by Marco Vassi
Although she had asked the question rhetorically, Lou answered her. “I was thinking about that just last week as a matter of fact, and I tried to figure it out. As near as I can reckon, I’ve had my cock sucked more than four thousand times. Which doesn’t sound like too much until you consider that about two thousand of those were by different women.” He paused. “Can you imagine? I’ve had more than two thousand different pairs of lips on my cock, and two thousand lovely tongues lick my prick until I came, and two thousand young and open throats gulping my sperm down.” He leaned forward, slightly aroused now. “I’ll tell you something,” he went on. “I’ve grown tired of individual women, but I’ve never gotten bored with the experience. If it’s a woman I’ve never had before, getting blown by her is as exciting as my first time.”
“Well, then,” she drawled, “you couldn’t want me. I’ve eaten you…what is it now…must be all of six or seven times. Why, I can’t imagine your wanting this old mouth again.”
“Ah, what a fine cockteaser you are, Maggie,” he said expansively.
She looked at him a long time. “You know, Lou, I’m much more lonely than I am horny. I’ve done just about everything that we’ve ever published. And I don’t know how many cocks have been inside me, up my ass, in my cunt, down my throat. My body has been and is as hungry for sensation as anyone else’s. And I’ve done the whole route with women too, and found that I dig it more, everything being equal. If I were stranded on that desert island and had a choice of sharing it with a man or a woman, I wouldn’t hesitate to pick one of my own kind. But when all the cocks have come and all the cunts have throbbed, it just seems like a lot of empty experience shot off into the night. Because deep inside, I’m as empty as I ever was. And sometimes I think I’d rather have a warm talk with someone who is dear to me than the ultimate orgasm with someone who is only interested in sexual dramatics.”
Made slightly sentimental by the drinking and the emotionality of having learned that she was now the titular publisher of Centaur books, she began to speak words that revealed more of her soul than she might have been comfortable to expose had she been more self-conscious. The frailty, uncertainty, and tenderness were still intact inside her, protected by the wall of defensive armor that we all learn very early in life to construct against the harshness of the human world.
“I mean,” she continued, “I don’t care if people fuck their mothers, or eat shit, or go down on horses. And it doesn’t matter to me whether they’re homosexual or bisexual or omnisexual or transsexual. I don’t care how many there are or how they want to get it on. I’ve been whipped and stuck with pins and tried every other attempt to go past myself that’s listed in any of the books on perversion. But all of that is meaningless. Those things are hang-ups only for cowards. The real point is that even after you get over all the inhibitions and have worked out the entire glossary in Krafft-Ebbing, there’s still that ache inside, that awful void that nothing seems to fill. And if I’m going to publish books about sex, that’s what I want my writers to address themselves to, because that’s what is important to me. They can have their characters arrange their bodies any way they like, but they must go inside, into the feelings and thoughts, into the unending emptiness that gnaws at a woman’s belly and won’t be assuaged, not by a cock, not by a baby, not by anything. And even if they write fantasy, it has to be someone’s fantasy, and that someone has to bleed and cry out in the night and at least be trying to care for one other person or one other thing in the world. There must be the totality of life in their work, and if there is that, the sex will take care of itself.”
Her speech had lifted her to her feet and propelled her to the middle of the room, where she stood swaying and declaiming like an actress in a film from the late forties. After she finished, the echoes of her voice hummed softly against the walls, and she rocked back and forth for a moment, almost embarrassed at having grown so passionate in her declamation. But Lou was looking at her with open admiration, which for him meant lust. His eyes shone like those of a proud father watching his teenage daughter graduate with honors, contemplating the virgin body beneath the scholastic gown. He smiled into her confusion.
“The idealist,” he said, mocking gently.
She sniffed and walked over to the cocktail shaker and poured another drink. “I’m going to get smashed,” she said.
“Charming,” he replied.
“And you’ll have my drunken body and my feverish mind completely at your mercy.” She nudged him in the ribs as he sat. “Hey,” she yelled. “You’ll like that, won’t you? You can strip this dress off, and reveal my helpless form. You can fuck me while I’m half asleep. You can whisper things in my ear and get me to perform all kinds of degraded acts. The new publisher of Centaur, the chic sophisticated Margaret Hayes, being drooled on by the ex-champion, the former pornographer to the empire. How’s that, Lou? Does that get your cock hard? Do you think that will satisfy your imaginary readers?”
Lou only smiled.
She picked up the tumbler and downed the drink in a gulp, then turned and walked away from him to look out through the glass door onto the terrace and over the city beyond. Lou watched the way her buttocks stretched the cloth as she moved, and his cock did get hard as he pictured what would happen before the evening was over. He would have his fingers inside her. He would have his fist in her cunt, and then he would have her lick it dry of her own secretions. He would shove his cock slowly the entire length into her ass, feeling the hot tight hole widen and receive him, and then clutch his cock, and her buttocks would arch as she silently begged him to fuck her. Then her words would disappear and her mind would be empty, and he would be able to take unimpeded pleasure with her, the way he liked it, the way she too, despite all her protestations, liked it also.
She turned to face him. Her face was a mask of questioning. “I love sex,” she said. “I love writing about sex and reading about sex. I think pornography is the most beautiful of all the arts. Why can’t it be understood for what it is? Why don’t people see that it’s not only as good as any other art form, but better? Why can’t we have novels as profound as The Brothers Karamazov that make your cock hard and your cunt wet as well? Why this separation? Great literature on one side; great erotic writing on the other? As though sex and life weren’t the same thing. As though life didn’t come from sex, and sex didn’t come from life. Why, Lou?”
He stood up, walked up to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. Although he didn’t perceive it as such, something in him realized that Margaret was feeling her first waves of insecurity. Now she no longer had the excuse of impotence to keep her from attempting to realize her dream, which meant that she had to articulate it, and then make it real. And there would be no Lou to lean on. For, despite all his obtuseness in many areas, he was a thorough professional who knew how to run a business, how to deal with the crises and personalities and complexities. Now all this was hers, a heavy burden for her shoulders. And she was just beginning to wonder whether she would really be able to manage it.
“Maggie,” he said in a low voice, “out there, in the city, in the world, it’s a dormitory. Those people are all asleep in their shoes. You and me, we’re no great minds, but we at least are honest about a few things that most everyone else pretends doesn’t exist.” He put his hand under her chin. “Do you know that the president of the United States doesn’t have a cock?” he asked.
She smiled, half unwilling to be pulled from her mood.
“It’s true,” he said. “Do you think the people of this great nation would let into the highest office a man who had such a nasty thing as a cock hanging between his legs?” He stepped back a few paces, fished for a cigarette, lit it, and continued, “The machine is taking over. People are turning themselves into machines. They are trying to pretend they don’t secrete. They hate the fact that they fuck. They want to kill fucking. They are the ones who keep pornography where it is. They want it to stay dirty. That way they can suppress it, and p
oint to it and say, ‘See how dirty sex is.’ And I learned all this before you were born. And I’ve made my peace with it. I published the way I was forced to, and I thought, ‘It’s all right. Somewhere people read these things and they remember that sex is our most extraordinary gift, even if they can only have it in their fantasies.’ And I tell you, if you think you can make it otherwise, they will fight you and step on you. Beginning with your new patron, Mr. Albert Leeds.”
“God, I hope you’re wrong,” she said.
“Look inside yourself. You’ll know whether I’m wrong. No, the only question is, are you going to get hurt too badly in the process of trying, that’s all.”
He stepped forward and put one arm around her and drew her to him. Like a kindly uncle, he kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a nice lady, Maggie,” he said. “I hope you don’t get your ass kicked too hard.”
Abruptly, he stepped back. His mood fell away instantly. He had said what he wanted to and expressed what he needed to, and now she was on her own. He would never have presumed to intrude into her emotional state any further than the concern he had already exhibited. He had made the decision a long time ago that each human being was alone in the world, and that there was no point in getting sticky about it.
“So,” he said, his tone light and brisk, “you want to have a farewell party for me?”
She looked at him quizzically.
He smiled, a kind of teasing leer. “I’ll invite a few people over, and we’ll drink some more, and smoke a little bit, and…well, you know, we’ll have a party.”
She narrowed her eyes and tried to pierce through his sudden ebullience.
“Why can’t we just have it by ourselves?” she said. “I can’t go through with it if it’s that impersonal.”
“These will be people you know,” he protested.
“What’s the matter, Lou, are you afraid to be alone with me? Are you afraid we might actually look at each other while we’re fucking, and maybe make love to each other?”
“Sure I’m afraid,” he said gruffly. “And I’m not ashamed that I’m afraid. I know my limits.” He paused, and then added, “And you’re still looking for yours.”
She stood there for a long minute with her eyes closed. She was tired, and she didn’t want to do anything but lie down. The refrain, “I want to lie in my lie,” went through her head again and again. She couldn’t fight or resist. It was easier to be swallowed by another debauch.
“Sure, Lou,” she said. “Invite them over. And we’ll have a party.”
SEVEN
Joan saw him standing on the corner as she spun through the revolving door and out onto the street just five minutes past five o’clock. She was in a rush to get home, for she had only three hours to shower, wash her hair, and nap, before going to see Margaret.
Margaret had not arrived until after lunch that afternoon and had called Joan into her office. She looked haggard and worn, but her eyes glowed with an irrepressible excitement. After locking the door behind them, she took Joan’s hands in her own.
“It’s happened,” she had said quietly.
Joan had smiled. “What’s happened?” she asked.
“Centaur Publications is mine,” Margaret told her. “Lou told me last night. By this time next month, the whole place will be in my hands.”
Joan’s mouth had dropped open and Margaret took the opportunity to plant a light kiss on her lips. “Yes, I know,” she said, “it kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”
“But how…?” Joan had begun to inquire.
“I can’t tell you now,” Margaret said. “It’s too long a story, and this isn’t the place to talk about it.” She pulled Joan toward her, embracing her tightly, and ran her hands up and down her back, her fingers tracing the space between her buttocks, her thighs pressing into her own, and then stepped back and walked briskly behind her desk. She paused dramatically for a moment and then announced, “This will be your office when I move into Lou’s.”
Joan shook her head in astonishment. It was all coming very fast.
“I have a thousand plans,” Margaret went on, “and you figure in all of them. I want you to be my secretary, but you’ll really be more than that. You’ll be an extension of myself, you’ll help me run the whole show.”
Joan let out a sharp exhalation of breath. “Wow,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
Margaret sat down in the wide leather swivel chair. “Are you free tonight?” she asked.
“Why, yes,” Joan replied.
“Why don’t you come to my place for dinner?” she said. “Say about eight o’clock. And we can discuss the whole thing. And have champagne to celebrate. And then celebrate some more.” The implications of sex were barely hidden, and for a second Joan flared with anger that the other woman should assume physical intimacy so easily, and tie it in so neatly with the offer of a new job and a raise in salary.
But Joan had agreed, if for no other reason than that she was unbearably curious as to how Margaret had pulled off the coup, and what it would mean in terms of changes at the office, and whether there would be a means for her to take a new position without being put in a situation she would find restrictive. At worst she would have an interesting evening of gossip and a night of extraordinary sex.
“Don’t say a word to anyone,” Margaret had cautioned.
Joan had worked the rest of the day, barely able to sit in her seat. She found herself squirming a lot, going to the water cooler often, and running to the ladies’ room a number of times, until Bill, the art director, had called out, “For Christ’s sake Joan, you’re going to deplete the city’s water supply in one day, drinking it in and flushing it down like that.” But it didn’t bother her, for that was the sort of remark that was always being made in pornographic publishing houses.
At five sharp she left, and was hurrying out of the building when she caught his eye. Leaning against a truck, looking dark and serious, Manuel was scanning the three doors that opened onto the street from the building. It was obvious that he was looking for her, for when he saw her, he pushed himself upright and took a step in her direction.
She was seized with a blind unreasoning impulse to flee. It took practically the entire weight of her inhibitions against acting peculiarly on the street to keep her from gasping with alarm and running as fast as she could in the opposite direction. She was not afraid of anything specific, but could not completely suppress the anxiety that was manifest by the sudden rapid beating of her heart. She had a fleeting insane image of Manuel’s leaping on her, tearing her clothes off, and fucking her violently on the concrete, while the passersby, in typical New York fashion, would walk on past without noticing.
There was nothing for it. She waited until he came up to her.
“I have to talk to you,” he said.
“I’m in a hurry,” she told him. They stood for a few seconds, neither able to say a word nor to break contact. The awkwardness mounted, and she added, “I hear you’ve been sick. You haven’t been in for almost a week.”
“I haven’t been sick,” he said. “You know why I haven’t come in.” And then he looked sharply over his shoulder, as though expecting to catch someone watching him, and added, “Although I guess you don’t know the whole story.” He pulled her aside, away from the stream of people pouring out of the door.
“I’m quitting,” he said. “And I’m going back to Puerto Rico. I came to see you to say good-bye.”
Joan relaxed. And at the same time felt a pang of disappointment. She was relieved to hear that he was leaving, for she didn’t know whether she could manage to keep working in the same space with him if he continued to smolder over her. But at the same time she remembered poignantly that she had, not more than a few days earlier, been spread apart in front of his eyes, and had covered his cock with her ass, imploring him with her actions to fuck her. And that he had not fucked her, and that somewhere inside her she was still curious, and hungry for his cock. No, for
more than his cock. What she wanted was to be overpowered by the brute masculinity of the man, to surrender herself to his strength.
“Good-bye?” she repeated.
His eyes were liquid and filled with what looked like pain. He seemed to have trouble in continuing what he wanted to say. Joan felt a pang of sympathy, mingled with a low lustful vibration, for she saw in him what had always captivated Alma, the mixture of the lost boy with the powerful man. She had the sense of wanting to simultaneously suckle him and have him fuck her.
She relented in her resolve to push him away at once. She made a few calculations and reasoned she could forgo her few hours of refreshing herself before going to see Margaret.
“But this is so sudden,” she said, “isn’t it?”
He rubbed his chin with one hand, and hung his head, not looking at her as he spoke. “No,” he said, “I’ve been planning to go back for a long time, saving money to buy land. And now, well, I met an old friend who wants to do the same thing, and we’re going back together. Probably next month. And I wanted to see you once more before I left.” He swallowed, as though something were caught in his throat. “You know, I really liked you,” he added. “I mean, I thought maybe you and me…” He paused, and laughed to himself, and then lifted his head and stared into her eyes. “But that was crazy, wasn’t it? I mean, we live in different worlds.”
Joan was suddenly aware of people passing, some of whom were from the office. Without thinking out all the implications, she said suddenly, “I have to go home and change, Manuel. I have a date at eight. But maybe you want to come with me, and we can talk a little, while I’m getting ready. I think I have some wine, or maybe I can make you some coffee.”
He appraised her for a long instant. He knew at once that her invitation was both innocent and seductive, that she was offering him simple hospitality, and a chance for them to be in private, and that she was putting them both in a situation where their latent passion could spring forth. He was torn in two, for he boiled at the mere thought of being able to fuck her, and yet he knew what a danger that was. He understood that his emotions would drown him once more, and also, it would mean being unfaithful to Alma, and while such a consideration would not faze him if all that were involved were a casual lay, he realized that fucking Joan would create a split in him, a split he would have to pay the dues for later.