There was never any question about Marsha and I being in love. From the very first time we made it together, over two slim joints of Brazilian grass, a tall bottle of Algerian red and the haunting strains of Bitches Brew, we both knew that something very special was in store for our relationship. Something almost sacred.
I had arrived in England nearly broke. Two weeks earlier, fresh up from a springtime in Morocco, I had nearly taken a job in Munich, selling sex devices for Beate Uhse. They thought I might be more than suitable, especially for their American customers, but were a little hesitant about my having lived for three months in a Buddhist hermitage in Ceylon the previous year. I assured them I was lusty nonetheless.
The day before I was to start work, I got this incredible urge, the kind it behooves one not to take lightly. Go to London, it insisted, go to London. That afternoon I paid my bill at the Pension Hilda, a homely little Schwabing guest house where I had been putting up off and on for years, and with my last money set out. It took me four days of hitchhiking. When I arrived at Dover it was pissing with rain.
“Good morning, Mr. Stanley.”
He looked a friendly enough immigrations officer, just the sort to make a cheery-faced understatement. For several moments he alternated glances between the real me and the unsmiling face staring up from my passport. There was obviously some resemblance, but not much. Somehow, without really trying, I usually manage a radical change in appearance at least once a year.
“How long do you plan to stay in Britain?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. How long can I stay?”
“Well, what would you like? A week, a month, six months…a year?”
“Six months will be okay.”
“Fine. And how much money do you have?”
After four days on the road, the last two without sleep, I must have looked a real tramp.
“Five pounds,” I said.
He never flinched, though behind one eye a chaffing spark seemed to twinkle, momentarily. He was very English, almost a dying breed these days.
“I see. It’s a trifle little, don’t you think? For six months?”
“Yes, of course. But I’m having more sent,” I lied, “from Germany. It should be at the American Express in a few days.”
“Quite,” he replied.
Later I thought of what a pleasant conversation we might have had were it not for his position, and mine. But it was necessary for him to maintain a front, especially since he wanted to let me in.
“Now then, Mr. Stanley,” he said at last, “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I can’t really feel justified in giving you more than one month. However, once your money arrives, as I’m sure it will”—and now both eyes were twinkling—”why you just go along to the Home Office, or simply send your passport, and you’ll have no trouble at all obtaining an extension. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Certainly. Thank you so much.”
There is something contagious about English speech; only the weather takes getting used to. But then everyone says that. I quickly caught a ride up to Canterbury, paid a brief visit to the cathedral and took the train to London. Two days later, after having hocked my watch and a few other belongings, to keep me going till some work came along, I met James at an Earl’s Court gay bar. That night we became lovers.
James’ flat, a terraced walk-up in grey South London, had four bedrooms and as many tenants. One of the occupants was a composer, very pretty and exceptionally gay. He had a regular girlfriend, who lived elsewhere, and a steady stream of visiting male playmates, all a touch too masculine for my taste. Like me, he was a vegetarian.
The two female residents were as different as teddy bears and bullfrogs. The older girl, a Canadian, had pert butch features and a conventionally feminist mind. She wore her lesbianism the way she drove her motorcycle, recklessly. In spite of ourselves, we came to like one another very much.
The other girl was Marsha.
I shared James’ room with him for three weeks, until he went to Greece on holiday. After that, and for the remainder of the summer, I had it to myself. The composer also left for two months, taking his girlfriend to East Africa, where he had once lived. Two days later the biker plowed her Suzuki 350 into the back of a lorry and was hospitalized for six weeks. Marsha, who was a painter, stayed in London to teach art at a summer school. A week after James flew to Athens she and I were sleeping together.
“How can you do it?” she asked one night, or rather early one morning, after we had been making love for hours with hardly a break.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully, “I don’t think I’ve ever come so much in my life.”
In fact, it was a combination of many things. Physically, she was very attractive. Blond, with flowing shoulder-length hair, she possessed a full body that curved in all the right places and yet remained strangely slender. Her behind was especially adorable, each cheek a perfect plump handful. I just loved holding it while we fucked.
Her face, which I first got into during the only acid trip we have ever taken together, on a midsummer night of the full moon, was ever-changing. One day, or even one moment, it was a little girl’s face, with pleading blue eyes and pouting lips. It made you want to give her a piece of candy or a chocolate biscuit. Another time it was deep and gently lined, not with age but with wisdom. The face of Immortal Woman, Divine Mother made flesh, sad at not being able to tell you all she knew, happy to at least have you near, loving, learning. Between these two extremes, flitting in and out like spring robins on a windowsill at dawn, were a whole range of feminine moods and emotions, each one representing another aspect of her personality. Even today I am still discovering more of them.
Marsha’s finest corporal attribute was her pussy. It looked and felt just the way the word sounds, to my ears anyway. It was both pleasantly tight and very soft; at the slightest touch it became wet with excitement, exuding a strong musty odor. The lips, though not boldly protruding, were far from squeamish. They did not pretend the body was a convent but stood, invitingly, like pagan prostitutes at the temple gates.
Whenever I sucked Marsha’s cunt, a delight which was fairly new to her, it made the most insanely joyous noises. Indeed, our every dip into the reservoir of sex caused her entire body to ring with pleasure on a million different levels. She is one of the few women I know who can laugh while you fuck her and not turn you off. Her unbridled mirth actually makes my prick hard, tickling it to another erection.
It was a summer of endless discovery. Night after night we explored each other’s bodies, luring from their hiding places hitherto unknown nuances of passion. Subtle yet secretly willing, they were as water nymphs playing coy with wandering satyrs, or as the Gopis who at first appear shy before Krishna. Although most mornings Marsha had to rise early, we often made love until sun break.
“I just can’t leave you alone,” she would say, restlessly shaking off sleep.
In an act of surrender to the sandman she had closed her eyes, only to find, moments later, her hand caressing my balls or her mouth kissing its way to the head of my cock, again aroused and pulsating with lust. Now and then, out of sheer fatigue, she would pass the night alone, in her room upstairs. But very seldom.
When James returned, tanned, rested but still high-strung and annoyingly neurotic, the first question he asked me was, “How’s your sex life?”
The answer took him by utter surprise; and even today, though we are still close, I do not think he has recovered from it. Sweet James. He has so much potential for creative living, if only he could overcome the shock of having been born. For him life is too intense, the prospect of death too vapid.
Soon the rest of the household returned, the composer with a collection of beautifully grotesque wood carvings from Kenya and Tanzania, the debiked cyclist sporting several unsightly scars that faded only gradually. James reclaimed his room and I moved in with Marsha. Five months later, having saved some money from my freelance writing and occasional odd jobs, plus Marsha’s teaching, we traveled overland to Asia. We were away three years.
The East, if properly imbibed, is a spiritual laxative. By simultaneously baffling the mind and devastating the senses, she can purge even the most obstinate will of its most cherished assumptions, false notions concerning the nature of existence committed to our collective memory through centuries of civilized brainwashing. Or, if one is not ready for the experience, she can drive you insane. Only the dull-witted remain unaffected.
This was my third sojourn in Asia, and Marsha’s first. In the beginning she was petrified by it. Her initial enthusiasm, so exuberant as we sped through Europe, where she felt at home, was soon riddled with a myriad of doubts, fears and emotional conflicts. In Iran she watched with dumb alarm as a whole regiment of latent impulses, mostly aggressive, trooped forth from the depths of her consciousness. Occasionally she made the mistake of trying to fight them off, to resist their advances; but in each event they successfully solicited her sympathies, dragging her farther into a fray for which her heart had no stomach. After a mere month in India, the world’s most total country, she gave up, contenting herself with simply observing the battle, however it went. Only then did things get better. The laxative was starting to work.
In Asia, what with the frequent traveling, often in difficult circumstances, and a succession of head trips brought on by countless new experiences, our sex life moved into a different dimension. For one thing, there were long periods of celibacy, on both our parts. Neither of us, since that first heavenly fuck on the floor of James’ room, consecrated by the musical alchemy of Miles Davis, had slept with another person. There had been no need for it. Nor was it until shortly after my return to England, Marsha having gone on ahead to sort out our accommodations, that I began having occasional outside affairs. For Marsha it has been even more recent.
Of course, the abstinences were never forced. Although at times prescribed by lack of privacy, a dominant feature of Asian life styles, particularly in rural areas, they were usually a natural expression of our ability to communicate on levels other than the sensual. Our desires, still very active, had clothed themselves in new forms. We still wanted, but very often our wants became disembodied.
When we did make love it was either with a ferocious burst of animal energy, sapping all our strength and immediately sending us both into a sound slumber, or it was accompanied by such heightened awareness of all the physical and mental processes involved that the very act of fucking seemed more like a recitation of abstract equations than a movement of real passion. Our former rituals, enacted with devotion in the youth of our relationship, were chaste by comparison. They were also more loving. At one point, after having gone three months without sex, I was actually saddened to find my cock seeking comfort between Marsha’s waiting thighs.
Then I discovered Kali. At first sight of her, I knew I had finally begun the long journey home.
Even more than Durga or Chandi, Maha Kali is the symbolic source of Shakti, the power through which tantric knowledge is imparted. Consort of Lord Siva and hence the feminine aspect of an androgynous deity, Kali represents death, destruction and the transcendent knowledge of time. In her manifest role as the fiercest incarnation of Divine Mother, she is commonly depicted with a multiplicity of bodies, but with never less than four arms on a single torso, her neck wreathed by a chain of severed heads. She is standing on the corpse of Siva, whom she has slain. Wishing to resurrect him, she must first liquidate a mighty legion of demons and prevent their blood from touching the earth, a fertilization which would only produce more demons. She manages this last feat by catching the drops both in buckets and with her long tongue and drinking them. Eventually her lord is revived.
In all Kali temples, and they are especially numerous in Bengal, there is at least one shrine dedicated to Siva’s lingam, his cock. The procreative device, often carved from stone, rests vertically in a vessel resembling the yoni, or cunt. I have known Kali intimately. She is love incarnate.
Through Kali the Bengali saint Ramakrishna attained enlightenment; while in her name the cult of Thuggee regularly strangled its victims before relieving them of all worldly possessions. Giver and taker of life, she not only mocks our attachment to the transient things of this world, but also scorns the distinction we alone make between here and hereafter. Within her cosmic bosom, all such delusions end.
Although I was first introduced to Kali in the North Indian village of Dharamsala by a hashish-smoking, chang-drinking yogi known locally as Chillum Baba, it was not until some months later, in Calcutta, that I fully recognized her. There, in the perpetually decaying city of which she is the patroness, I understood that she had been with me since my birth; that she, more than anyone else, had nursed me through those tumultuous years as a child of the city streets. New York, where I was born and raised, is a sister city to Calcutta.
As soon as I surrendered myself to Kali, making her the object of my every thought, word and deed, she commenced to reveal her living presence through various persons, usually women but occasionally men, young men. In each case her cardinal commandment was explicit: love me, in the flesh. It was thus that I again began making devoted love to Marsha, for she, too, was Kali. I, of course, had become Siva.
In Hinduism, as in all idolatrous religions, it matters little which god or goddess one worships. Each deity is merely an embodied representation of the unnameable essence which all beings are seeking to recall. God is not without but within. For this reason it is not even necessary to worship a deity and the atheism of the Buddhists is just as valid, just as potentially liberating, as the monotheism of Christianity. All religions are true, while in their corrupted forms they are all base and one is better off without them.
The only requisite for gaining freedom, for breaking down the imprisoning walls of conceptual time and escaping permanently into the eternal bliss of the present moment, is through knowledge of oneself. But as no one path to such knowledge can be equally viable for all individuals, it is of utmost importance that the seeker after truth recognize the best route for him or her. Therefore, while all gods and goddesses are equal, some are truly more equal than others. It all depends.
In Calcutta I realized that along with my other spiritual pursuits, my writing, my traveling, my vipassana meditation, I would have to fuck my way to enlightenment. It was that simple, and that hard.
By the time Marsha and I were ready to return to the West, our lovemaking had nearly recaptured the sublimity with which it was formerly blessed. There was, however, one indispensable quality lacking. Marsha did not know she was Kali. Undoubtedly, she would have to find out.
For my other lovers, and at the outset they appeared only infrequently, such total presence of mind was not essential. Like the High Priestess of the Tarot, they reflected the anima, the eternal feminine element that resides in the primeval depths of every masculine unconscious. Their divinity, though real enough, could be quickened only by direct contact with the Siva principle. But Marsha was more than a lover; she was my steady companion, my dharma partner. It was, therefore, imperative that she become aware of her true identity, which was still developing. Otherwise she would lose it and I, like Isis in search of Osiris, would have to wait for another coming of Kali.
Marsha flew to London from New Delhi, while I continued the westward journey overland, a trail with which I was well acquainted. It took me two months of easy traveling to reach England. I arrived with many fresh insights into the needs and nature of the myth that was now controlling my life. Having started out as a man who would believe, I was clearly witnessing the gradual absorption of my consciousness into the very belief I had helped to create. Eventually, if all went well and the goddess did not consume me the way she often devours her own children, I, Siva, would become Kali. Duality, that monster of time, would end, vanquished before the altar of sensual sacrifice. But first I would have to be slain.
One night, in Kabul it was, I found myself alone in a small upstairs room of the Ashraf Hotel, at the end of Flower Street. It was very hot and, as is customary with me in warm weather, I was lying in bed naked. There was no moon and through the open doorway which led to a small balcony overlooking the quiet street, I could see a black sky brimming with bright desert stars. Somewhere off in the distance music was playing, an Afghan folk song. I recognized the rabab, a stringed instrument nearly as versatile as the sitar but more primitive.
The heat, the stars, the softly wailing music, all conspired with my aloneness to make me feel exceptionally randy. I started to masturbate, a solitary entertainment whose pleasures I have never denied myself.
At first I merely lay still, gently stroking my stiff cock, observing via battalions of alerted nerve cells as the tension of physical desire rapidly spread along my outstretched limbs. With the fingertips of my left hand I caressed my balls, feeling with especial delight their contraction into lustful tautness. I wet one finger, the middle one, and slowly shoved it up my rectum. I knew I could come at almost any moment, but did not want to. I breathed deeply to help stem the flow, then let go of my cock while I concentrated on finger-fucking myself. My member remained hard, poised on the verge of explosion.
Suddenly I was aware of a strange presence, the likes of which I had never before experienced. Although I was quite obviously alone, I had the most vivid sensation of warm, moist lips enfolding the head of my penis. As they slipped down my organ, which seemed wet with saliva, I felt a tongue pressing hard against the tip, as though it were trying to force its way into the small opening. I looked. Even though it was dark, I could see without difficulty. There was no one. Only my cock stood erect and throbbing in the heavy night air. The sensation, however, persisted; even while I watched, it grew more intense. Someone, something, was sucking me off.
Then there was a change, a tactile metamorphosis. The mouth became a vagina; a tight, spongy cunt sliding rhythmically up and down my cock. For an instant it seemed as though my entire body would be drawn up into the vortex of this invisible yoni. I removed the finger from my anus and placed both hands along the sides of the bed. I stopped looking, stopped trying to figure things out. I let my head sink back into the pillow, permitting mind and body to enjoy whatever was happening. I was not interested in the mechanics of it.
I do not know how long this unfamiliar encounter of flesh and spirit lasted, but it might have been a half hour or longer. The tactual apparition altered its form many times. At one point there was a hand, even many hands, jerking me off after several different fashions. This, in turn, transformed itself into an anus, relaxed, pliable and very mushy. With increasing rapidity, it plunged my cock, now only seconds away from ejaculation, into its splendid depths, all the while giving the clear impression of a giant turd lying not far along the anal canal. It was into this, in a sustained moment of incomparable ecstasy, that I shot my great wads of hot sperm. And as I did, I knew beyond any doubt that I had just been fucked by the great goddess, Maha Kali. It was a rapturous realization.
The following night, before going to bed, I set out on the table a small brass statue of Kali which I had purchased outside the temple in Dakshineswar, north of Calcutta, along the banks of the Hooghly River. At this serene place, a far cry from the sordid atmosphere prevailing at Kalighat in the very bowels of the city, Ramakrishna served for some years as chief priest. Later, after being removed from his office, he returned to dwell in the temple’s immediate vicinity. He wanted never to be far from a visual reminder of his beloved Kali. For me, the brass image served a similar purpose.
After lighting joss sticks and placing them before Kali in a special holder, I prostrated adoringly and silently recited my sacred mantra: Om Kali Shakti Om. It was a mantra which no guru had needed to give me. One morning I was simply aware of it. Then I knelt before the goddess and masturbated, a ceremony I have repeated at least once every day since, except when circumstances intervened. Although the apparition of the previous night did not return, and since then has come but rarely, I knew I was engaging in a ritual offering which was, for the time being anyway, obligatory. The floor in front of me may always be wet with sperm, unless, of course, I shoot onto my body or into my own mouth; but in a very real sense I am coming into the cunt of Kali, or into her mouth or even her ass. At no time am I alone.
Of all the truths which the Buddha has handed down to us, and there are many, the most significant concerns the utter futility of pursuing extremes. Yet what is an extreme path for one may well be the true middle way for another. Young men who have no natural inclination toward celibacy do themselves, and others, a real disservice by entering the monastic life. In just this manner, there are women who would find greater opportunity for achieving self-transcendence as common streetwalkers than in a nunnery. According to the mood that has moved me at the time, I have lived both in hermitages and whorehouses: I have yet to find one more spiritual than the other. The Virgin Mary is at once the mother of Christ and the guardian of harlots. Ramakrishna, to my knowledge, never fucked Kali; he made love with her in other ways. But Ramakrishna was not a Taurus with Libra rising, both signs ruled by Venus. I am.
In Istanbul, a city everyone should visit before they die, if only to eat lomacun, round, greasy and very delicious, I lived for a week in a tiny, dirty hotel room near the Blue Mosque with a girl I had met just two hours after arriving from Ankara. Her name was Tina and, by most people’s standards, she was not beautiful. But then, ordinary notions of beauty never arise from an intrinsic awareness of aesthetic quality. They are conditioned by fear, the fear of being thought different. Men are especially perverse in this respect. They seldom want to be seen with a girl whose physical appearance their friends would not approve of, not realizing that those same friends are themselves often turned on by the most unseemly-looking creatures. In such matters women have more sense. They look with their hearts, not their brains. Thinking is disastrous where beauty is concerned.
Tina was short, fat and dumpy. Her huge breasts, which were very full, dominated the whole upper part of her body. Her enormous thighs governed the lower half. What I especially liked, though, was her face. This was a perfect sphere, adorned on each side by a puffy, dimpled cheek that inflated itself whenever she spoke. She had a minute mouth. I was very surprised, shortly after we’d left the fabled Pudding Shop, where she was having lunch when I walked in, to find she could give such tremendous head. When I came into the back of her throat, her lips were actually touching my pubic hairs. After that she rammed a dildo up her ass and pissed on my chest. All in all, I found her quite touching.
There were only two books in Tina’s room. One was Pauline Réage’s The Story of O, the other a collection of de Sade’s more notorious works, including Philosophy in the Bedroom and 100 Days of Sodom, books no libertine should fail to peruse. She read something from each one nearly every day. And she tried to practice what they preached. It was Tina who introduced me to both bondage and the lash. She never whipped me but that I came, although I climaxed more readily when I beat her. Once, the day before I left on the bus to Munich, we hired a young prostitute to whip the two of us while we sucked one another off. The girl said afterward that she had never experienced such a complete and totally unexpected orgasm in her life. The initial effects of voyeuristic sadism are incredible. In addition to twice the money we’d promised, we presented her with one of the whips.
Tina and I discussed her two books at great length. I knew them well, having read them both many years earlier, and will never forget the impact O’s riveting tale made on me. At first, Tina was puzzled by my assertion that the gulf dividing de Sade and Réage was equal to the distance between heaven and hell. But she soon grasped the truth of what I said.
The Marquis de Sade, despite his many psychological insights, was at root a rank materialist. For him human existence was absolutely finite, limited entirely to the realm of sensual experience. As there is neither soul nor any possibility of spiritual transcendence, happiness need only be sought in the material world, in pleasure either physical or intellectual. Unlike the great mystics of East and West, de Sade never managed to see through the illusory nature of good and evil. Without knowing it, he was a thoroughgoing Aristotelian. The only difference between him and the Church he so hated, was that de Sade saw vice as superior to virtue. All his novels’ heroes and heroines, save one, are motivated by an unshakeable belief in this idiocy. The sole exception, Justine, is portrayed as a simpleton and continually crucified for her ridiculous goodness. Of course, she deserved it, but so did Juliette.
In the final analysis, de Sade was a true hollow man. Like the characters in his books, he whimpered his way into moral oblivion.
The Story of O is something else again. Although O’s sexual exploits superficially resemble those engaged in by the Marquis’ unromantic creations, her mythos is completely different. De Sade’s paramount interest was never really sex. Money moved him more, whereas a hopeless search for temporal power, to be consistently exercised among a small circle of acquaintances, was his main infatuation. Above all, he was selfish and greedy. Nor did his mind ever free itself from believing that sex was basically sinful. He tried to escape his puritanical conditioning by putting sin, as he knew it, on a pedestal and worshiping it. But in so doing he missed the very boat that O wisely caught, the boat of love. It was a fatal slip, even for his art. De Sade was also a lousy writer.
O’s voyage, rife with the terrible delights of carnal indulgence, was as spiritual a journey as that of any genuine saint, whether John of the Cross, Theresa de Avila or Ramana Maharshi. The fact, if such it be, that O is a creature of fiction makes no difference. Reality, like beauty, is determined by those who behold it. We make our own world. As divine beings, it is our creative prerogative to do so. Because she ultimately realized this, O is a saint. There is only one sin and that is cosmic ignorance. Sucking cocks is beside the point.
It is strange how in conversation, as in writing, one’s inner knowledge often becomes crystallized. Notwithstanding my long, passionate familiarity with O, it was only when discussing her adventures with Tina that I came to understand their true significance, especially in terms of my own life. I could hardly wait to tell Marsha.
O deified René, her lover, in much the same way as I had deified Kali. By subordinating her will to his, she instantly rid herself of life’s most awesome burden, the dictatorship of personal choice, a force no less powerful because it is wholly unreal. This path to salvation, known in Arabic as islam, is the one which all the world’s wisest men and women have tread. Initially, two final choices are required: the selection, or recognition, of a deity, whether anthropomorphic or abstract, whether seen in the flesh or known in spirit; and the decision to henceforth submit to this deity’s every demand. Thereafter, though living in apparent bondage, the devotee moves inexorably toward absolute freedom.
In time, after repeatedly offering herself to all and sundry, in whatever manner they and her lover saw fit to use her, O also broke the chains of corporal attachment. She was no longer a slave to her body and its petty whims. In that crucible, her ego melted. The veil of ignorance, that which masks our own divinity, was raised.
Inevitably, there was also no great sacrifice involved, for very soon O learned that those activities which at first seemed painful and humiliating were indeed highly pleasurable. Heaven, instead of remaining a distant goal to be achieved only through severe and prolonged mortification, proved immediately manifest. A stiff cock rammed unmercifully up her anus brought her to orgasm. The cat-o’-nine-tails cracked across her back or her breast sent her into a frenzy of physical ecstasy. Enormous penises plunged into her mouth, pressing her uvula against the back of her throat, filling her gullet with gobs of sperm, made her come over and over again. Her lovers got off, she got off, and with it the whole world of material illusion got off her back forever. It was a feat poor Juliette never managed, Justine even less so.
The morning I left Istanbul, Tina and I celebrated our mutual discovery in a most fitting manner. We had normal intercourse.
From Paris I flew directly to London. As I had several hundred dollars in my pocket, money earned selling Indian gemstones in Germany, I experienced no difficulties at Heathrow immigrations. Even the sun was shining. I felt so good I took a taxi all the way to Notting Hill, where Marsha had set up house.
The flat was large and beautifully furnished. There were three rooms, plus a righteous kitchen with its own pantry and a king-size bathroom. Our collection of Persian rugs, mostly tribal pieces from central and northern Iran, gave the place a particularly funky flavor. Although chairs and sofas were amply provided by our Marxist landlord (he owned a radical bookshop just down the street), we seldom made use of them, preferring to lie about on the floor, leaning against our Bakhtiari and Baluchi saddle bags, which we stuffed with bits of foam rubber to make them into big pillow cushions. We took our meals on the floor, as well, always spreading a long, colorful gelim over the carpets to keep them from getting soiled. It was like being back in Afghanistan.
The smallest room, which sported a lovely bay window overlooking the Portobello Road from two flights up, Marsha had reserved as my study. On all the other walls she had put up a nearly incongruous but nonetheless striking assortment of Indian posters, paintings and tapestries, items we had been sending back to England throughout our stay in Asia. But this one room, apart from laying the rugs and moving in a big desk and a set of bookshelves, she left for me to decorate.
The first thing I did was arrange a small, attractive Kali altar on and above the mantelpiece. Naturally pride of place went to the brass statuette before which I had been ritually masturbating ever since that hot night in Kabul. To the wall behind it, I tacked a large poster of the goddess, done in Indian pop-art style, depicting her with ten arms, legs and heads, all of them dancing over Siva’s supine corpse while also engaging in numerous other activities, mostly involving the slaying of demons. Her skin is colored a pale Krishna blue, and she has painted eyes and very red tongues. It is the most voluptuous portrait of Kali I have ever seen, one that gets me hot and bothered every time I gaze upon it.
Also against the wall, at the sensuous Kali’s right hand, I pinned an interesting Nepalese rice print. A black and white ink drawing, it shows a tantric Buddha sitting in the lotus posture while obviously being fucked by a young, naked girl straddling his thighs. His hands, appropriately large, are on her buttocks, holding her small body pressed firmly against his own. His face is typically serene. Behind his head is a halo.
Elsewhere on and around the altar I assembled a further variety of pictures and clay images, some of Kali, some of certain Indian saints, among them the exquisite boy Sikh, Sri Baba Chand. There is even one of the Virgin Mary, a small silkscreen done by an artist friend and sent to me during our first Christmas in India. On the opposite wall I hung an horrific Kali batik in which she appears only as the harbinger of death. It is an enduring reminder of impermanence; anicca, as the Buddhists call it. No-thing is forever, not even me.
Within a matter of days I fell into a routine which I have continued to follow almost uninterruptedly ever since, that of writing during the night and sleeping through most of the day. Only in this way, it seems, can I spend my most creative hours alone with the goddess; alone, too, amid the lunar forces with which she has chosen to encircle me. For in coming to rule my life, Kali also took it upon herself to dominate my art. Whatever I write, I write through her. Each poem, each story, is a gift from the goddess, a blessing bestowed by her grace. In return, she demands many things, even an occasional paean explicitly in her honor. Especially this narrative is just such an offering. It is Kali’s wish that it be told.
One evening, after dinner, I told Marsha about a young man I had recently met whom I thought she would find attractive. He was a dancer, from South Africa, and had once or twice expressed an interest in meeting her. I suggested that she might even enjoy going to bed with him. Without immediately looking up, she took a long, slow hit off the Buddha joint I had just rolled and quietly turned the proposition over in her mind.
“That’s very nice of you,” she said, finally, “but I’m not really interested. I have you. I don’t need anyone else.”
She raised her eyes, smiled almost mockingly across the thick haze of smoke and passed the joint back.
“I know,” I answered, “I know.”
After awhile, when we were both feeling mellow and in the mood for fondling each other’s bodies, I calmly broached the subject of threesomes, a topic which, on previous occasions, had always led to a cul-de-sac. Although acutely aware of my liking for group sex, Marsha clung to the hope that our relationship would prove strong enough to obliterate such fantasies. When she again demurred, saying she was far too shy to expose herself to others in my presence, I told her about the affairs I had been having, both while traveling back to England and since my return to London. I was especially descriptive in relating the details of a weekly engagement I had recently initiated with a couple in Surrey, two very kinky bisexuals who were into mild bondage and wettings.
Marsha said she was not actually shocked, having suspected something of the sort, but simply failed to understand my intense need for such uninhibited sexuality. Emotionally, of course, she was hurt by the thought that I enjoyed making love with others, although she admitted finding my homosexual liaisons the least difficult to live with.
“I know you like sucking cocks,” she said, “and I don’t have one for you to suck.”
“I also like fucking women in the ass and you won’t take it there.”
“No,” she said, “it hurts.”
What Marsha found even more disturbing, though, was that I would not be pained at the idea, or even the sight, of her being screwed by another man.
“I think you’d even get off on it. Would you?”
“I certainly would,” I said. “And if I could watch, I’d sit and masturbate the whole time.”
“Why? How?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.
I tried to explain, that and much else, as well. It proved a long discussion but, eventually, a meaningful one.
Throughout most of that night, and for several nights thereafter, we explored the matter from every possible angle. Of particular interest to Marsha, given her strong feminist inclinations, was the manner in which our relationship, initially committed to an ideal of individual freedom, had, willy-nilly, become saturated with many of the most restrictive attributes of conventional exclusivity. We wondered, for example, whether a permissive life style were unavoidable simply to keep the ghost of possessiveness from haunting our lives.
In times past we had both been content to take our sexual pleasures only with each other. Very likely, although there was no way of foretelling this, similar periods would occur in future. Was it perhaps not possible to enjoy these spells of mutual sufficiency without growing dependent on them, either for our own inner security or that of the relationship? Or would the very appearance of being a traditional nuclear couple always reflect back on us in such a way as to form an invisible mold from which even our strongest intellectual protests could not help us to escape? Are a person’s morals, in fact, created by their behavior? For several reasons, I tended to think not. There is something too mechanistic in the behaviorist approach to life for it to have any ultimate validity. Spiritually, it points the way into a vacuum of hopelessness, a prospect no less frightening than eternal damnation. Even a fool, in his deepest heart, knows the falsity of that myth.
Still, whatever final truth lay at the other end of this complex metaphysical tunnel, one thing did seem presently clear: at this stage in our development, certain positive reinforcements were absolutely necessary if we were to break the stranglehold of attachment to our own notions of self-importance. And they would have to be physically manifest.
For the time being, except very obliquely on one or two occasions, I did not introduce the significance of Kali into our conversations. Marsha knew of her, of course, and even feared her to some extent. But more than anything else, she remained mystified by my avowed love for a pagan deity who, while obviously fearsome, was capable of exacting such strenuous veneration from someone who also considered himself a student of Krishnamurti.
Once, when we were in Kathmandu, Marsha found herself fleeing back into India weeks ahead of me, and strictly on account of the goddess. At the time I was spending hours every day meditating at the Temple of the Living Goddess, a medieval building on Durbar Square where a young girl, a prepubescent virgin, is presented to visitors as a living incarnation of Kumari, the Nepalese version of Maha Kali. The strain was too great for Marsha. We met up later in Madras.
“What do you do when you’re alone with her?” Marsha asked me one day. “I mean at night, in front of that altar. Do you actually bow down and everything?”
Sensing, as one does, that the moment for explanation was not yet ripe, I avoided telling her.
“Nothing really,” I said. “I sort of pray.”
“Oh,” she answered, then went back to her room and her painting.
As suddenly as I had raised the issue, and with it a Pandora’s box of philosophical implications, I let our discussion of sexual anarchy drop. A number of projects were demanding my attention, including a series of translations from the German mystics, primarily Eckhart and Silesius, which were long overdue at the publishers. Marsha, for her part, was busy preparing canvases for a one-woman show, her first, scheduled for early spring. Although there was a bed in the large room where we also entertained infrequent guests, we hardly used it, finding it more convenient to sleep separately in our respective studios. I still worked only at night, whereas Marsha was an early riser who seldom found inspiration after midday. Occasionally one of us would crawl into the other’s bed and we would make love, but there was little talking. We were going through a phase of artistic asceticism, a form of lovemaking that requires both silence and solitude.
I did not, of course, want to dismiss the matter entirely. In order to keep our conversations fresh in Marsha’s mind, and provide an opportunity for her to consider their import more deeply, I gave her three books to peruse at leisure. The Story of O, which Marsha and I had briefly discussed, I obtained both in English and in the illustrated German edition, trusting the drawings to make as powerful an impression as the text.
The other book, one of my favorite erotic novels and today a little-known modern classic in a particularly enticing genre of literature, I purchased in the original French, wishing I, too, could read it thus, rather than having to rely on translations. It was Pierre Louÿs’ Aphrodite, an elegant and moving portrait of ritual prostitution in ancient Alexandria, where what we in our decadence construe as vice was soberly regarded as the highest virtue. Ours is an age of insipid morality.
At last I completed my work—the translations and also a lengthy travel article commissioned by an American magazine. It was certainly time, as our joint funds had again touched rock bottom. And Marsha was not in the mood to either teach school or type business letters, up until now her only two paying occupations. Her paintings she usually gave away, to friends. The month before, however, we had paid the rent with one, a small cubist depiction of Stalin playing chess with Attila the Hun while Trotsky sits alongside the table scribbling notes.
“Why they play chess?” the landlord had asked, intentionally stressing his Polish accent.
“Because they don’t want to make love,” Marsha had replied.
“Yeah? Okay, I take it.”
I delivered my manuscripts to the typist the same afternoon Marsha’s exhibition opened. From the remarks one overheard at the gallery, the show appeared successful. Marsha even made a sale, a large abstract which brought in more than enough to tide us over until my own checks came through.
“Goodbye to teaching,” she chirped upon hearing the news.
“Maybe even to making your own breakfast,” I said, “especially if you sell a few more like that. How can you charge such prices?”
“I couldn’t believe it either at first. But I’m sure learning fast. These people won’t buy anything unless it’s expensive.”
“Maybe I should hang some poems on the wall.”
“You could try.”
Later there was a cocktail party at the director’s flat and when that was ready to break up someone suggested a pub crawl through the West End. Marsha, who by then was feeling quite giddy, decided she was into it.
“I haven’t been out on the town in months,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”
“I’m sure it will,” I answered. “You just go right along.”
“Oh, aren’t you coming?”
“I think I’m too drunk already. And too tired. I’d rather go back and get some rest. Have a ball for me, too.”
“Sure you don’t mind?” she asked.
“Silly question. After all, it’s your night, isn’t it…Ms. Picasso?”
“Okay, see you later, Robert.”
She gave me a fast peck on the lips and darted off. With her in the select group that strolled jaggedly into the chill night air, vaguely heading in the direction of Soho, was Martin, my young dancer friend. When Marsha nonchalantly entwined her arm around his, he turned and gave me an almost quizzical smile, to which I responded with a wink and a laugh. Then I caught a taxi and went home. I needed to see Kali.
Once in my room, which despite being very much an office had increasingly taken on the atmosphere of a tantric shrine, I quickly undressed, spreading first my Baluchi prayer rug on the floor before the altar. I then sat, naked and cross-legged, allowing my consciousness to become quietly absorbed in a flowering mental image of the goddess, a technique I had developed quite independent of any formal instruction. After an hour or so, the longest meditation I had engaged in for weeks, the imagined figure was life size and hardly distinguishable from a living person. As for my own corporeality, that was barely noticeable.
Suddenly and quite unwilled, my physical sensations returned with a gush of burning fluidity, while the vision of Kali completely receded from view. Simultaneously, however, I could feel myself being rapidly overwhelmed by the same tactile manifestation that had seduced me in Kabul, only now the impression was even more vivid and Kali-like. Two damp hands, soft but nonetheless very strong and wiry, caressed my face, holding it close to a warm, wet mouth passionately pressing itself onto my open lips. Other fingers raced through my long hair, tugging at it and forcing my head back toward the floor.
My cock, quickly grown hard and erect from the massaging of still more fingers, was now enveloped along its entire length by a flat, serpentine tongue, whilst other tongues lapped feverishly at my balls, my nipples and the base of my feet. Soon every part of my body was being pawed and cajoled, scratched at, clawed and pleaded with, persuaded by any means to a steadily mounting pitch of excitement.
I opened my eyes but the room was in total darkness, the candles I had set on either side of the brass statuette having long since burned out. I lay flat on my back and spread my legs wide, as though offering my sex to whatever forces chose to assail me from the altar. A pair of hands reached under my buttocks, lifting them while a long, slender finger slid deftly up my anus. My own right hand, as though acting under a volition entirely apart from me, reached down to my throbbing prick, now free from the serpent’s embrace, and began stroking it vigorously. My entire being seemed to be rushing toward a nearly unbearable orgasm.
Although unable to recall the movement, so swift must it have been, I had thrown my legs back over my head so that my feet were touching the sofa bed behind, permitting my swelling cock to loom directly down over my mouth. As I continued to masturbate, still acutely conscious of the unseen finger rapidly fucking my asshole, streams of hot sperm shot abruptly over my face and neck but mostly into my gaping mouth. I swallowed hard and pumped my organ with even greater fury. Engulfed in an ecstasy that verged on Godhood, I was at once milkmaid and sacred cow, the golden calf struggling to suck at its own teats, Divine Mother draining her breasts to nourish the universe. With a sustained flurry of invigorating exhaustion, my legs drifted slowly to the floor and all external sensations ceased. The whole cosmos was still and at peace.
For what seemed like a brief eternity, but was actually no more than a minute, I lay with my eyelids closed. When I opened them, unexpectedly feeling impelled to do so, I saw Marsha. She was standing in a dim light by the door, now partially ajar, holding her long, pleated skirt up past her waist. Her lace panties had slipped a little ways down her parted thighs, revealing two fingers of her right hand relentlessly massaging her cunt. Open-mouthed, her head tilted back and sideways, she appeared to have already worked herself into an erotic frenzy.
I turned on my side and continued watching her. Within seconds her knees started to buckle, allowing the rest of her trembling body to crumble onto the carpet in a paroxysm of delight. She was breathing heavily, her throat emitting a series of short, rasping sighs. I reached again for my penis; it was bolt hard and pulsing.
Crawling over to where Marsha now lay, I knelt beside her and placed my cock next to her chin. As our eyes met, she reached with both hands for my member and gently eased it into her mouth. She sucked calmly, her mouth filling with saliva while her sharp teeth teased the veins just under the glans. Clenching one hand into a tight, narrow fist, I pushed it past the unresisting juices that oozed around her pussy. For several minutes Marsha continued her tender sucking while I fist-fucked her to a host of mini climaxes, each one accompanied by that delicious farting noise of which her cunt was so capable.
Just as I was on the verge of coming, Marsha withdrew herself from my cock and whispered for me to wait. She then scrambled to the wash basin beside the mantelpiece, turned on the water tap and lathered her hands with soap. Still dressed, she reached under her skirt and applied some lather between the cheeks of her bum, rubbing the rest over the head of my penis before kneeling down to face the sofa. She hoisted the skirt up over her shoulders and rested her head against one of the cushions. The lace panties were straddling her knees.
“Fuck me, Robert,” she said, “fuck me in the ass.”
Her voice was wild and nearly hoarse. I stood over her, gazing down at a half-nude body that seemed poured from a vat of thick, dark air.
“It may hurt,” I said, putting my hands on her pale cheeks and pulling them wide.
“I don’t care,” she answered, “I want it to hurt. Just fuck me, fuck me all the way in the ass.”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
I went to my dresser and took a large tube of lubricant from the top drawer. After smearing a portion of the jelly on my cock, I returned and dabbed a smaller amount around and just inside Marsha’s virgin hole. Once again I spread her cheeks apart, opening, but very slightly, the tiny aperture now grinning above her cunt. Just as I was about to enter her, she reached back and grabbed hold of my prick, squeezing it with thumb and forefinger.
“I’ve already been fucked in the snatch tonight, Robert, and now I want to have it in here, too. I want you to hurt me, even make me scream. I know what it means now and I want it all.”
“Who fucked you?” I asked, already guessing the answer.
“Martin.” she replied. “Martin did. God, it was amazing. We went back to his place for a drink and as soon as we got inside I just grabbed at him, fell on my knees right in the dining room and started pulling out his cock and sucking it. Jeez, he’s so big, so big.”
She was talking now in excited gasps, her voice almost muffled by the cushion. I slipped two fingers into her pussy, then began pressing her anus with my thumb, ready at any moment to jam it into her for an initial shock before the big plunge. The more she talked, the randier I got. I knew Martin’s cock well, having sucked it many times myself.
“Later we fucked on the bed. Christ, I didn’t think I could take it all. I sat on top of him and every time I pushed down he seemed to go deeper and deeper. It was too much but I still wanted more. Now I want you, but here, in my ass.”
She gave my cock a final squeeze, then folded both hands over her head.
“What made you come back?” I asked. “You could have stayed the night with Martin.”
“Yes, he said so, too. But something made me want to come home, I’m not sure what exactly. Just an impulse that said I should.”
“How long were you watching me?”
“I don’t know, but I was already feeling so randy when I came in and then when I saw you jerking off and all and coming into your mouth. Christ almighty! Robert, tell me, does it turn you on now to hear about me fucking with Martin?”
“Very much, I’m about ready to come all over you just picturing it.”
“Oh, Robert, make me hurt for it. I know you like it and I liked it very much and I’ll like it every time I do it, but still I want to hurt for it, here, now. Fuck me, Robert, please fuck me now.”
With one quick jerking motion I buried my full thumb in her ass, then answered her loud scream by snapping it out again.
“Right you are, you horny little bitch,” I said.
And digging my nails into her buttocks, I spread them so wide I thought she might split in two. Still she yelled out for me to fuck her. I then drove forward with such violence that at first go the whole length of my prick was plunged deep within her bowels. Again and again I burrowed into her, no longer knowing or caring whether it was a human being, an animal or just a hunk of soft, screaming meat that I was torturing into a delirium of rapture. The harder I stabbed, the louder she screamed and gasped, all the while shouting for me to fuck still faster. Along the periphery of my blurred vision, I could see that with one hand she was masturbating, furiously inciting her clitoris to a riot of passion. In the depths of her ass my thickening cock felt itself constantly surrounded by a mass of warm excrement. Any second I could explode.
“Fuck me, Robert, fuck me, I’m going to come, I’m coming, I’m coming, oh God I’m come-innnggg!!”
In that same instant I also came, spurting long, delayed-action bursts of semen into her now very pliable rectum.
But she cried out again: “I’m still coming, Robert…and I’m going to SHIT!!!”
As I pulled out of her, totally spent but still in full erection, she suddenly released a veritable bombardment of creamy shit, belching noisily and thoroughly splattering my genitals. I waited for her to finish before grabbing her bum and once more ramming my cock straight up her anus. Her ensuing shriek seemed to pierce every wall in the building, making even the darkness tremble with fear. We collapsed together onto the floor. At long last, Kali was having her way.
The following day, or rather much later the same day, after a long peaceful sleep together, Marsha asked whether I knew of anyone suitable to her temperament with whom we could start having occasional threesomes.
“Well, there’s Martin,” I said.
“No,” she answered, “I think I’d like it to be a female. I’ve yet to make it with a girl and this might be a good way to start.”
“Perhaps we could advertise in one of those sex magazines, sort of state the kind of person we’re looking for and see what turns up.”
“Okay,” she said, “let’s do it. I’m still feeling shy about it, but at the same time the notion excites me. I hope we can find someone soon.”
“I hope so, too,” I said, and leaned across the kitchen table to give her a kiss.
She slipped her hand into my pajama trousers, grabbed my cock and said: “Fuck me.”
I propped her backside on the table, knocking over a coffee cup in the process, pulled off her negligé and we fucked, very slowly.
“Do you think this is healthy,” she said afterward, “this all-consuming interest in sex?”
“Very healthy,” I answered, “and maybe even as good as yoga.”
“The fucking yogis,” she said, laughing.
That night I had a flash. A few weeks earlier, while mulling over various possible means of resolving our dilemma, which at the time was still only my dilemma, I had written a short story. It was about a couple, obviously Marsha and myself, who were toying with the idea of having group sex. Since the woman was feeling nervous and somewhat uncertain of both herself and her motives, it was essential that their introduction to such affairs be with a very special individual, someone who was on their own wavelength, even in areas not directly related to sex. In short, the person should be self-aware and sufficiently considerate to make the woman feel comfortable in what might otherwise be an awkward situation.
This couple then place an advertisement in a sex journal, just as we were now planning to do, briefly stating their most basic requirements. Within two weeks they are contacted by a young lady who turns out to be perfect for the role envisioned. When the three meet for the first time, the girl is as carefully described by her personality as by her physical appearance. They become appropriately acquainted and more or less fuck happily ever after. It was a neat little fantasy, but for some reason or other I had not bothered showing it to Marsha. I went into my study and got it.
“Read this,” I said upon returning to the living room.
Marsha took the manuscript and read.
“Well,” she said, “that about sums it up. Is that how you want to word the ad, the same as in the story?”
“I was considering another tack,” I said.
“How about…,” I started, “how about if I get this published and then, in the same issue of whatever magazine, run an ad in the personals column asking any girl who feels she resembles the girl in the story, not so much in looks as in mentality, to get in touch with us?”
“Brilliant!” was Marsha’s first response. “Or is it?” she quickly added. “Sounds a bit weird, actually. Do you think it would work?”
“Should we try?”
“Why not? Sure, go ahead.”
And so we did.
The magazine I selected was one that had repeatedly demonstrated an equal interest in both the politics of sexual liberation and the arousal of its readers’ libidos. As they had recently published a few of my porn poems, and even paid money for them, I expected I would have no difficulty in getting them to accept this piece. I was right. It appeared the following month, along with the advert. The one and only response came a week later. It was from a young Jewess named Sharon. And, just like the girl in the story, she was perfect. She was also beautiful, as her letter clearly indicated she would be.
“Dear Friends,” she wrote, “I enjoyed your story and know for certain I’m the girl you are looking for. Really, I felt I was reading about myself. Although I have had many affairs with both sexes, I have also never been involved in a threesome. But I’m dying to try! I am a little shy about it, too, so I can easily relate to your position. Speaking of positions, how many do you think there are with three people? Well, I hope we can find all that out. I’m 5’ 5”, 23-years old and slender with a very nice figure (36-23-35). I have long black hair and dark eyes and have olive complexion. I’m Jewish and I even lived in Israel for awhile, on a kibbutz, but don’t really follow any special religion right now, if you know what I mean. I’m into consciousness raising and all that and have been to India. At Rajneesh’s ashram in Poona, where I stayed for three months last year, I started to get interested in left-handed tantra and that’s mostly what I’m pursuing now. I also really enjoy sex, especially oral. And I love getting screwed in the rear end, the tochis, as my parents used to say. Recently I’ve even tried some kinkier scenes, with whips and everything, but I’m not too sure if I like it. Anyway, I’m open to anything. Please give me a ring and we’ll make a date, either at your place or mine, it doesn’t matter. I live alone. If I find a nice photo of myself before posting this I’ll stick it in. Oh, my phone number is 736-2314. Hope to hear from you soon. Love, Sharon Mandel.”
A small snapshot was enclosed, a profile view showing her nude from the waist up. Her breasts were full and firm, with dark, very pointed nipples. She had an attractively narrow face and a thin, Semitic nose. Marsha was very impressed, as was I.
“Why don’t you phone her?” I suggested. “If you can arrange something for this evening, that would be fine. I have to go out for a bit, but I should be back early enough. Go on, see what she says.”
“She’ll be here around six,” Marsha said after hanging up the telephone. “I told her I’d prepare a meal, as well. Will you be in then?”
“Probably not. I’m going over to Wimbledon, may not get through till eight or nine. But you two go ahead, I’ll grab a bite out. And this will give you a chance to, you know, get acquainted.”
“I feel a little funny,” Marsha said.
I’m sure you do,” I answered, “but you’ll get over it all right.”
She did, too, and even more quickly than I expected.
When I came home, around nine-thirty, neither of them heard me enter the living room; or, if they did hear, they paid no attention. Their preoccupation was much too absorbing.
Both girls were naked, although Sharon still had on a pair of net stockings, rolled down to just above her knees. Remnants of dinner, including an empty bottle of Chablis, were rather strewn about the gelim, which also bore traces of some heavy smoking: a chillum, a big chunk of Afghani hash, an open plastic bag half full of pot and a packet of rolling papers. The tape deck was on, tuned very low, and sure enough it was our old friend Miles Davis playing; the Fillmore album, I believe. The only light came from a small table lamp at the far end of the room. It was very dim and blended in nicely with those sullen jazz sounds. I could not help wondering whether Miles was aware of his music’s aphrodisiac qualities.
They were on the bed. Marsha, her legs spread wide and her face buried in the pillow, was kneeling with her bum protruding boldly upward. Sharon knelt below. With her right hand she fondled Marsha’s tits, while three fingers of her left hand were busy manipulating her partner’s pussy. Sharon’s tongue, though hidden from my view by her very long hair, now thrown forward on her face, was obviously roving over every inch of Marsha’s backside, periodically stopping to suck loudly at her anus.
After awhile, Sharon dropped on her back, sliding her torso forward through Marsha’s legs so that her own pussy, covered with a small mop of black, bristly hairs, could easily be reached by the other girl’s mouth. She then groped along the quilt until her hand found a battery-powered vibrator, which she must have brought with her. She switched it on and slowly inserted the instrument into Marsha’s cunt. The reaction was immediate.
As Marsha groaned her heightening ecstasy into Sharon’s quim, and Sharon intensified her loving assault by rapidly inserting a finger into Marsha’s asshole, I started to undress. By the time I reached the bed, my cock leading the way like an infantryman’s battle-ready bayonet, Marsha was on her back while Sharon knelt in front lapping wildly at the supine girl’s crotch. I climbed up behind them and straightaway rammed into Sharon’s cunt. It was a splendid and very juicy fit. After an initial grunt of recognition, she responded to my every push with an identical counter thrust. Before long all three of us were coming.
The moment I slipped out of Sharon her mouth turned its attention from Marsha’s pussy to my cock, licking it clean of our well-mixed fluids and supplanting them with her own saliva. Marsha, meanwhile, crawled across the bed, threw her arms around my neck and began kissing me deeply on the mouth.
“I’m so happy, Robert,” she said several times between kisses. “This is so good, so good.”
Sharon soon brought me to another erection. Seconds later I was spilling my seed into her mouth. After swallowing it all, she joined Marsha and me for a festival of mouth kissing. Throughout, our hands roamed freely over each other’s bodies, so that none of us could really tell who was touching whom. Together we were a living image of Kali playing with herself. Once I even thought I heard the goddess laughing, very happily.
Later, as we sat on the floor polishing off another bottle of wine and passing joints, the girls recounted the evening’s experiences from before I joined them. Dinner was followed by an hour or more of conversation, during which Marsha suggested they smoke something. Once they were both feeling more relaxed, Sharon said it might be pleasant if they simply sat holding hands for awhile, allowing their vibrations to flow between them and intermingle. Soon they were kissing, although who actually made the first move neither could remember.
“Please put your hand on my cunt,” Sharon had finally said.
“Only if you’ll put yours on mine,” Marsha had teasingly answered.
Shortly afterward they were making total love. And now, that same night, we were three.
We got on so well that after two months Sharon decided to move in with us. All things considered, it was both a logical denouement and a bright beginning to a new life. My writing had tapered off somewhat but I was now anxious to resume my former routine of working at night. In addition, I was contemplating an extended journey on the Continent. And had thought to go alone. A ménage à trois seemed the ideal solution. In fact, it was.
Most nights Marsha and Sharon slept together in the big room. Sometimes, early in the morning, I would slip in with them, but just as often I waited until Marsha rose before cuddling up with Sharon, who also liked to sleep late. Now and then, when Sharon went out on a date, which she did frequently, I would either take the night off and stay with Marsha in her room, or she would rise later and wait for me to retire so that we could make love alone. Of course, I was also having other affairs, as was Marsha by then. All in all, everyone was well taken care of and none of us were ever lonely for companionship. Or for solitude, if that is what was needed.
Then, two weeks ago, Sharon brought one of her boyfriends home, a young, rather effeminate lad to whom I took an immediate fancy. I was still in bed, but they walked into my room together and woke me up. They had been drinking Pernod all afternoon and were feeling in the mood for sex. I suggested they go to the other room, since my bed was too small for three people, and that after brushing my teeth I would join them. When I did they were already naked and contentedly sucking each other off. I slipped out of my bathrobe and climbed aboard.
When Marsha returned from a day at the Tate, Alex—for that was the young man’s name—and I were in the process of fucking Sharon, together. I was on my back, my cock planted firmly in Sharon’s cunt, while she arched over me so that she could both kiss my mouth and let her tits hang freely into my waiting hands. Alex knelt behind screwing her in the ass and squeezing my balls with his right hand. The scene ended with a mighty orgasm all around.
When we looked up, having been nudged from our exhaustion by a series of gentle moans, we saw Marsha standing by the door, half naked and masturbating herself with the vibrator. The remainder of the evening was occupied by a most incredible orgy, the likes of which none of us had previously known.
Yesterday I overheard Marsha, Sharon and Alex discussing the possibilities of starting a commune, a farm in the country dedicated to sexual anarchy. It will be interesting to see, after I get back to England from two or three months in Europe, what they have made of it. I plan to leave next week. I need a rest. Even Kali thinks so.
© 2010 by Eddie Woods
This story was originally published online in Exquisite Corpse.