by Marco Vassi
Tackling the Team
The Vassi Collection: Volume VI
Marco Vassi
Contents
Introduction
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Introduction
Were the Sixties put on earth so that Marco Vassi could happen? Or was Marco Vassi put on earth so that the Sixties could happen? To read his classic works of erotic fiction and his masterpiece of autobiographical fiction, THE STONED APOCALYPSE, is to realize that the man and the era were created out of the same fire and primordial elements. It is not, however, enough to say that Marco Vassi was a child of his age. It could just as accurately be said, that the age was Marco Vassi’s fantasy, a fantasy so intense and compelling that it is impossible to read any of his books in one sitting: one must either jump into a cold shower, relieve oneself sexually, or go for a long contemplative walk to reflect on the profundity of his insights into human behavior.
Vassi had done many things before he became a writer, but writing was not one of them except for some translations from Chinese and critiques of manuscripts submitted to a literary agency where he was employed for a few years. He had also tried numerous identities on for size as he acted out and lived out the experiences that were to pour from his mind like water raging over the spillway of a dam. When in the late 1960’s “Fred”‘ Vassi announced that he was embarking on a journey, his friends knew that it was not to a place but to a state of mind.
The state of mind was what came to be known as The Sixties, and anyone seeking to live in that state must enter it through the vision of the author of these works. In cartographic terms it was a journey from the East Coast to California, a trip that resonates with meaning for every student of The American Experience. Speaking metaphorically, however, it was a trip into the heart of life, love, laughter, horror, and sweet pain. Fred Vassi came back Marco Vassi, having recreated himself in the name of the intrepid voyager to the ends of the known world hundreds of years ago.
Heart fecund with all that had happened to him, he started writing the work that was eventually to become THE STONED APOCALYPSE, a book that captured in coruscating words what others of his generation were capturing so brilliantly in music.
With no source of regular income he tried his hand at what were then popularly known as sex novels, a genre of tame pornography that pandered to the fantasies of repressed males still mired in postwar inhibition. With the wide-eyed innocence and self-deprecating humor that characterized every venture he undertook, he showed them to me, his friend and a fledgling literary agent. He merely hoped to raise a few dollars with them. I told him that they were the most incredibly arousing works of erotic literature since Henry Miller, and arranged for them to be brought out by Olympia Press, Miller’s publisher. Critics and reviewers confirmed my assessment. What distinguished his books from the rest of the pack was the application of Vassi’s intelligence. He knew that the mind is the most erotic organ of all. He termed this fusion of mind and sex organs “Metasex.”‘
For Marco Vassi, the liberation of sexual emotions, paralleling the liberation of so many others in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, promised a new age of beauty, love, and honesty, and he lived his vision to the hilt—quite literally. For a long while it seemed to him impossible that this vision did not rest on the bedrock of reality.
But, in the words of Robert Frost, nothing gold can stay. The bloody hand of Vietnam and the corrupt fist of the Nixon presidency crushed the fragile beauty of the flower generation. The unbridled commercialism that became the 1980’s captured and exploited the butterflies of Woodstock, enriching half of them and killing the other half with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Finally, the horror of a new scourge, AIDS, visited death upon the bodies of those who had dreamed of eternal love, irresponsible fun, and self-realization. It was then that Marco Vassi awoke from his dream of The Sixties. When he did, the virus had entered his blood. The first malady of any consequence to come along, in this case pneumonia, conquered his defense less immune system and made short work of him.
Marco Vassi’s body died, but not the body of his work, which lives again in these new editions. Like a rainbow over a bleak landscape, his dream of The Sixties shimmers above the depressing, sordid, and tragic decades that succeeded his. And ultimately, it triumphs over them.
Richard Curtis
One
By the time I reached the end of my sophomore year in college, I knew that the whole higher education scene was pretty much a crock of shit. Not for those few who had specific goals, like wanting to be engineers or Sanskrit scholars, but for the rest of us who had been told by our parents that a college education was necessary, something like having your teeth fixed when you’re a kid. We went through the motions of going to class, and every now and then might meet a teacher who wasn’t completely bored with his work, and might even learn something from him. But other than that, all but the most naive kids soon figured out that the entire thing was a game: it kept a lot of people employed and met all the mythic standards of respectable society.
I suppose I would have stuck it through until graduation if I hadn’t met Jeff. The only alternative was getting a job, and without a degree there weren’t too many interesting possibilities in that area. Also, on the basic level of material comfort, I didn’t have anything to complain about. The campus was extremely pretty, almost luxurious. The southern California climate in which it was located was one of the finest in the world. And aside from the periodic stupidity of having to sit through meaningless lectures and performing the rituals of examination time, there was more than ample opportunity for swimming, tennis, exploring the night-life of Los Angeles, and, of course, sex.
It was because I was suffering a dry period in the last category that the event which was to affect the direction of my life took place. My first experience had been at the age of seventeen with a suave business acquaintance of my father’s. I often suspected that my father even encouraged it, so that I would be “broken in right.”‘ My old man had a mania for efficiency that bordered on obsession, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that it extended as far as making sure that his daughter lost her virginity in as commodious a fashion as possible. Manfred had proved himself to be an understanding person as well as a superb technician, so I began my erotic existence with a very high set of standards.
That was to prove to be something of a handicap at school, for the freshmen who were my classmates were, as might be expected, as raw and awkward as they were enthusiastic. I fucked my way through half a dozen of them before I came to the conclusion that getting laid provided a challenge far more complex and difficult than anything being presented to me by my formal studies. Of course, I harbored many of the conventional romantic notions about meeting “Mister Right”‘ but I was level-headed enough to understand that that might not be for some time, and until then I had to discover an intelligent means to take care of the constantly increasing demands of the mouth between my thighs, an organ that was developing a hunger as vital as that felt by my stomach.
On the night I first saw Jeff I had been without sex for almost three months, and it was making me more than a little jittery. So when I was invited to a fraternity party by a tall, handsome imbecile whose whole repertoire of facial expressions rarely went beyond a vacant leer, I found myself accepting. The sub-adolescent ambience at those bashes was revolting, but that very fact fed my feeling of desperation. Hank, the lu
nk who presented himself for stud service, was stupid enough for me to manage him with little more than vocal inflection, and his intentions were so palpably obvious that I foresaw no complications. It may sound unladylike to put it this way, but when he asked me to the party all I could think was, “Wow, do I need a good stiff cock right now.”‘
My plan, albeit a little coldblooded, was to spend an hour or two at the party, drink enough vodka to make me really woozy, and then have Hank drive me somewhere and fuck me in the back seat of his car. I didn’t want to spend a night in the same bed with him. I sensed, rather than articulated to myself, that part of the process involved my assuming a feeling of degradation, of getting into a whorish state of mind. It was to be a night during which I would make no pretence at being a woman, but would just become a cunt. There was some risk in the matter, for if any of the seven or eight people who formed my circle of peers saw me they would ride me about it for a long time. And although I had no concern for any abstract reputation I might have on campus, still I didn’t want to be pestered by the kind of attention I would receive when Hank told the boys in the locker rooom what a fine piece of ass I was.
The night went pretty much as I had planned, and the party was exactly as I had expected: it fell to the level of the infantile within a half hour, and by the end of the hour the place was like a kindergarten with all the children run amok. Bad music, loud raucous laughter, an incredible amount of booze, thick clouds of smoke from grass and tobacco. I dealt with it with an efficiency that would have made my father proud, proceeding with my strategy. And within a short time I was irrevocably drunk, enough so that I could even be amused and slightly turned on by the bird-dogging that went on in relation to me, friends of Hank’s asking me to dance and, when he wasn’t looking, running their hands over my ass, pressing their erections against my crotch, cupping my tits.
At one point I needed to use the bathroom and, swimming in a sea of wooziness, I barged into one of the johns without bothering to knock. And what I saw brought me up short, even in the context of the vulgarity of the total evening. A young man in a wrinkled tuxedo was standing in the middle of the floor and pissing in the sink. The sight was so odd that I forgot my instinctive reaction of distaste and drifted into the room, absentmindedly closing the door behind me. As I lurched forward he turned his head to the side and watched me approach, a slow smile forming on his lips. The sense of unreality engendered by all the alcohol I had consumed was noticeably heightened by this strange vision.
“Why are you doing that?”‘ I asked.
“Water conservation,”‘ he said in an even, well-modulated voice.
“Huh?”‘ I replied, my mind too fuzzy to make connections swiftly.
“It’s a criminal waste of water to use five gallons to flush down a half pint of waste fluid,”‘ he went on in a dry tone. “This way, after I’m finished, I turn on the hot water and it only requires about a glasssful to rinse the sink.”‘
“Something in me tells me I’m supposed to find what you’re doing disgusting,”‘ I said. “But somehow it all seems very logical. I wonder why I never thought of it.”‘
He put his cock back in his pants, zippered his fly, and dutifully washed the bowl with hot water. He regarded me quizzically, by far the most intelligent expression I had observed all evening.
“Well,”‘ he began, his manner suddenly diffident, “it’s rather inconvenient for a woman, isn’t it?”‘
For a moment I didn’t catch his meaning, and then I saw it, and burst into laughter.
“Want to try?”‘ he asked.
Already reckless, I answered, “Why not?”‘
“Well, prepare yourself, and I’ll give you a lift,”‘ he said.
Without thinking, I hoisted my skirt and dropped my panties. He looked at my legs and cunt appreciatively for a moment, and then slipped his hands under my armpits and swung me up onto the sink. I yelped at making contact with the cold porcelain, and then relaxed as I felt the heat from where he had run the hot water.
I waited, but nothing happened. “I don’t think I can,”‘ I said, “with you standing there.”‘
“Be my ghost,”‘ he quipped, and walked gingerly out of the room.
As soon as he had closed the door behind him, I began giggling again. It was clearly the most absurd situation I had ever been in, and the laughter shook my entire body. I relaxed, threw my head back, and still chuckling, began to let loose, following the example of the strange man who had been there before me.
And it was like that, sitting bare-assed on a sink in a frat house bathroom, drunk and giggling, and gaily pissing in the sink, that I met Jeff. The door opened and he stepped inside. It wasn’t until I heard his sharp intake of breath that I turned my head, and at that instant the blood froze in my veins.
He was the most strikingly beautiful man I had ever seen. He stood six and a half feet tall, his shoulders were as wide as the door frame, his face seemed carved out of granite, and although he couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, he had the air of a successful man of forty. But more than all that were his hands—I will never forget his hands!—more than three times the size of mine and emitting a sense of fierce power that almost frightened me.
We locked gazes and for a few seconds all time ceased. I forgot myself, the surroundings, the whole universe. There was only this terrible and magnificent vibration, this rush of overwhelming male energy. It was as though he had some irresistible magnet inside him, and I felt that my very soul was being drawn out of my body.
Then he shook his head, snorted once, and began to back out of the room. “That’s got to be the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in my life,”‘ he said out loud, and then turned and disappeared.
I wanted to shout for him to wait, but I only fell back against the mirror behind me, feeling weak and empty. My stomach turned sour, and I verged on nausea. I jumped back to the floor, and got my clothes back in place, and then used the sink for its more common purpose, to wash my face and run cold water over my wrists. I took several deep breaths and staggered back out into the roar of the party, still stunned at the apparition which had shaken me so deeply.
And stepped right into the arms of the boy—I can’t call him a man—who had taken me, and had, through great effort, reversed the process of evolution and become a gorilla. He was the last thing I wanted at the moment, but the heat was upon him and he was impossible for me, in my shaky condition, to fend off. Besides, fucking him was the commitment I had implied, and I really didn’t want to be a bad sport. I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly moral person, but I like to keep my word and pay my debts. Besides, I had come there to get laid, and I was determined to accomplish my aim.
Hank wheeled me to the room where the bar had been set up and we began another round of drinks. Other couples had already begun to sink into couches and corners and the room was thick with the moans of heavy necking. I was still too stunned to feel very much, and wanted just to be alone to bring the incident of that astonishing meeting back into focus and dwell on it, but that was not to be permitted. So I did what I had come to do: I shut off my mind and flung myself into the theater of the body.
Within moments, Hank had me stretched out on the floor, his mouth pressing mine, his tongue blind and insistent between my lips, his hands flying like crazed moths over the flames of my erogenous zones, not knowing where they wanted to settle. He was crude, staying almost exclusively with the tried-and-true duo of tits and ass, pummeling my breasts with one hand and piercing into my ass crack through the cloth of my dress with the other, all the while he rubbed his very hard and hot cock against my cunt. But for all its lacking in nuance, his approach was effective enough, and within a short time I found myself responding, twisting my hips and grinding my ass on his hand and opening my mouth to moan and letting his tongue slide down as far as my throat. He was exactly what I had imagined he would be: pure, unr
efined lust. And I let myself loll under him as he pushed his weight and desire into my body, getting my nipples hard and my ass itchy and my cunt wet.
He rolled off me part way and his right hand went from my tits to my crotch, his fingers stroking my pussy. That really got to me and I felt my legs opening as he rubbed my clit through the fabric. But when he began to pull my skirt up, I stopped him. I knew that it was one of the general status symbols among the fraternity boys to be able to fuck a date in full view of everyone. It was taken as a sign of irresistible virility for a man to be able to “get a bitch so hot”‘ that she would let herself be plowed before the eyes of fifty or a hundred people. Such incidents usually ended up in gang bangs in one of the upstairs rooms, and while I must admit that the idea had its appeal, I was not willing for my initiation into that particular form be at the hands of juvenile delinquents. I was later to look back on those boys with fondness, because despite all their baseness they still had a kind of inocence, but that night I hadn’t yet had experiences to judge them against.
“Come on,”‘ he cajoled, tugging at my dress.
“No,”‘ I said firmly, and in his eyes I saw the beginnings of anger, and I knew that the word “cockteaser”‘ would be one of the first from his lips.
“In your car,”‘ I said.
For a second he was disbelieving, and then his face lit up with all the unselfconscious joy of a child’s. I was asking him to take me to his car. He could barely contain himself.
I couldn’t resist the impulse to goad him on a bit. “I want to put that thing in my mouth,”‘ I said running my fingers over his cock, “and I can’t do that here.”‘
On the way to his car, and during the ride to the deserted spot that he took us to, I wondered at the situation. From one point of view, I should have been disgusted with myself. I felt nothing but disdain for the boy I was with. I considered myself his complete superior, not only intellectually but in terms of sexual experience. And yet I would be giving him the use of my body, knowing that he was seeing me as a conquest, as a star on his report card. But it was that very condition which had prompted me to choose him, for the only thing about him that appealed to me was his cock. I didn’t know the roots of the impulse; all I knew was that I had a hungry hole that needed to be filled periodically, in the same way that it bled periodically. And that filling it would involve a series of trial-and-error situations until I found the man with whom I could feel whole. As I said, I was not without visions of falling in love, but until that happened, or until I met someone with whom I could have a rational affair, I would go about stuffing my pussy in whatever way I could, much as I would eat a hotdog at a roadstand when I really wanted steak, but could not wait until I found a good restaurant. And on top of all this was the tingling awareness that I was indeed about to do something “dirty,”‘ because Hank was seeing the whole thing with such an obvious lascivious glee that I could not help but be infected by his vibrations.