The Erotic Comedies (Vassi Collection Volume XI)

by Marco Vassi

  Thus I could lie as a woman in the baths, prodding my cock to erection, all the while sending out vibrations of wanting to be aggressed upon. The combination seems to be irresistible. There is something about the sight of a woman-with-an-erection that draws men in by the dozens.

  That night they began to come in as I pulled my cock and rolled my head from side to side and flicked my tongue around in my open mouth and kicked my legs on the bed. Independent of any relation to anyone else, I was transported with the power of expression. I let all the restrained gestures of a repressive civilization fall away, and exulted in letting my body find its own language of delight. I was blessed with legions of fantastic revelations, drawn from mythology and the jungle. I was rediscovering the difference between expression and communication, and finding the liberation in unfettered signalling, not caring who read the messages or how they were interpreted.

  I thought of how fascism manifests itself in the posture and movements of a people, how we become straight, tight, restricted. How the boundless happiness and profundity of the dance is denied us. We spend almost all our waking hours shuffling about like robots, limited to a paltry handful of expressions, mostly the artificial smile, the unconscious frown, and the bland face. Ancient societies, understanding that civilization is intrinsically inhibiting, had escape valves for repressed energies. In our adolescent America, the only orgies we enjoy are football games and massing together electronically to watch phallic rockets plunge into the womb of the moon. I reasoned that if my culture allowed no orgies in the street, forbid naked bodies to roll about gleaming in the night, I would hold a one-man orgy, and invite all who wanted to come as spectators or participants.

  I lost count of how many walked into the room. Some were confused and didn't know what to do with themselves in relation to me. They left quickly, after a few vague caresses. The ones who saw that I was tripping out on my own and didn't care what was done to me, very soon came to put their cocks in my mouth, letting me suck and lick them. I took what came so long as it did not interfere with my inner rhythm. Different shapes, different sizes, different colors. A number reached climax and time and again the slippery jism spurted on my tongue, on my lips, in my throat, until I reeked with sperm.

  With each one of them—and at one point two men knelt at either side of me and filled my mouth with both their cocks—I brought myself to the very edge of ejaculation, letting the energy of my impending orgasm feed the movements of my body and the excitement of my lips and tongue. The closer I came to ejaculation, the more frantically I sucked. I twisted my legs, I rolled my torso, I was the epitome of every pornographic fantasy realized.

  And then the sounds began, the bubbling noises from my chest. At first they seemed like cries of sexual excitement, but I soon recognized them as moans of despair, sobs of sadness. They were the groanings of a person who was at his last. It occurred to me that I was at the brink of a breakthrough into a feeling I had long been hiding from myself, and as I examined my inner space, tears sprang to my eyes and I began to weep. Sorrow swept through me, liberating a legion of memories, an army of insights. Portions of my self which I had not been in contact with sprang forth to complete new gestalten of understanding. This was the sorrow that the pain was a defense against, and I saw that the sorrow was itself a longing for all the unfulfilled dreams of a lifetime. I yearned for the truth and beauty and union I had known instinctively as a child, and then had systematically and brutally beaten from me by the insane conditioning of the fiendish civilization into which I had been born. The entire process of dehumanization which is the keynote of the ugly edifice of our cultured world, this culture which has deified the machine, and worships power and greed and lying above all that is simple and noble and elegant in life. The whole picture flashed clearly and I sobbed for the loss of all that was good, as the cock pulsed and spat its acrid juices into my trembling mouth.

  "Am I really a degenerate?" I thought, "or is it that I have the courage to find a mode of expression where others might just succumb to becoming grey automatons in the system?"

  I formulated the notion that this was the essence of revolution: the realization that one has had one's humanity robbed by the civilization one lives in, and the effort to break through the conditioning to some fullness of expression, no matter what form it takes, whether it is fighting at the barricades or wallowing in orgy houses. And upon that I saw that such a process could not be separated from therapy, or rather, the therapeutic ambience, which involves seeing and experiencing the ways in which the evils of the civilization are built into our very character structure.

  I remembered all my encounters with so-called revolutionary groups, recalling that my disillusionment with them was based on a single fact: that every one of them had begun as an impetus toward freedom of expression and ended as another mode of conformity. And the reason was always the same: the inability to accept that we carry the ills of the culture within ourselves. And the battle to overthrow the old order begins there. And sooner or later in this struggle, we come upon the realm of sex, and find ourselves face to face with The Perversions. And who has the courage to pass through those doors, while owning the intelligence to understand exactly what it is that is being passed through?

  One last man came into the room, and he looked at me once and pierced through my gyrations to see the person that I am. He closed the door, locking us into a state of intimacy, took me in his arms, kissed me, and crooned in my ear. His hands caressed my buttocks and his cock entered my bleeding asshole. We fucked for a very long time and I wondered what it all meant, that I should be brought to physical damage, emotional convolution, and intellectual skydiving, in order to enjoy this simple embrace.

  The many strands of the dilemma wove themselves in and out around a single perception, starting with the possibility that we ultimately be no more than tools for one another's masturbation, no matter what rationalization we employ. I was reminded of the times I lay lapping a woman's cunt and glancing up to see her licking her lips and running her hands over her breasts, revelling in her own sensations. A woman surrenders herself to beauty to the degree that a man is strong enough to refrain from trying to conquer her. He must follow his own arc of excitement, sensitive to her responses, and if all goes well will be graced with the most exquisite of experiences, the unutterable opening of another soul.

  Afterward, the man and I talked, disclosing something of the details of our lives. "It took so many years," I said, "to find out why I let men fuck me. Under all the jargon, concurrent with the hunger for pain and degradation, hand in hand with every single combination and permutation of thought and feeling, runs a single truth: like it." Shades of Lou's frantic chant went through my mind. "You like it, don't you," he always accused. And it was as simple as that, once the symbolic garbage had been thrown away. I had explored sex through its many estuaries, seen all the psychodynamic and political ramifications, and emerged with a single small understanding: I liked it.

  Is that so hideous a thing that it should be so difficult to discover? It would not seem so, but in the face of the evidence I must conclude that almost everyone and everything I have met in my life has conspired to deny me the right to enjoy being fucked in the ass. Might not, I extrapolated, it be the same for a woman? Might she not suffer the same problem about being fucked in the cunt? Does a woman have to struggle against the conscious and unconscious conditioning which has trained her to view the slit between her legs as something drastically nasty?

  I lept from my therapist's words to the effect that our slavery is locked in our bodies to the realization that all historical repression has served one end: to keep the individual human being from doing what he or she pleases, to the point of actually destroying the capability of people to experience pleasure. And while we are familiar with the obvious forms of this repression, such as economic inequality, and racist suppression, and outright police control, we often miss that it is built into the human personality from birth, through the medi
a of official religions, educational systems, governmental structures, and all the paraphernalia of social convention, beginning with the nuclear family.

  I took a deep breath and pulled in the pungent smells of the room: sweat, sperm, shit, Vaseline, tobacco. The American obsession with cleanliness came to mind, and I saw that our fascism is insidiously undermining our very senses. The deodorants, the vaginal sprays, the air fresheners, the ammonia-laced soaps, all conspire to destroy the importance of the sense of smell. Smell, the most directly perceived of all the senses, must be kept alive, pertinent, or else the individual is dulled. For a person or a people to be free, their senses must be vibrant. To destroy the senses is to destroy the person. The primitive dictatorship of the Nazis was child's play, I saw, compared to the sophisticated destruction of freedom by American industry and its smirking lackey, Madison Avenue. The very means by which we perceive the world are being attacked. Fascism has less to do with guns than it does with robotism.

  The man left, and I wondered what had been accomplished. Another night of fucking, another grabbing of insights, another display of expression. And to what end? I had experienced a momentary personal liberty, my mind had pierced through another layer of lies. But in the nation and the world at large, it was growing darker. It is the same as it has been through all recorded history: the masters rule and the slaves respond. And both are caught in the deadlines of their empty lives, the rigidity of their desensitized bodies. The major difference is that in America, which has been systematically robbing the rest of the world of its wealth while destroying an entire continent in the name of progress, even the peons can have automobiles. We use stolen resources to make the lollipops which distract us from the need for real food. We are implicated every time we (for example) use a typewriter to write a piece denouncing the system.

  The existence of government, any government, is proof that the people of that place are not free. The free human being does not look to another for answers to the meaning of life and does not need organized education or hierarchical religion. The free human being will not be taxed or told when to go to war. Free people come together to accomplish some task, to plant a field, to build a house, to make a baby, to face an enemy, to share in the high vibrations of communion. Any relationship which persists past the accomplishing of its initial purpose is the ground upon which fascism flourishes. This includes everything from the Catholic Church and the Communist Party, to ersatz radical groups whose first accomplishment is to construct a subculture which apes the system of the society it claims to be overthrowing, to marriages which go on as horrid shells of a former dream.

  I went again to the showers, washed, returned to my room, and dressed. As I was putting on my clothes, another man looked in. It was a sexy moment. My pants were halfway up my legs, my buttocks still exposed. It was possible to go one more round. And then it was as though I was looking down an endless corridor. I could stay there and be fucked until I starved to death. Why do that? Why not? I remained in indecision until he tired of my static pose and walked away. The choice had, temporarily, been made for me. I collected my effects from the desk and walked outside.

  It was a little after midnight. In the street, the cops, the speed freaks, the hoods, the heads, the people passing through, the shopkeepers, the dogs, the children, the roaches, the garbage, presented a single vision of the state of our civilization. It was Downtown Kali Yuga, the lowest point in the history of the species. It was also, I remembered, the Age of Aquarius, the chance for global renaissance. Which way would the pointer fall? Further descent into slavery and ultimate destruction, or individual awakening and the birth of free expression? Walking home I looked at the people who passed, and no one seemed awake. Each was locked in some private prison called the armored body. I had no hope that enough would wake up in time. I could not conceive of any of them able to explore the roots of their condition, to do the hard work necessary to effect a transformation from a destruction-oriented band of apes to rational animals which affirm life.

  I went home and drank whiskey until unconsciousness stole over my brain.

  Beyond Bisexuality

  I

  Lucinda and Gerard

  We flowed through the ancient choreography of desire. We did nothing that has not been done through the millenia of recorded history and into the unwritten hundreds of thousands of years before our species began to take itself seriously enough to begin recording its folly. The changes from one configuration to the next were so organic that there was no sense of separation between positions. Moving like dancers in notation, still all our actions were spontaneous.

  I sucked his cock while she sucked mine ... he took my cock into his mouth while she swallowed his ... she lapped at my cock while he tongued her cunt . . . she received both our cocks between her lips at the same time . . .

  The catalogue is lengthy, listing most of the variations possible among three people. The moment of highest focus came as he fucked me from behind while I was fucking her from in front. I felt her cunt clasp my cock as his cock slid between my buttocks. The sensation was like peaking on acid.

  She later talked about the experience in ecstatic terms, describing the overpowering excitement of having two men pour their energy into her. He said it was the single most erotic moment of his lifetime. For me, it was the bridging of a deep inner schism. The twin element of my being fused: mother and father joined in my consciousness as once their egg and sperm had joined to create that consciousness.

  My pelvis rolled and buttocks flexed in response to his entry, and the concurrent circling of my cock triggered the mounting tension in her to a surging orgasm. As I then went with the rhythms of her tumultuous eruption, he burst into climax. I was drawn by the vortex of total sharing of myself among the three of us, and when I came, the vibrations were those of us all.

  I had been in scores of threesomes, but it was either me fucking two women, or another man and myself fucking a single woman, or three men together. This was the first time I attained to complete relationship to both a man and a woman simultaneously and equally. It resulted in a unification of perspective that introduced the contradictory aspects of my being to one another without the comforting buffer of confusion, and forced me to face the fragmentation of my soul.

  During the course of the night, I was also alone with each of them at different times.

  She and I talked, whispering, holding hands, our foreheads almost touching, while he went to another part of the house to be by himself. It mattered little what we said, the tales were told. It was the communion that transported us, the intimacy. When we fucked, it was by falling gently from words into deeds, deepening the bond between us.

  Later, with him, there was a closeness of a comparable kind. I found myself in a mood of narcissistic responsiveness, and as he stood over me, I became passive, soft. I cared for little but to float in an onanistic reverie, allowing my body to find its own arcane expressions of yielding. He could use me as he wished, so long as he was content to remain solitary. He put himself in proportion to my state and found his pleasure by acting the complement to my desire. As I closed my eyes and stretched lazily, I thought of how deliciously it contrasted to other times with men, when I would be fiercely active, and give myself with yearning pelvis and wild cries of need.

  Before dawn, as we all slept, I lost all distinctions, lying between the two of them. There seemed to be no difference in our sexes. I was not a man, nor was I a woman, but something which included both. And like any good gestalt, I was greater than the sum of my parts.

  II

  Robert and Diane

  With the energy born of exploration, we worked our way through a Kama Sutra kaleidoscope. The costumes of our insights and the import of our revelations were but varied aspects of a single awareness: the reverberation of cosmic vibration through the medium of the human body.

  He entered her tenderly from behind, swelling between her buttocks, and I entered her cunt from in front. For a dazzling
arc out of time we rang in all the changes of feeling possible in that position. I had my arms around his shoulders, his mouth pressed to mine, as she writhed between us, caught on our cocks, taking us in and giving to us all at once.

  We followed no programme, and yet I found a path through a vast array of complex interlockings. Most poignantly I remember her lips against mine, our kiss hot with passion, while his cock throbbed like a third tongue between our own.

  Again I was fucked while fucking. She lay under me in classic pose, her legs at a thirty degree angle, her knees slightly raised, as I swam in the hot moistness of her cunt easily. Suddenly, he was on top of me and with a stuttering shudder his cock soared between my buttocks and penetrated my flesh. As he moved into the privacy of my inner space of sensation, the basic question of all bisexuality came to the surface: how to be a man to the woman while being a woman to the man, and how to be a man to the woman while being a man to the man, and how to be a woman to the woman while being a woman to the man, and how to be a woman to the woman while being a man to the man?

  I could not deal, with the multiplicity of levels except by surrender, and at that, the patterns began to sort themselves out. For awhile, each thrust of his cock was matched by a pulsation of light in her eyes. Each roll of her pelvis and sigh from her chest was encased in the stillness of his mind and mine as they interpenetrated and became one consciousness to behold the beauty of the woman between us. Our hands found each other, and in the mingling of fingers I could no longer tell which was his, which hers, which mine, which was right, which was left. Like trapeze artists, we had lept from our perches of safety and found ourselves given up to trust and timing.

  The open manifestation of the bifurcation within me brought forth the split within each of them, and at a stroke, we were six. The shifts were rapid and startling. In one moment we were two men and a woman, and then became three men, and again, three women, changing into two men and a man. The genital realities played tag with the psychic states. The subtleties ramified. The man in me was not only a straight male responding as such to a female, and a gay male responding as such to a male, but also a male lesbian swooning in exquisite ambiguity between the figures on either side.