Mind Blower

by Marco Vassi

  As I lay thinking, another arm of the machine descended, and this time at its tip was a disembodied cunt. Again, it was an almost perfect sculptural imitation, covered with natural hair. But it looked very eerie descending as it did at the end of a metal arm. I wondered if Dali had had a hand in the design, when the cunt came down and completely covered my cock. It gave off a smell that was indistinguishable from real cunt; it pulsated with vibration and gave off heat, so that in a moment I felt my cock stiffening to rise into it.

  The cunt grabbed my cock like a hand. And began to move up and down, and around, thrusting and drawing back, always returning to the base of my cock to long slow pull up to the head. I lay back to enjoy it, and soon began to move in unison with it. Perversely, I grabbed the metal arm so that I could pull the cunt in closer to me, and began to ram into it hard, sloshing around inside, stretching the walls, bruising the lips. I could be as rough as I wanted, knowing that I wasn't causing pain. And the thought went through my mind whether fucking a computer wasn't the best sex possible, a kind of ramified masturbation.

  VuVu responded, and soon we were moving into each other, and peaking in cycles, only to descend to come at it again. I was moving in an oddly familiar way when I realized that I was fucking the cunt the way the cock had just been fucking me! That I had learned, through my responses to being fucked, more about fucking! The notion was so simple, I wondered how I could have overlooked it all this while. The better a woman I became, the better a man I could be, yet to do that, I would actually have to experience the sense of being a woman while I was being fucked, even though I knew all about the womb fantasy now and how I really wasn't a woman. But then, when I went to be with women, did I suddenly switch roles to become a man? The whole thing danced around in my head, with confusion between social roles and inner images and sexual organs and having children.

  To complicate matters, VuVu dropped the cock substitute again, and as I groaned into the cunt now hanging over the head of my cock, teasing it with its heat and juices, the computer's cock sank down and smoothly lodged itself between my cheeks and into my ass. I went wild with the effect. All the ambivalences in me coaslesced in a single unifying movement. The cock moved into me and brought me to a state of utter abandon, and with that same abandon, I plunged into the cunt wrapped around me. I no longer had any label to hang on to what was happening. One might have called it a bisexual experience, but that would have missed the richness of it, the exquisite subtleties. My body was like an alchemist, taking the metal of the cock going into my ass and transforming it into the metal of my cock going into the cunt. In a real sense, VuVu was fucking herself, but I was a catalytic agent, translating one input into an output so totally restructured as to be a different thing.

  At one point I lost all sense of what was there. My cock felt as though it was the cunt and the cunt was a cock driving into me. My ass became a cunt, and the cock going into me became a cock growing out of my cunt and going into someone else's ass. Then it didn't matter at all, and the only thing left was the heat and the dance of the organs and the growing climax. I let myself go totally passive, and in that found the center of activity.

  We fucked for ages, and I popped a dozen poppers and watched myself freak out over four spots in time, and rode with it until I could contain myself no more and let the scalding spunk rise in spurts up the tube and shoot into the gaping cunt that hung down from the ceiling, and simultaneously felt the cock discharge a hot sticky fluid deep inside my ass.

  I fell back, closed my eyes, and relaxed more totally than I ever had in my life. The cunt and cock stayed glued to me for a very long time, and then gradually they pulled away, and I was left by myself on the table in the middle of the room.

  However, in a few minutes, the lights on the computer wall began to blink in absurd patterns, and I realized that everything that had happened was being run through and analyzed in a process that I could not begin to understand. I got off the table, disengaged the electrodes, stretched luxuriously, and dressed.

  Tocco came back in.

  "From what I can judge to date, the entire thing was a success. How do you feel?"

  I checked myself. "Perfect," I said. "It was dazzling."

  "Did you learn anything?" he asked.

  I told him about my realizations, but there was more somehow that I couldn't put into words. It was that part that he was interested in. "The next step is dangerous, for VuVu will provide you with the words to describe that area of experience which is now blank. The danger is that you will take the words as a solution to the problem, when all they do is to close the gap in your mind, complete the gestalt as it were. When the last piece of the conceptual puzzle is in place, then you can forget all further verbal considerations about sexuality, and begin to live yourself fully."

  I felt piqued. "Isn't that what I've been doing?"

  "Yes, you have. And in addition, you have been muddying your perception with the search for understanding. What you haven't realized is that the search itself was the source of confusion. Once you know there is nothing more to know, then you can begin to learn."

  "That last sentence just spun my head around," I said.

  "Well, let it settle then. We can go to my study, and when VuVu's analysis is translated into English, we'll take a look at it."

  FIFTEEN

  WE SETTLED IN the study, and Tocco brought out some glasses and a bottle of brandy. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and heaved himself into the couch by the window. I drew up an easy chair and sat facing him. He poured the brandy, and we clinked glasses. I felt the velvet liquid burn down my throat and heard Tocco's gasp of pleasure.

  I peered at him over the rim of my glass and said, "Who are you, Tocco?"

  He chuckled in the best Sidney Greenstreet manner and put his glass down. "If you're thinking in terms of my biography, Michael, I shall have to disappoint you. Where and when I came from and developed is a closed book. Basically, I am just a man, who happened to have been born with a good brain and a completely unwieldy body. It didn't take long for me to find out that the pain of unrequited sexual desire surpassed all others in my hall of unhappy experiences. And since I'm a fanatic at heart, I dove headfirst into the area which gave me the most trouble, determined to master it. I mastered the area, all right, but have never come to terms with the pain which comes from desire which isn't reciprocated. I realize that it is a trivial aspect of the self, but we each bear our particular cross with as much dignity and humor as we can manage."

  He shifted his weight and continued. "But this is not to talk about me. The point is to go into your question, and to see if we can discover what lies at the root of your supposed problem. You came, originally, because you wanted to know if it were possible to share an image orgasm with someone. How do you feel about that now?"

  It seemed such a long time ago, and in a way the question made no sense to me now. "It seems that it was a false problem. After the thing with VuVu I feel that I have to accept my own fantasies for myself, and let the other person have his or hers, and be content with what happens between our bodies."

  "That's a totally pat answer, and doesn't strike to the heart of the situation. Let's take it from the beginning. Fantasy is what happens when there is a conflict in reality that is conditioned and unconscious. When two people fuck, their motives, their emotions, their bodies, all clash. It is a violent bringing together of two autonomous biospheres. Each of the individuals must be in total contact with his or her own reality in order to know what the other's reality is, and only then is there a chance that they can get into complementary rhythms. And the rhythms must be in tune if they are to go into the next stage of self-for-getfulness.

  "This is the reason, parenthetically, why an orgy which isn't a jolly group-grope on one hand, or a programmed scenario on the other, requires a number of individuals with enough sensitivity, humor and strength to allow themselves to enter into the chaotic sequences which make the psychic space turbulent before they
get it together.

  "Now whenever there is unconscious conflict, or unresolved conscious conflict, thoughts are produced, and in the context of fucking, the thoughts take the shape of fantasies of one form or another. Sometimes one enters a mythical realm and transmogrifies into fabled beasts; sometimes the mind grows demonic, and hateful paranoid delusions cloud everything over. The fantasies grow like dank flowers in the stagnant backwater of energy which gets trapped and can't flow. Quite often these flowers are more interesting than the mundane reality which we find ourselves. And one can spend his entire life sniffing imaginary flowers. Many have done so, and in times like these, when an entire civilization is in full decay, it becomes modish. That, of course, is decadence.

  "But for most of us, fantasy is something that comes and goes, and sometimes it's a pleasant movie and sometimes it's a nightmare. And we often fall into the fantasy, identify with its workings, and in its grip attempt to negotiate through reality. Of course, we always stub our toe or plunge off cliffs."

  "How can it be eliminated, then?" I asked.

  Tocco frowned. "You know better than that, Michael. The point is not to try to do anything about the things which our minds produce, but just to watch them, with all the unconcern that we would have in watching a sunset or a tree. In that state, all fantasies become decorations for the fact, and then you may pick one of the flowers and put it in your hair, that is, make a social game of it. Or study it. Or ignore it. Doing this breaks down the effort to deal with fantasy and allows more energy to flow, and you experience a greater reality content."

  I must have looked puzzled, for Tocco quickly interjected, "Don't take the terms 'reality' and 'fantasy' to mean two different-things, for, of course, everything is real, or unreal, or both, or neither. We must confine our attention to the psychological level, where we form our attitudes or our approach to phenomena, and not waste time trying to decide philosophically what it is we are approaching. Speculations on the nature of reality are really too infantile to discuss.

  "Relating this to you, we remember that you were concerned that your partner have the 'same fantasy' that you were having. But this is to make a series of false distinctions. First, that there is such a thing as you and another. In a sense, there is only one of us at all and when we fuck, we fuck ourselves, or, increasingly, fuck ourselves up. The second distinction is between what's going on in your head and what's going on in your body. You have a compulsive file clerk in your mind which takes all phenomena and begins to classify them under such labels as 'thought', 'emotion', 'sensation', and so forth. But there is only one process. Actually, when you are fucking someone, both of you are having the same fantasy, and the same reality, and it is called existence. Any subdivision is pedantic."

  I looked at him admiringly. "Tocco, you are a smart sonofabitch."

  He shifted his gaze and looked at me shrewdly. "I think the lecture I just gave you is worth at least a blowjob," he said.

  I blinked. Another trick? A joke? I looked at him again. His face was serious and open. But his eyes were filled with taunting and mockery. I began to grow angry. I was feeling very comfortable, very intellectual, much like a student in private conference with a good teacher, and this intrusion seemed vulgar and gratuitous. Tocco smiled. "What's the matter, Michael. Getting too enlightened for some cock?"

  I rose out of the chair almost without knowing it. I knelt down in front of him and opened the zipper to his pants. I reached in through the opening in the jockey shorts and took his cock out, now flaccid and small. There was no desire in me at all, and I held the tool in my hand as though it were slightly repulsive. And then I got very embarrassed. "Look at me, Michael," Tocco said. I looked up. "See if you can just suck a cock and not make a big deal out of it. See if you can, for once in your confused life, find out what it is, instead of what you think it should be, or connecting it to some silly image of yourself, or thinking that you have to enjoy it or dislike it. Just do it."

  And then it felt as though a heavy hand were pushing the back of my head down, forcing my face to his crotch and my open mouth to take in his cock. I held it gingerly on my tongue for a moment and felt it begin to stir. Immediately, all the connections began to fall into place, and I went through all the memories that began with the first touchings I did with children in my neighborhood, to the wildest of scenes in which I was saturated with cock. And as the immense Gothic edifice rose in my head, the simple, plain organ hardened in my mouth, and I found myself gently sucking at it and licking the rim in an easy, loving rhythm.

  I realized that this was giving Tocco pleasure, but it was not myself doing something to him. Rather, it was us in an act which each of us entered into for our own reasons, and took from it our own treasures. I wrapped my fingers around the base of it and gently tugged it toward me while moving my mouth in op position to my hand, so that I was pulling it off into my mouth, and using my mouth to create a sensation enveloping it from the other direction.

  I lapsed into a dreamy reverie, then heard the voice of Tocco cut through the mists. "The cock, Michael, don't forget the cock." Something about the tone of his voice stirred a memory in me. I saw a lost frightened child in a huge train station. He was searching for his parents, but kept getting knocked about in the crowd of rushing thousands. He wanted to scream, but no sound came, and the impulse caught in his throat. Simultaneously, I felt Tocco's cock begin to budge the back of my mouth and enter into my throat.

  The memory dissolved into fantasy, and I was in a forest. Up on a ledge a great antlered deer appeared, noble and wise. It was the king of the forest. My knees trembled, and at my ear a large doe nuzzled me. She said, "Don't be afraid. It's safe now." Again Tocco's voice cut through the haze, saying, "Take it all the way in, Michael. You won't choke. Just let your throat get as soft as a cunt."

  I pushed forward and took the cock deep into my throat. It seemed to fill my entire being, and I tingled with energy. I moved in large cycles, going all the way down on the cock and holding it there, letting my throat convulse around the tip, and then pulling back as the cock was sucked back the entire length of my mouth, with my tongue tracing a line down the long, soft underpart. I could feel that Tocco was near to coming. He began to move his pelvis and was talking, half to me, half to himself: "Come on, Michael, do it, suck it, get it up."

  And with that, the scene changed in my mind. There was a fire in the forest, and I was hurt. The flames crept closer, but I couldn't move. Suddenly the great deer bounded by my side. "Get up," he said. "Get up, Bambi, you must get up."

  And at that moment, Tocco cut loose and sent a long series of pulsing jets into my mouth, and as I swallowed, I suddenly saw the ludicrousness of the entire scene, me sucking off a crazy old fat man while Freudian projections of Walt Disney danced in my head; the incongruity welled in me like a geyser until I could contain it no more, and I fell back and laughed and laughed and laughed until my sides hurt. Tocco began guffawing, and then he too broke out into deep booming laughter. We were like that for a long time, rolling back and forth and exploding in mirth which would subside until we looked at one another again, and pointed at each other, and seeing the absurdity, began to roar once more. And after awhile I subsided and lay still. Tocco looked down at me, with eyes of pure beaming love and said, "Michael, you are the funniest cocksucker I have ever met."

  There was a discreet knock at the door. We were both startled, and I got off the floor while Tocco zippered up his pants. "Come in!" he shouted.

  In came a thin, efficient-looking man with a small portfolio. He laid it on Tocco's desk and said, "The report from the computer," and left.

  Tocco moved behind the desk and sat down, while I pulled up a chair next to him. It was much the same position as when I first arrived. He opened the folder and began reading silently for a minute, and then looked up at me. "The largest part of this is introduction, which is mostly a series of pre-programmed phrases and ideas that get reassembled for each person depending on the situation. So I
apologize in advance for the hackneyed sound of some of this. I'll only read excerpts, and leave out all the physiological data. You can see that if you like." He looked down again and began reading.

  "There is no permanency; all is motion. And we must step conscious into existence. At the heart, there is mystery, and that is part of what we must understand.

  "One fucks, one wishes to be fucked; one sucks, one wishes to be sucked; one beats, one wishes to be beaten.

  "We are always two. The relationship between the two forms the third. After three, things get complicated.

  "Thoughts are endless and limited. It is an activity without profit. Understand the structure of thought. Eat when you are hungry and be aware of your teeth when you chew.

  "Labels are to be used, but be careful they do not cover up the contents of the jar.

  "Suck a cock on Monday, fuck a cunt on Tuesday, lick an ass on Wednesday, fondle a child on Thursday, dress in women's clothes on Friday, get pissed on on Saturday night. Sunday is God's day; make no plans.

  "These are interesting times. There is no way to discriminate between decadence and freedom. Violence prevails.

  "Love does not speak. Love is."

  Tocco put down the paper and looked at me.

  "Sounds like a long-winded fortune cookie," I said.

  "There's one more section," he added. He made full dramatic use of the moment, and then said, "Subject is a male lesbian."

  I went halfway between a titter and a snort of protest. And then I settled back in my chair. "For some baroque reason, Tocco'," I said, "that makes stunning sense. But don't ask me to explain what it means."

  "A definition is given by the computer. It says: A male lesbian is a genital male who allows that part of his psycho-social structure which is female to come alive in action, emotion, and thought.' Does that clarify the concept?"