The Devil's Sperm Is Cold Read Free Page B

traditionalism nor get swept away by the latest fad. Somewhere inside you is a voice, a feeling, a sense, which knows, knows beyond all doubt, what is fitting for you. And if you follow that, then it doesn’t matter whether externally you take the role of a piss-drinking transvestite or a model of marital fidelity. Because you will be true to yourself, and all the opinions of the experts and sexperts, of the gurus and scientists, of the hallowed texts and modem treatises, the magazine articles and preachments of erotic revolutionaries, will sound like so much empty chatter in your ears. And as with an annoying radio station that keeps breaking in with advertisements while you are trying to listen to music, you will simply and finally turn the dial and switch off all the self-styled pundits in order to pay attention to the reality of the erotic truth with which the living moment lovingly embraces you.
    Marco Vassi
    New York City
    December, 1975

THE DEVIL’S SPERM IS COLD

ONE
    The conference was staggering on into its third hour. Joan was bored. Almost unable to stifle her yawns, she screamed inside herself as the voices droned on. As always, when meetings reached this point, she began to look around for a sympathetic eye, a reassuring smile, to tell her that all hope for humanity had not been abandoned to the necessities of the business machine. But most of the people there were men she barely knew, salesmen who had traveled to New York City for a week of gatherings just like this one.
    She glanced over the faces. Lou Morris, president of Centaur Publishing, was listening to a complicated report from the Midwest representative. He was leaning back in his chair, his hands folded over his chest, and staring at the ceiling. She would find no support there. Jack, Centaur’s top salesman, and one of the few of that breed that Joan could relate to, was drawing elaborate doodles on his scratch pad. Joan continued to scan the room, and was brought up short when she found herself staring into the eyes of Margaret Hayes, Lou’s executive secretary, a tall, cool career woman who rarely spoke except by way of giving orders. Now, surprisingly, she narrowed her eyes and insinuated her gaze into Joan’s, indicating not only that she knew what Joan had been feeling, but that she empathized with her.
    Joan looked away hurriedly. It was perhaps the sixth or seventh time within the past month that she had been captured by the other’s awareness. Something about the experience frightened her, although Margaret had not done or said a thing which could in any way be considered threatening. Rather, it was some sense within herself that responded peculiarly to Margaret’s attentions. She had thought about it, but had not been able to come to any conclusions about the matter.
    She raised her eyes from the table top, and glanced back in Margaret’s direction. The eyes were still there, looking back at her. This time they held a glint of amusement, as though the two of them were partners in some naughty secret. As Joan felt herself pulled into Margaret’s gaze, getting lost in the other’s grey-green eyes, fascinated by the highlights in her golden hair which was swept back severely and wrapped in a tight bun, Margaret slowly and deliberately ran the tip of her tongue along the entire length of her full lower lip, moistening the soft maroon flesh in such a way that it glowed. Then, to Joan’s astonishment, she wrinkled her nose impishly and smiled.
    It was one of those moments of exquisite uncertainty. On one level, Joan took the gesture as an extension of the comment on the sterility of the proceedings; but on another it seemed to contain a provocation that had Joan’s breath sticking in her chest. Joan let her gaze fall from Margaret’s face to her body. Margaret was dressed in a black knit turtleneck shirt that gripped every square inch of her torso. Her high, aggressive breasts bulged shamelessly forward, climaxing in half-dollar