The Devil’s Sperm is Cold

by Marco Vassi

  But he looked at her eyes, which held a plea she herself wasn’t fully aware of, and her mouth, which he suddenly saw wrapped tightly around his cock, and without hesitation he brushed aside all scruples and said, “Sure. I think that would be fine.”

  They rode over in a taxi, the vehicle lurching slowly through the rush-hour traffic. They did not speak, for they were both becoming increasingly aware of the bare bones of the situation. As in many social contexts, the verbal message was a mask for the real transaction. And while their conversation had been carried in such a way that it would pose no challenge to even a censor for a family television serial, its esoteric content had been something else again. For if they had spoken their subliminal intentions their dialogue might have gone like this:

  Manuel: I’m leaving soon, and I’ve wanted you for almost a year. Before I go I want to find out what your pussy tastes like.

  Joan: After you rubbed your cock against my ass, I was so hot I couldn’t sleep, even after I masturbated three times. I want to feel you between my legs.

  Manuel: I’m going back to Puerto Rico and I won’t see you again, and I want to have more to remember than dry-humping you over your desk. I want to shove my cock in your mouth and watch you lick my balls and swallow my cum.

  Joan: I don’t want to get involved with you, so I’m glad you’re leaving, but I want to feel your manhood again, have you on top of me, pressing me down, making me moan, making me crazy to give myself to you, making my hole hot to have you.

  Manuel: I want to feel your hands all over my body, pulling my cock.

  Joan: I want your fingers in my cunt.

  And so on. But such a conversation could not be held, given the people, the circumstances, and the nature of the civilization they shared. And so they were suspended between the spoken and the unspoken, caught in a space which was exciting because of what was implied, but frustrating because of what was repressed. And in the small space of the cab, with the driver sitting less than two feet away, they could make no small talk at all.

  At her building they entered hurriedly. In her neighborhood, the presence of a Puerto Rican dressed in jeans and an army jacket was often cause for thoughts of calling the police. Joan, despite her liberality, was riddled with the same prejudice as the people in her neighborhood; indeed, that’s why she lived in the neighborhood, although she never would have admitted that truth to herself. Manuel, having been in many such situations, when middle-class white girls had taken him home from some bar, understood perfectly, and was willing to play the game according to those rules. After all, he didn’t want the police to be called either. They went quickly up the two flights of stairs, Joan leading, and Manuel watching her ass as she climbed, holding off an impulse to slip his hand under her dress and feel the shifting of her buttocks and cunt lips as she moved.

  When they stepped in to her apartment and she closed the door behind them, they both felt as though they had crossed the border into Switzerland.

  “Well,” she said brightly, “can I get you something cold to drink?” She bustled off towards the kitchen and waved him into the living room. “Why don’t you take off your jacket and have a seat, and I’ll get you a beer.”

  Manuel walked inside like a cat in a new space, tentatively, gingerly, looking about sharply, almost smelling the air. He had the feeling of déjà vu. The succeeding three hours appeared to him in a compressed flash, then disappeared, and he returned to ordinary reality. Joan entered with a bottle of Heinecken’s and a tall glass.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said cheerfully, her voice slightly higher than usual. “I need to get out of these office clothes.”

  He looked at her suddenly, and the hidden import of her words hummed between them. It was an odd instant, in which all their subconscious desires were strung out like beads before their eyes, and yet their bodies continued to play out the scenario of polite encounter. She backed away from the eerie quality of the ambience of the room. Manuel was indistinct to her, a hulking dark shape that loomed over her consciousness. She had already lost her sense of center and was incapable of coherent thought.

  “I guess he’ll fuck me,” was all she was able to communicate to herself.

  Manuel saw the look in her eyes and smiled to himself. He felt enormously strong and self-confident. The mystique of Joan’s hold over him was losing the last shred of its power. After having her in her office, he had dispelled his sense of impotence before her. And after being reunited with Alma, he had regained his sense of what it was to have a real woman make love to him. And now he was seeing Joan in a perspective that put her on a par with a million other young white office workers in the city, pathetic creatures without a real home, without a man, pretending to be sophisticated, but hungry to be had. And he was going to have her. He was going to fuck her until she was weak, and then he was going to leave. For an instant a voice inside him tweaked at his conscience, condemning him for treating this woman as an object.

  “Let her alone,” it said. “Go back to your woman and leave this creature in peace.”

  But his cock was already tingling, and its dictates, as usual, were given supremacy over any other aspect of his being. It short-circuited the hard-won knowledge, that in the battle between men and women there was no final victor. And if he was now able to take a position of strength and superiority in relation to Joan, he would pay for that, one way or the other. Either while they were fucking, or afterward, when he might discover that once again a woman had slipped in while he was being distracted by her cunt, and copped his soul.

  Joan smiled, a brittle nervous smile. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” she said.

  She whirled away from him and went off into the bedroom, leaving him to contemplate the odd assemblage of furniture that represented a compromise between Joan’s taste and her salary. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard. Her mind was awash with conflicting images.

  “Why did I invite him up?” she said to herself. She pictured the tongue-tied mail-room worker in the next room, and admitted that despite his physique and the magnetism that vibrated around him, he was not someone she could relate to as an equal. “Maybe I am frightened,” she thought. “But I just can’t find anything to talk to him about.” She frowned, pursed her lips, and resolved that she would talk politely to him for a half hour and then send him on his way, wishing him well in his plans. But even as she did so she began to take off her clothes, shedding the dress and brassiere and stockings and panties and shoes that served as her cover at work, and went to the closet where she picked out a nylon dressing gown, one which was neither transparent nor translucent, but which clearly indicated that the body underneath it had nothing on. For as she moved, her breasts could be seen swaying, and the thin fabric caught between her legs and outlined the crack of her ass. She stood naked for a moment, her decision indicating one course of action, and her choice of dress indicating another, thus delineating with perfect clarity the split between thought and deed which is indicative of the human condition.

  She rubbed cold cream on her face and wiped it off expertly, leaving her skin smooth and clean. And then, taking the rubber band off her pony tail, she let her hair hang down, and still floating on the cloud of her self-delusion, thinking that what she had in her head would be more pertinent to what happened than what she did with her body, she went back into the living room.

  Manuel had found the stereo, put on an early Stones’ album, with a rough raw beat that left nothing to the imagination. He was standing next to the large window, the beer bottle in one hand, his other hand hooked into his belt. His strong legs bulged against his tight jeans, the thick roll of his cock hanging unashamedly down his left thigh. He had taken off his jacket, and his shirt was open down to his chest, showing the black hair and the broad muscles that caused more than one woman’s cunt to twitch in anticipation. He was looking at her with a steady, almost malevolent glare.

  Her heart sank and she almost
stumbled on the spot, able to do little more than to fall to the floor and bleat with surrender. But it was not to him she would surrender to, for he looked not a little ridiculous, something like a stud posing in a homosexual magazine. No, it was to the experience that she would give herself, to the blinding anonymous release of a cunt that cared for nothing except the penetration that supplied it with all the eternity it would ever hope for.

  “He’s going to fuck me,” she said to herself again, and took a strange pleasure in realizing that after he spread her legs and thrust his cock inside her, a few hours later Margaret would be licking her bruised cunt lips.

  “Maybe I should let his sperm stay inside me, and let Margaret suck it out,” she thought, and wondered at her wicked delight in the ramifications of her situation. “Life does get interesting at times,” she concluded, and sat down on the couch, partially because she was too shaky to stand and partially because she wouldn’t do anything on her own initiative, but would let him carry the entire scene. “If he wants me, let him take me,” she thought. “I’ve already made it easy enough for him.”

  He observed her stratagem. At this point, they were only abstract representatives of types to one another. In the exigencies of their condition, they had to play more inner roles than the social structure could comfortably accommodate. And the result was that they lost the ease and spontaneity which alone would have given them what they so desperately needed: a sense of their own humanity. He looked down at her as she lit a cigarette. She was making his balls ache with lust, and yet he despised her for being at once so accessible and so distant. She was giving him permission to fuck her and putting him in his place at the same time. His desire was laced with anger, and he sensed that the only really dignified thing to do was to leave.

  “Where are you going to in Puerto Rico?” she asked in her best cocktail party tones.

  That she should continue the pretense of polite conversation at this juncture was both admirable and enraging in his eyes. His mouth was too dry to even speak, and he took a swig of the beer. He felt foolish, and as a man often does in such situations, he could see no way out of his predicament except through direct action. He put the bottle down and walked over to the couch. Abruptly, he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her face forcefully into his crotch.

  She let out a grunt of surprise. She had provoked him to an action too precipitous to allow her to give herself to it, and she would now rebuff him. She felt vindicated, and her pride seemed stronger than whatever lust she might have felt. She pulled back and shook his hands off.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she said in her iciest tones. “I thought you wanted to say good-bye. I didn’t imagine you would behave like this.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. He knew he had moved awkwardly and without proper preparation, but he hadn’t expected to be pushed away with so much coldness. Her words shriveled his cock, as they were meant to do.

  “I mean, if you want to sit down and talk, I’m perfectly willing,” she went on, “but don’t think that gives you the right…”

  But she never finished the sentence. For as he stared at her, naked beneath her gown, her hair a halo of light around her face, her entire activity since he had met her in front of the building a continuous seduction, and hearing her prattle in her inane way, a bolt of anger struck him through the brain, and without thinking he raised his right arm, swung it full force, and hit her backhanded flush across the mouth.

  She was hurled across the couch, turning over one and a half times before she came to rest against the far arm. A trickle of blood came from her upper lip and her eyes were dazed. She lay motionless for a second, then shook her head and sat up slowly. Her expression went from surprise to fear to rage to retaliation. She sprang to her feet.

  “You dirty motherfucker,” she spat out at him. “How dare you put your filthy hands on me? You think that just because you have that big cock between your legs you can do anything you want with me?” Her fists were clenched, her shoulders raised and her arms stiff at her sides. “I let you have your chance and you blew it. Too bad. That’s all the chance you get. Now get the fuck out of here, you greasy little spic!”

  The words were the final trigger on his reserve. In an oddly lucid way, he realized that he didn’t even really want to fuck her. That his lust was more in his head than in his cock. And now, he felt no desire at all for the trembling girl who stood in front of him. He just wanted to conquer her, to make her bend to his will. And he chose the means man has chosen from time immemorial over woman—brute force.

  He reached out with his left hand, grabbed her hair, yanked it painfully sideways, and threw her on the couch. Her eyes widened with a flash of terror. For an instant, she thought, “My God, he might kill me.” And she instantly regretted her words, and wanted nothing more than for him to leave, to erase the entire tape, make if nonexistent. But he was already on the rampage.

  He grabbed her hair again and twisted once more, only this time he held on, forcing her face into the couch. He pulled it until it seemed it would be torn out by the roots, and her entire body turned, trying to relieve the pressure. Her gown opened down the center, and her breasts fell out.

  She began to moan and her voice threatened to grow into a wail. He let go of her hair, and grabbed one wrist, bending her arm behind her back.

  “Come on,” he said, forcing her off the couch, “into the next room. And if you scream I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

  He couldn’t believe his own behavior. The words and deeds of a rapist. He was raping her! And the first thought that accompanied that realization was: twenty years in jail.

  “I don’t care, man,” he told himself. “I can’t stop now. I can’t cop out on fucking her a second time.”

  He pushed her ahead of him and she half fell, half walked into the bedroom. The entire thing, which had begun with the atmosphere of a dream, was transforming itself into a nightmare. She saw headlines in the Daily News the next day: PORNOGRAPHER RAPED AND STABBED. Manuel had become a black unnamed force behind her, and she no longer knew what he was and wasn’t capable of.

  “Manuel, please don’t hurt me,” she sobbed.

  But in response he only twisted her arm harder, and slapped her across the neck, stunning her slightly. Then he reached down with his free arm and slipped it between her legs, grabbing her cunt with his hand. She froze midstep and gasped as his fingers grasped the tender flesh, digging in hard. But at the same time her knees buckled and she felt an insane jagged line of sexual electricity down her inner thighs.

  Manuel had no intention of harming her, but he would not let her know that. He would hit her if he had to, but not so it would damage her seriously. What he wanted was to vanquish her, not to kill her. He let go of her suddenly and stepped back. She swayed and fell forward, landing on her knees. He took the back of her dressing gown and yanked, pulling the entire thing off her body in a single motion. She was naked on her knees in front of him.

  “Crawl up on the bed,” he told her, “and stay on your belly.”

  She hesitated for a moment, and he kicked her hard, square between the buttocks, lifting her a half inch from the floor. She cried out and he reached down and clamped his hand over her mouth. Holding her by the head, he lifted her off the floor and flung her forward onto the bed, her legs sprawling behind her, her ass bouncing, her cunt black and hairy below it. He looked around him wildly and then found what he wanted. The sash around the window curtain. He strode over, pulled it down, and went back to the bed where Joan was lying still, afraid to budge. Roughly, he tied her wrists together and then tied them to one of the bedposts, so that her arms stretched out over her head. He ripped off a piece of the dressing gown, and wrapped it over her mouth as a gag. And then he stepped back, watching her, tied and unable to make any sound louder than a stifled groan.

  To his amazement he found that he was trembling violently from head to toe and drenched in sweat. The enormity of what he was doing was just
beginning to dawn on him. But he put all thoughts out of his mind, knowing that if he stopped for even a few seconds to consider, he would back out. And it was already almost too late for that, for he was already responsible for assault and attempted rape.

  He opened his fly and let his cock fall out. Joan still did not move. “Open your legs,” he said. She remained as she was. “All right,” he told her. He slipped his belt out from its hooks around his waist, walked to the bed, raised his arm, and brought the leather strap down on her plump ass. It whistled as it fell, hit with a loud thwack, and caused Joan to attempt to scream, a sound that only partially made it past the gag.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “but you better do what I tell you.”

  Out of some deep unwillingness to lose in this absurd struggle, she kept her legs closed, and clenched the cheeks of her ass.

  “If that’s the way you want it,” he said, and hit her with the belt once more. It stung with an excruciating pain, and her entire body jumped. She rolled over to protect the abused spot, and Manuel hit her hard across the front of her thighs.

  She began to weep, and with tears rolling down her cheeks, her breasts quivering on her chest, she slowly opened her legs, letting him peer between them to the precious cunt he wanted to get at.

  “On your belly,” he rasped. “Get on your belly and open your legs.”

  He had to have the victory totally on his terms, and he hoped she wouldn’t play the game in such a way that he would have to capitulate or really hurt her. Resigned, she rolled over, exposing the tender buttocks once more, and spread her legs apart, and then collapsed, her muscles completely lax, and sobbed unrestrainedly from the pain and fear.