the mattress, still naked. I had had enough for the night so I bade them farewell. Roy made a halfhearted effort to get me to stay, but I wasn’t being seduced this time. I dressed, had a cigarette with them as we lapsed again into a kind of small talk. But this time the words had a glow to them, and there was more eye contact than could be assimilated. It was an exquisitely intimate impersonal moment.

  I left and we all made vague assurances that we would “do it again sometime.” I realized that sooner or later, one way or another, we would.

  As I walked back to my apartment, I felt as though I were floating off the ground. It was a kind of elation that I never get after fucking women, and then I realized the difference. With women, I am drained; I lapse into an easy sleep to regain my energies, and I feel relaxed and cozy. But when I take it from a man, I am the one who sucks in the energy, and afterwards there is a quiet glow which burns in me like the embers after a well-made fire.

  There was a further consideration. After fucking with a man, I feel totally free afterwards. We enjoy one another, can be tender and loving, or bad and hurting, but when it is over, it is over. We each return to our separate selves and are able to make an easy transition to a state without immediate touch. But with women there enters a kind of cloying quality, a sense of possession, a feeling that they have somehow lodged a hook in me, and no matter what I do, they have a line to draw me back in.

  Some of that is my neurotic fear of being swallowed by the mother figure, but at least half of it is an objective condition. Perhaps it is because women are conditioned to be dependent, or perhaps it is the manifestation of a biological need in them to hold on to the man they are fucking, as though he were a mate, someone to protect the home and help rear the children. It occurred to me that either we should be back in a situation where everyone lived in small villages, or else the problem of promiscuity would continue to haunt us. If, underneath all the sophistication, women were still zoologically imprinted to making it with one man, then the whole sexual freedom scene was a flatulent lie, the construction of horny men and confused women.

  My thoughts raced back to Regina again. No matter what else happened, I knew that I would have to have the kind of scene I had just been in, it was as important to me as my morning meditation. But could she share in it? And if so, how? And if she couldn’t, then we would be back in the old bind where the woman sits at home with a candle in the window or has secret lovers, while her old man goes chasing his aberrant sexual desires.

  I felt very clean about my relationship with Regina just then. The problem stood out in clear relief, and while no easy solution offered itself, for the first time in weeks I didn’t feel tortured. In fact all I did feel was the rising sexual excitement in my loins. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t come, and was now fully primed. It was still early, and my thoughts moved to finding a woman for the night.

  seven.

  What do I want from a woman? What is it I need that only a woman can give? And does it have to be a particular woman with whom I have a special relationship, or will any cunted human being do? It isn’t the simple fucking, for I have had as full and deep orgasms embedded in a man’s ass or mouth as in any cunt. There is a quality of pleasure in a cunt that is not what an ass has to offer, but that relatively small difference doesn’t totally explain what the female genius is.

  When younger and more prejudiced, I ascribed to women all the charms that were identified with them. But since then I have been able to find in men the same tenderness, the same understanding, the same warmth, and even more. It is true that no man can offer the soul-satisfying experience of a full firm breast and velvet bulging nipple. But this is accidental. I have been with women whose breasts were as tiny as any man’s.

  In a sense, I wonder why I am not totally a homosexual. With a man I can give and get in a way that no woman offers. I have a cleanness with men, a freedom, a sense of self that gets lost in the murky underwaters of heterosexual relationships. There have been moments, lying spreadlegged and overwhelmed with ecstasy, while a full and pregnant cock opened me up to waves of love and insight, and the man in my arms gave me a contact and joyousness that left no room for any sense of alienation; times when I knew myself to be imperfect but complete. At such moments it seemed inevitable and right that my sexual expression be just that, the masculine passivity which made me the analogue of a woman. But fear always followed, espcecially when, after a while, I noticed that I was not getting erections any longer, nor missing them, nor caring about my ability to raise a stiff cock. And then I would wonder whether I might ever want a woman again, and the ancient spectre of loss of manhood would grip my eyes and I would run sweating for some willing female who could reassure me that I still was a man.

  I assumed that what I was doing was fighting some socially-conditioned demon, since the supposedly enlightened part of me understood that all divisions were unreal, that the only reality is: to be. I quoted Jesus to myself, “In Paradise there is neithe
r male or female.” Since I had to be what I was, there was no point in attempting to struggle against my tendencies. Yet the Western rationalist part of me pointed out that I was following a well-known and even documented path to degeneracy, that my life was becoming a search for experience. I would end as a disgusting old man paying to suck cocks in the urinals at Times Square movie houses. “So what,” would argue my mystical mask, “it is sheer snobbishness to think that a Forty-second Street degenerate is any less valuable a human being than a saint. Look at Genet. If there is a high level of consciouness which infuses your behavior, it doesn’t matter what you do. Relax. Go with the flow.”

  The ruminations continued and I found myself, despite all the chatter in my head, dialing Lisa’s number. She was a woman I had met in college, a strange mixture of innocence and evil. Her Jewish father had worked for the Nazis during the war and she grew up with such massive ambivalence as to forever paralyze her will. Part of the trip was the fact that by the time she was eight, a German officer with a taste for children would take her for “outings”, against which her parents couldn’t protest. And he began her sexual education one afternoon by forcing her to suck him off while he shoved a beer bottle up her ass, and whipped her with his shirt, which was heavy with metal buttons. She had the largest ass I had ever seen on a woman, but it was so beautifully proportioned that it didn’t seem grotesque. To say that she was self-destructive is to miss the richness of her style. She was a professional cliff-hanger, and revelled in her moods of aggressive despair. As acts of bravado, she would suck me off in unusual places, like the phone booth in the student center, on deserted subway stations late at night, and once on the roof of the college library where, if anyone had looked up from any of several locations on campus, we would have been totally revealed. In a sense she was good for me, because she inspired me to heights of daring that I would not otherwise have even conceived of.

  I broke it off with her when she began wanting me to procure numbers of men to gang bang her. I was a little too young then to be able to tolerate the internal pressure of that scene. I didn’t see her for a few years, and then I ran into her in the Village one night. We went to her place to fuck, but by then she was turned off to her cunt. Whatever creeping neurosis was operating in that area had come to the fore, and she would only let me take her in the ass. I got very hot behind that, but after a few hours I grew bored. And, perversely, I began trying to get her to spread her pussy for me. It was a kind of Dada reversal on a lot of scenes I’ve had where chicks refuse to get into ass-fucking. I saw her a few months later, and then we fell into a rhythm whereby I would call her whenever I felt horny and go over to share in whatever scene she had going at the time.

  She answered the phone now, and invited me up. I walked almost forty blocks to her place, brimming with energy and expectation. But when I got there, I discovered that her trip had taken a turn for the freaky. She met me at the door with flushed eyes. All she had on was a man’s shirt, which she threw off the minute she closed the door behind me. She grabbed my hand. “Come inside,” she said, “I want to show you something. I just got into snakes.”

  For a brief insane moment I thought she was referring to her dinner, but I should have known better. The bedroom smelled of grass and there was a pouch of cocaine next to the bed. Having long ago discarded preliminaries with Lisa, I took my clothes off and sat down next to her. “It’s good to see you,” she said, and with a rush of affection for her I suddenly remembered the real reason I had gone to see her. There were many women I could fuck; the bars and coffee houses and streets were filled with them. But I truly liked Lisa. Despite all her madness, she was a beautiful person, as, ultimately, all people are. But in a kind of fashion, she had begun to come out the other side of perversion and glowed with the pure light of action. And we had had a long relationship together, knowing one another in extreme circumstances. Most important, there was no bullshit between us. We both knew exactly what we wanted and gave it to each other. And that kind of exchange, over a period of time, gave birth to friendship and, if I dare to use the word, love.

  We smoked a bit and snorted some coke. I rapidly brought my vibrations down from quick intensity to slow depth. After all, it was her house, and as a guest it was my duty to adapt to her psychic environment, not the other way around. as I got into the undulating phase, feeling my breathing become fuller, my perceptions more gestalt, her body came into focus. She was leaning back, her full breasts sagging to either side of her torso. Her nipples were thin, set in wide, reddish aureola. Everything about her was soft and inviting. Her wet mouth, the immense ass and fleshy thighs, and her shaved cunt. She had taken the hair off when she was seventeen with some electronic method, and the naked cunt lips protruded baldly in a perpetual pout. But now her cunt was opened and moist, as though she had just been fucking. I felt the familiar melting sensations in my arms and legs and began to lean toward her. With Lisa there need be no foreplay in the conventional sense. We could lie for hours just kissing, but the kissing was so rich and varied that it was a way of fucking all unto itself. She was one of those rare women who can go from talking to touching in a single beat.

  She saw my move and her eyes smoldered. “Wait,” she whispered, “I want to show you something.” Then she reached into a box near the bed and scrambled around inside it. As she leaned over, her beautiful ass loomed up into full view, the creamy skin laced with stretch marks. Her legs fell apart and her cheeks fell open, revealing the darker skin deep inside the crack, and the pink rippled asshole which had opened to countless cocks. I reached over and stroked her buttocks and then ran my hand down between them to the lower opening, feeling the slimy warmth of secretions. She wriggled a bit, and then drew herself up to face me. I brought my fingers to my nose to smell once again the musky aroma which spilled from her pussy, and almost blinded myself as I jerked back from the thing she brought up to my face. It was a baby boa constrictor, perhaps two feet long.

  I stared at the snake and Lisa smiled at me. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she said. Having been raised in the city, my only knowledge of snakes was what I had seen at the zoo. “Here, feel him,” she said. I put out my hand and let the animal crawl onto me. I was at once delighted by the feel of it. It was cool and dry, and as it moved I felt what seemed to be a thousand tiny fingers moving over my flesh. It was sleek and intelligent, and totally self-possessed. It occurred to me that it was, despite our popular opinion, a much higher form of life than man. The proof of that was the way in which it had simplified the problems of existence. It killed rarely, and then quickly. It fed by swallowing, first rodents, and then entire pigs or sheep, whole, and then lying around for weeks or months digesting, not having to cook, skin, or in any way prepare its food. Now its tongue slithered in and out in a perpetual dance.

  Lisa’s eyes glistened. She took it back, and then, lying down, brought it between her legs. The snake moved onto her thigh and worked its way up her leg to her crotch. Lisa writhed in ecstasy. Then she grabbed the snake right behind its head, and inserted it into her cunt. The snake lashed its body, obviously going through changes, but she just continued to feed him into the hole. I watched with a growing erection as inch after inch of the animal disappeared into her cunt. She began to moan and cry, and to make sounds that I had never before heard from a woman. She must have been experiencing something utterly unique. Finally she pushed the last inch of the snake inside her and then closed her legs. She put her hand over her cunt and rolled on her side.

  For almost a half hour she seemed to be going mad. She bit the pillow and screamed, she called out to God, she rolled all over the bed. Her mouth worked convulsively and her tongue lapped at the air as she rolled up her hand into a fist and hit at her cunt time and again, pounding at it the way a silversmith hits thin sheets of metal with a rubber hammer. Her pelvis jerked back and forth and her ass crashed on the bed and soared into the air. She seemed to have completely forgotten that I was there, and was trans
ported to some private heaven that was ultimately intense and required as its dues only that the person live there completely alone.

  I imagined the snake inside her. Perhaps frightened, perhaps angered, perhaps indifferent. But in any case moving, slithering around the sensitive walls of the cunt, deep inside her. Flicking its forked tongue like pinpricks into the holy mucous membrane of her twat. My stomach churned with lust just at the thought of it. That coiled sleek body churning around in that cave of flesh, perhaps nudging its way past the cervix and hitting at the entrance to her womb. Perhaps the snake could work all the way into her, making a long sensuous journey through the Fallopian tubes, driving Lisa mad with the sensation of penetration. Perhaps it was going into her very womb, there to coil up in symbolic remembrance of the original snake who gave the apple to Eve and started the whole problem of sex. Never in my life had I been so envious. If I could have made the exchange on the spot, I would have cashed in my cock and balls and taken a cunt without a moment’s notice. There was no question in my mind that being a woman provided the deeper experience, not merely the sensational trip, but the whole understanding of existence.

  I became aware that I had just spent several hours imitating a woman at the orgy at Roy’s house, and had come here, I thought, to fuck a woman, but ended by wanting to become her. Fear made me giddy. I knew at that moment that I had been made the wrong sex, so far as my physical organs were concerned. And there was nothing I could do about it. Even an operation was not the answer, since the thought of an artifical cunt repelled me.