Mind Blower (8 page)

Susan lay totally inert, totally open, probably even totally ready to give herself to be killed. And the man who had just fucked her walked up until he was standing over her chest and sent a long stream of yellow-green urine right into her mouth. She keened in ecstasy and swallowed it noisily. Then another squatted over her and lowered his asshole onto her mouth. She reached up and pulled him further into her, and I could see her cheeks cave in with the suction. As though toying with a disgusting object, they came in turns and fucked her again, or had her suck them off, or peed on her, until they had come so many times that they were exhausted and she was caked with excretions.
 

Then, to my shock, the screen lit up, and on it came the figures of two people. I blinked twice, then saw that it was a film of Susan and myself, one that must have been made that afternoon from a secret recess in one of the walls in her room. It must have been shot with a telephoto lens, because every nuance of expression was caught close up, every whisper, every glance. I was dizzy with surprise, not knowing even which categories of understanding described what was now running through my emotions.
 

I saw a movement in the room and looked to see Susan crawling to the place in front of my chair. She lay on her back and raised her legs. Then she reached down and stroked herself between the thighs. She offered her cunt to me. Simultaneously my handcuffs were released. And the voice on the screen came up to full volume. It was Susan's voice, saying the things she had so lovingly whispered this afternoon: "This is for you, Michael, only for you. I have never let another man have just this before. Only you have this special part. This is just for you. Now, fuck me. Put your cock in me. Let me give you my cunt."
 

"Let me give you my cunt," the Susan lying before me said, her voice a grating whisper. I looked from the warm, gentle Susan on the screen, to the ragged, filthy dreg of humanity leering up at me from the floor. Visions of betrayal and disgust flamed through me. And all the love I had in my heart rose up to clash head-on with all the hatred that filled my soul, and I shot up from the chair and loosed a cry so terrible, so complete, so final, that it burned every feeling my being had ever been capable of knowing.
 

I stood for a long moment and felt a cleansing deep pain which I knew had sealed forever the door to the kind of tenderness that I had always thought was a sign of love.
 

I felt a pang of great loss, and then closed the door on the myth for good. Tenderness was just another facet of personality, no better or worse than any other. My metatheatrical education was continuing on schedule.
 

I felt a stirring in my cock and saw that it was becoming erect. I looked down at Susan and felt . . . absolutely nothing. Everything for the instant had become pure perception. I opened my fly, walked off the platform, and smiling, plunged my cock deep into Susan's bruised cunt. The lesson had been driven home. Cunts are, first and foremost, for fucking. The rest is dramaturgy.
 

As she clasped me to her and began moving in that rhythm which I had already come to know so well, I heard the voice of Doctor Tocco, now thin and dry, as from a great distance, saying, "Bravo, Michaell You have come a long way. But we are only now at the foot of the mountain."
 

SEVEN

AFTER FUCKING, I got up and left rather quickly. I felt drained of all interest in anything, and the only remedy was sleep, as a full, delicious tiredness soaked my body. It was a feeling of deep privacy and contentment, and for the first time in many years I made contact with a part of myself that seemed like home. My mind was empty, and if there is such a state as nirvana, I was in it at that moment, beyond all turmoil and struggle.
 

I stumbled into my room and barely had the energy to take my clothes off before flinging myself face down on the bed. For a few ecstatic minutes, I let the currents of tiredness run through me, and then I shifted a little, and fell into a black moving slumber.
 

It was an odd state, as though I were awake and asleep at the same time. I had no consciousness of any particular thing; it was more like a low-level awareness, as though the organism were humming to itself as all the life functions went on. I had a sense, or rather, there was a sense, of blood coursing through my veins and arteries; the great pump of my heart thudded slowly, and pinpoints of electricity flared up at nodal points in my nervous system.
 

And after a while the dreams began. They were not like dreams I ordinarily have, but seemed more like reality. Things appeared dimensionally and with weight. Yet, everything had a spectral quality, as though the objects were transparent. It was an actual borderline feeling, as though fantasy and reality totally merged to produce some hybrid state which was neither fully one nor the other.
 

At first there were only vague shapes, and the sense was of an underwater scene. Greens and blues and purples coalesced and formed and dissolved. All things moved in a dance of quiet chaos. Then the shapes became sharper and the colors changed to brighter blue. Reds appeared. And, through it all, a quality of number came about. Not actual numbers, but the sense of thingness, of unity, of discrete entity. It was a silent music, a movement of law without any substance clinging to it. I felt totally calm and utterly isolated, as though I had landed, the sole human being, on an alien world which was not hostile to me, but simply had no way of relating to me at all. Ghosts of emotion fluttered through me, and I hovered between panic and bliss.
 

The most unnerving thing about the experience was that there was no sense of separation between myself and the dream. I was the dream and the dream was me. All reality was a single thing, and that thing was the movement which surged about in absent awareness of itself.
 

The colors darkened and changed to browns and blacks. And everything seemed to rise up and fold in upon itself. Then, without knowing how or why, I knew that this was the formation of a giant cunt. Simultaneously I was the cunt and inside the cunt and watching the cunt from afar. The sides were in constant motion, a steady rippling like the way tall grass flows in the afternoon wind. It was warm and moist, a kind of Hawaiian feeling of lassitude and ocean.
 

Suddenly shock waves ran through the atmosphere. There was a quickening of pulse and convulsions of the walls. A sweet tremor ran through everything, and the first drops of a pearly-white liquid began to ooze from all the folds. It was pure honey, a sweet, sticky delight of mouth-slackening fluid. Again a tremor ran through the air, and now the drops began to mingle together to form small rivulets. The atmosphere grew heavy and a deep musky smell emanated from inside the recesses of the cavern. From a great distance there was a low moaning sound and a rustle like the wings of a bird that have been suddenly disturbed. A feeling of imminence pervaded all.
 

Suddenly it seemed as though the skies opened, and a rush of white light flooded the opening. The cunt lips were being parted. By now a kind of frenzy washed through everything. An urgency that throbbed like drums.
 

The lips parted wider, and a kaleidoscope of color and sound sped into the hole. The deepest, most secret parts began to unfold and open themselves to the light Simultaneously a great heat poured out from the pores of the walls, and from the black ends of the womb blasts of searing air rolled like tumbleweed throughout the cavern, and rushed out of the opening. The chaos grew, as movement and heat and wet churned together in a growing mix of near desperation. There was a feeling that something had to happen and soon.
 

Just then the cunt hole parted very wide, and the outer lips and inner lips peeled back. The cunning center of the opening itself was exposed, tender, pink, ruffled. At that point all awareness trembled. Inside was all yearning and soft; outside was all demanding and hard. Then, in a stroke, a massive purple-rimmed engine nudged at the passageway.
 

Ripples of excitement seized the cuntly world, and the pulsating hole yielded slowly and lovingly as the round-rimmed cock nosed its way in. For a long, long time there was no sensation except each fraction of an inch of cock as it moved past the cunt opening. It seemed endless, as though the passage would endure forever. The opening stretched wider and wider, and as the tissues were pulled apart, spasms of joy shouted into the recesses of the cave.
 

The cock moved in ponderously and solemnly, its single eye seeing all at a glance. And then the dance began.

The cock pushed in until it had lodged itself as deeply as the cunt could allow. The mood changed from anticipation to fullness. The inner walls waved and clutched and grasped the shaft in a hot, pulsing grip. Showers of fluid fell everywhere. The aroma was as deep and rich as black earth overturned in the spring. The cunt sang in exultation.
 

A movement of a different kind began. At first all the shaking was internal, rising up from below the surface of the skin. Then the flesh itself began to move. Ripples ran up and down the walls and massaged the cock with a thousand tiny gestures. Large movements began to grow in the deep places beyond where the cunt itself lay, and the shock of them reverberated throughout the canyon of frothing excitement which the cunt had become.
 

The cock responded with its own massive movements, and started rocking in and out, thrusting to the top, to the sides, to the bottom, deep into the inner recesses. Soon the cunt went slack, overpowered by the great machine moving inside it, and began almost gasping for breath, seizing the cock with great gulps, sucking at it, licking it, exploding bombs of heat into its flesh.
 

Now, almost as though a great bell had begun to ring, a new sense of imminence arose. A deep roaring sigh echoed down the corridors of the mighty cunt. And with one final roll, great tidal waves of unendurable pleasure broke and washed again and again through all the layers and folds and membranes and tissues of the now searing hot and violently convulsing cunt. And at that, the cock tore loose in throbbing spasms, shooting stream after stream of gushing balm all over the hungry and thirsty walls of the cavern.
 

A moment's blackness passed, and suddenly I found myself sitting bold upright in bed, a cold sweat rimming my forehead. The dream hung in palpable reality before my eyes, and for an instant 1 was trapped in that insane state where I know what reality is, but cannot break the overpowering spell of the fantasy. My mind, which just a half hour ago had been so peaceful, now teemed with thoughts too fast and slippery for me even to ponder. It was like a mad ticker-tape machine, punching out speculations and concepts and fears. I felt violently sick and launched myself from the bed to go running into the john, where the remains of the evening's dinner splashed in grateful release from my stomach.
 

I sat for a long time, digging the cool of the tile floor, my head resting on the toilet seat rim. The vomiting had made me calmer and control returned, but a boundless sense of emptiness whistled through my soul. I got up slowly, threw some cold water on my face, and went into the bedroom. Sleep seemed out of the question for a while, so I turned on the light and picked up the only thing in the room to read, Tocco's pamphlet on the Institute for Sexual Metatheatre.
 

I flipped through the pages at random until a phrase caught my eye. It read: "And so the individual comes to a point where it seems he must deny love itself, for that too is seen as merely another mask in the endless drama. Only then, if he successfully casts off, without bitterness, but simply and finally, all vestiges of his romantic mind, can he enter a land where he not only rediscovers love, but finds a way of loving that is so free, brave, and full, that he wonders how he lived so many years in that prison to which we can only give the name, Social Conscience."
 

The words had a profoundly relaxing effect on me, and almost immediately I felt better. I lay back to think and found to my surprise that I was sleepy. I shut the light, and was about to drop again into slumber, when for no accountable reason I began sobbing like a child, in great gulping spasms, while hot tears rolled down my cheeks, and I cried out "Susan, Susan" over and over again.
 

I cried for an hour, and finally, I slept.

EIGHT

THE NEXT DAY depression hung over me like fog. I woke up very early and went down to the kitchen before anyone else was stirring. I took a few bags of food and went straight back to my room and propped a chair under the door knob to keep myself private. I didn't want to see anyone during the entire day.
 

I made some instant coffee with hot water from the tap, and settled down with a cigarette to mull over what had happened. Clearly, the scene with Susan yesterday afternoon had been a set-up. It seemed she had lured me into fucking her just so that the film could be made and later used during the gang bang. I shuddered at the cold-bloodedness which such behavior implied, and then almost immediately chided myself for the feeling. I had wanted to be in the big leagues; I had spent a good deal of my adult life railing against the hypocrisies with which men and women, men and men, and women and women belabored each other. Intellectually I agreed with the tactics being practised on me, but the final vestiges of desire for a certain kind of intimacy died hard. Innocence had been lost, and there was no going back to it. All that was left was the struggle to come out the other side of experience.
 

It felt good to be sitting alone with my thoughts, and gradually a sense of balance was restored. The turmoil subsided and I felt a new surge of power beginning inside me. I knew I would not quit now. And with that thought, the memory of the night before came back, only this time I was able to savor fully its erotic content, and I felt my cock beginning to stir as I saw the picture of Susan's naked body lying in the middle of all those men. I wondered at my brief flash of identification with her, my wanting to be her at that moment. Although I had long ago realized that I was bisexual, I simply thought that meant an ability to enjoy male and female bodies indiscriminately. Generally, when I wanted to fuck, I found a woman, and when I wanted to be fucked, I sought out a man. The issue was more subtle than that, of course, and with women or men I played many roles. Never before had I so dearly understood my desire to be a woman, and for the first time I speculated on whether I might be a trans-sexual. Yet how to explain my clearly male delight in the female body, my enjoyment of my own erection, and my passion for cunt, a passion which reached such heights that often while fucking I could feel what was happening in my partner's cunt more than I could feel the sensations in my own cock? Some realization nibbled at the corners of my mind, but I did not have the words to formulate it, to pin it down.