Chapter 6 – Part 16, Humanity has Lost its Vulva

This is chapter 6, part 16 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.

Chapter 6 – Part 16, Humanity has Lost its Vulva

The devil turned out to be María. My proposal of marriage had been a lucky mis-fire of neurons, and I managed to transform it into a device that let me say the words, ‘I love you’. For me, the proposal was just 2-3 words, ‘Te amo‘ or ‘I love you’. For María, it would be a real church marriage. We already had a marriage contract, a union of our genitals; she now wanted a union of our souls. And it would be accompanied by serenading mariachis, marimbas, a big party, formal vows, and me, on my knees, swearing before her and the Virgin María that she would be forever. She envisioned the entire wedding in her head, and I had never seen her so happy. Not even her post-orgasmic highs approached her excited delirium. She swept me along with her, all I could do was repeat, “Sí, mi amor, sí mi preciosa, lo que tú quieres, mi tesora.” (Yes, my love, yes my darling, anything you want, my treasure.) I wanted what she wanted. I had been a fool – we could have done this many years ago.

An engagement is a magic thing, it’s the key to unlock all the secrets, fears and desires between a man and a woman. The words, “Now that we’re engaged, …”, began most of our conversations, starting with, “Now that we’re engaged, I should have an engagement ring”, an oversight we corrected the next day. María had always been a mystery to me. She lived in the senses and from the heart, and my square logic was no match for her. In late night conversations, molded against each other on the bed or sofa, we decided to spill our secrets, get completely honest (always a bad idea), clean the slate and start new again.

I had few interesting secrets to reveal. She knew about the yellow journalist and I didn’t dare didn’t say anything about Drew. I told her about the five women in San Francisco I fucked, and she didn’t care. After the first description, she said she forgave me, then said it four more times. But I wanted to get clean so I insisted in describing each one, and she made the sign of the cross over my penis each time. When I finished, she grabbed my testicles and squeezed until I gasped. She forgave me now, but I would never break our rules again. Swear it now or I’ll crush your testicles – the sweetest oath I ever made.

Then she added a new rule for me – no drugs, especially no cocaine. Period. I protested I wanted to try coke with her, but she said I was too weak, cocaine would destroy me. Another oath, less sweet than the previous. I did not tell her about the gang-rape. Period. I didn’t tell her about fucking Nanny – too close to home. Going back in time to Guatemala and before, I had little to confess, and all was forgiven.

María’s confession was much more interesting – I was astonished by the number of times she cheated me casually. Bosses, class mates, dance partners, her friends, my friends, total strangers, black men, work customers, even a priest – all these were in addition to the men I knew about from the sex-dance club. She told me few details (it would have taken days), just interesting highlights such as first-times for X position, extra large or small penis size, diseases she hid from me, and so on. There were so many I confused them and morphed them into an image of one gigantic penis; so many I was confident she described all of them. I didn’t need to forgive her, she was allowed under our rules and I had encouraged her cheating for my own pleasure.

I wasn’t interested in her men before I met her, but she wanted to tell me about a few. But I was saturated with her stories of sex with other men, and I asked if we could talk about them later. We moved on to other topics.

She never understood our big blowup over Drew, and I explained it was not that she fucked him, it was because she gave him her throat and anus so casually, which she never allowed to me, not even to this moment. She was OK with that explanation.

I couldn’t leave it alone, a question that gnawed at me for years. Like a chunk of food wedged between the teeth, it always irritated, impossible to ignore. I suspected I wouldn’t like the answer, but I couldn’t not ask. I asked her to remember our last session with DeepThroat.

“Why did you tell him to really hurt me?”

“Why did you tell him to squeeze your testicles harder?”

“Because I saw you loved to watch my pain.”

Silence. I asked again, “Why did you tell him to hurt me badly?”

“You wanted to be hurt, I saw it in your eyes.”

“He hit me hard, several times, he could have crushed my testicles.”

“He fought for me; he loved me more than you.”

“No one could ever love you more than me. What should I have done? You invited him to our bed; you sucked his penis in the car all the way home; you pulled him between your legs and humped him like he was the last man alive.”

“He crushed your testicles, he fought for me. You did nothing except ask him to crush you more.”

“But you invited him to fuck you. You were excited he hurt me. I don’t fight men you ask to fuck you, even if they abuse me for you.”

“Then someone will beat you and take me away.”

“That’s what you want? You want me to beat-up the men you seduce? I can’t do that.”

“José said you crushed the other guy’s balls, you castrated him.”

“José? José the bouncer? When did you talk to him? I castrated JerkFace?”

“José said he lost both balls, he has fake ones now.”

Puta madre, he’s younger than me, a kid, I didn’t want to do that. Oh shit! It was mainly your idea, Oh shit!”

“You fought for me, you won, I’m still here with you.”

“I didn’t mean to castrate him, oh shit! Testicles are sacred, to all men. Men don’t castrate others for a woman’s prank, what woman would want such a man? No man would castrate another man for a woman!”

“I had a boyfriend once that castrated another boy to get me. He cut off his penis and testicles.”

“And you went with him? You were crazy!”

“For a while – he wanted me, he fought for me, he won me.”

“But you can choose your men, you don’t have to go with a man because he assaults other men you’re seducing.”

“I can choose any man, many men, men are easy sluts, useless garbage except for fucking. I can get all the fucking I want from these useless sluts. I want the man that wants me most, that loves me most, that will fight for me. Men fight for women because that’s what they do, it’s natural, and I want the man that will fight for me and win. Because he wants me, he wins.”

I heard these sentiments before, about women. A little light went on in my head.

“Were you fucking José too?”

“He fingered me at the club.”

“In the backroom? He was supposed to be your bouncer, your protector.”

“At our table.”

“At our table with me sitting there?”

“I started it, I rubbed his penis first, then he fingered me. He was a strong man, I liked him. He fucked me outside the club sometimes.”

She hadn’t mentioned José in her confession, and I was furious. She was a nasty slut – was there no man anywhere in the world this slut wouldn’t fuck? Puta madre, everyone at the club except me must have known.

María’s face was red, hands clenched, her fiery Latina was about to emerge, and I could see our marriage evaporating. I wanted to know the truth – why the woman I married, that claims to love me, that bore my son, asked another man to crush my testicles. I decided to back off a little, cool-down and let her cool off. Ten deep breaths and a few moments of silence.

“Were you seeing DeepThroat before our last visit to the club?”

“Yes, every week after we were thrown-out of the club. He fucked me nicely, he loved me, he promised me a family in Guatemala.”

“You told me you hadn’t seen him or JerkFace.”

“That’s what you wanted to hear then. Now we’re telling all our secrets.”

“When I drove DeepThroat home, he attacked me again. He tried to destroy my genitals.”

“You never told me that. I didn’t know.”

“I thought he was going to tear off my penis and kill me.”

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

Something was wrong, María evaded some fact, some truth. I remembered the instructions she whispered to me inside the club. She was going to lead JerkFace into exposing himself in the back-room, and when she knew he was going to ejaculate, she’d signal me, left hand on her neck, and I was to jerk her away, and smash his testicles. I thought it would be cool and great revenge for all the testicle chops he gave me in my bedroom.

I had to be careful now. I hugged her and kissed her temples and said gently:

“I love you and want you, more than any other man in the world. I’m going to marry you again because I can’t survive without you. I’ll be yours forever, I swear it. But because I’m making this commitment to you, I have to know the truth. I have to understand you so I can live up to what you need and want from me. I’ll do anything you want. No matter what you tell me, I’m bound to you for life. Please help me…

“When I didn’t fight for you, you told him to hurt me badly. He knew he should crush my testicles?”


“You told him before, maybe in the car, when you signaled him, when you told him to hurt me, he should crush my testicles?”

“You never once defended me, never once fought for me, never told me you loved me. You wanted to take me away from Guatemala. You said you didn’t want children. You’re a good man, you never hit me, always took care of me, let me fuck any man I wanted, but it wasn’t enough. I needed you to want me fiercely, to love me as deep as death, to fight those men for me. Or I wanted another man that would.”

I couldn’t leave it alone, “You told him in the car to crush my testicles?”

“No, we planned it a few days before, to …, uh, you and JerkFace. The castration was DeepThroat’s idea. He said it was what you wanted, that’s why you allowed men to hit your testicles. He said if we castrated you, you would give me to him, and you would be happy too.

“You told him if he destroyed me, castrated me, you would be his woman?”


“When you put on my bangle, you did it to make castration easier?”


Josey whispered, “she did it.” The pieces fell into place, I had to ask,

“After you put my bangle, someone hit my testicles harder than ever before – that was you?”



“I tried to crush your huevos (eggs/testicles), to finish you. You wanted and deserved it, and I wanted him. He told me I should do it because I was your wife and you would understand why it had to be me. He was torturing you, hitting you again and again. That was cruel, I wanted to get it over.

“I felt your huevos squish against the bangle, I thought you were done. He told me to hit you again, but I thought it was over. When you crawled away, we decided he’d finish the castration in the car, leave you at the hospital and come back to me.”

“I don’t believe this. How can you sit there with an innocent face and tell me you conspired with your lover to castrate me? And you personally delivered the killer blow?”

“You don’t get it – you won. I was shocked when you returned. You beat him and you came back for me. You won me, don’t you see, and I accepted that.”

I was speechless.

Her voice quivered now, her eyes glanced off me, “Please understand. You fought for me and beat him and you came back for me. We’re still here together. Can’t you be satisfied with that, with me?”

Numb, I fought back the nausea rising from my stomach. I rocked gently on the sofa to settle my stomach. I pulled her to me and I sat with her, arms around her, and we rocked together on the couch. And rocked and rocked. I kissed her hair, then her forehead and temples and eyes. And we rocked. I knew it had to be my fault, but I couldn’t understand how – but it didn’t matter now. I whispered I loved her as deep as death, I wanted her even more than my life, and I rocked and pleaded, “Please forgive me. Please love me. Please marry me.” And finally, she said yes.

I desperately wanted to make love to her that night, but couldn’t. We spooned, my arms around her, crossing her chest, hands cupping her breasts. Every time I felt arousal in my groin, I re-lived the smash of her knee on my testicles, the mauling of my genitals in the car, and I stayed flaccid. That nightmare intermixed with the castration of JerkFace. I simply couldn’t believe I had done that. José must have been mistaken, and it didn’t make sense. I was sure, or maybe just wanted to believe I hadn’t kicked him so hard. And no Guatemalan man would accept castration without retribution – he would have found me, cut off my genitals and stomp me as I bled to death. But I remembered the squish in his groin, and knew it was true. I had been so proud of kicking him afterward. I had castrated him, how could I ever set that straight?

DeepThroat’s failure to castrate me also made no sense. After the initial blows, I was helpless on the floor for several minutes. He could have leisurely set me up for more blows, blows by María against my bangle, each blow making the next easier until my testicles were destroyed. Three minutes tops, and María would have been his. He had María’s permission and encouragement to do so, yet he waited until the next morning in the car.

The assault in the car made no sense either. I was hurt, sick and weak – he could have easily dragged me from the car and stomped me or cut off my genitals – María would have been his. Did he really want her? Had María limited him in some way? Was his assault in the car separate – his personal rendition of justice? I revisited these events around and around, each time I felt more confused, and my penis got softer and smaller.

María jerked in-and-out of sleep every so often, and asked me if I loved her. I answered “Sí, mi amor, te amo más que mi vida.” (Yes, my love, I love you more than my life).

Then María’s comments about men attacked me, and I couldn’t sleep at all. My mind raced around in circles within circles of illogic. Men were useless sluts, just good for a quick fuck. Women were disposable putas, fuck them and throw them in the garbage. I was María’s husband – castrate me and throw me away. María was my wife – prostitute her and throw her away.

The libertarian Preacher at my job said nobody is the property of another – he was a utopian fool. We are all disposable property of someone; fuck us, hurt us, throw us away. María had conspired with another man to castrate me, her husband, yet I would still marry her. Josey chanted in the back of my head, “cleavage point, cleavage point”, whatever that means.

Who owns whom? Men brandish the penis, symbol of dominance, power, violence and coercion. They build power structures at every level of society, to subjugate ‘lesser’ men, ‘lesser’ classes and all women.

Women wield the vulva, capable of bringing any man to his knees. I couldn’t understand how the penis structures have prevailed – the vulva gives individual power over the collectivist penis structures. It creates a parallel world outside the penis structures, allows individual choice and freedom. If the vulva is liberty, how can the penis own everything and everybody?

Only one possibility exists – the penis, through violence, has co-opted and corrupted the vulva through its collectivist power structures: government, education, marriage, welfare and social services, religion, corporations, employment, all testosterone creations. Even language is corrupted: slut, whore, prostitute, puta, ramera, ad nauseum. The vulva has been brain-washed in the mythology of the penis, becomes a willing soldier for the penis: penis-women.

Now corrupt, the vulva can not restrain the evil of the penis – every horror is possible, is permitted, is therefore inevitable: penis-governments, penis-money, penis-schools, penis-religions, penis-cultures, penis-equality and -feminism, wars, terrorism, genocide, mass starvation, abject poverty, slavery, torture, napalming of children, extinctions, collectivist property theft and taxes, murder, democide, broken women – evils without limits, all the horrors of our world people assume are normal. They are not –

humanity has lost its vulva.

As I molded into María and caressed her hair, I finally understood the master crime against humanity that enables and encourages all other horrors – the systematic, institutional suppression and abuse of women.

María jerked to life again and asked me if I loved her. Whatever love is, I craved it from this extraordinary woman laying next to me, this enigma who would castrate and throw me away. She would be my salvation from the horrors of the world, from the horrors of me, and I would endure anything, hasta la muerte, anything to please María.

I still didn’t know what love is; I thought maybe it’s nothing more than the capacity to say ‘te amo‘ or ‘te quiero‘ to a frightened woman. Or maybe that I would castrate myself if she ever left me. Or maybe María could show it to me. Or maybe … probably, I’ll never know, but at least right now, I knew absolutely whose road I would travel, even if I became her roadkill.

It was enough, had to be enough. Life would be good again.

End of book content.

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